#layer three: bargaining

[a-static-grief]

H-huh!? What!? Doot..???

... Ohohoho..!! An Apocalypse, you say? ■]

[The interactorrrrrrr (I'm sorry)]

[fan-goddess]

‘His ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man’

A/N: Surprise! I'm making this a strange sort of drabble like series with Aemond and dragonseed! This title is long af but the quote so fits I love/hate it! It ain’t entirely fully proofread so errors may pop up I may correct later fyi

Warnings: Smut, dragonseed is back and unnamed as ever, brothel working, sex working, not dark!Aemond but clingy at nonetheless! (If I miss any let me know!)

Taglist: @humanpurposes, @watercolorskyy, @omgbrcat @blue-serendipity @arcielee

Series Thing Masterlist

The men you were hired to please in the nicest of terms were always much older and sweaty than you, as if they had competed in two tourniments before arriving. Though the likelihood that they had even competed in one throughout their lifetimes was slimmer than they had even been.

The young men were always given to the more older, experienced ladies for their teachings, or so the brothel madam would sometimes laugh as the young lads were dragged by their hands to a room beyond the main hall. It was a rare time whenever a younger looking man would specifically request a more younger lady, as the older the men were the younger the ladies sent to their assigned room became.

That day, you had already been paid for by three men whose skin dripped in exhausted sweat and stained the covers of the bed with a mixture of their bodily fluids. By the time night came around though, the brothel bellow became heaving with men of all ages, a familiar head of short silver locks came bounding through them with a practised ease.

His voice rang through the crowd staring at the breasts of the ladies he was offered by the Madame. Yet when he looked up to the balcony ledge where you were perched watching the sights bellow, he stopped where he had stood, and pointed with a fierce look in his eye that you knew all too well in a man.

The look of a predator who has caught sight of fresh game, and is ready to begin the hunt of the night.

The eldest son of the king, the boy whispered by all to become the future king of the seven kingdoms of course choosing to ignore with hated stares his elder sister, points a finger to you and by the way his lips move you know he has demanded a reduced price.

He may have more money than all the men in the room combined but even he knows like any poor man how to strike the right sort of bargain for a better price.

That night, you were bought and fucked by a Targaryen for the first time in your life. A service that used to be an honour to the highest of all for whores, or at least it was before the Targaryen men became too indifferent to their flesh of the night.

It appeared the once well known hunger of purpled eyed silver haired flesh has trickled down to its last generation, as the man who’d left his spent to trickle down your thighs gave no indication that he desired you particularly for your hair or for your eyes.

He barely even looked at you as he forcibly took you from behind and pushed your face into the thin sheets that had yellowed in age.

He even left as soon as he came, quite literally, as by the time you looked around the door was swung open and the overwhelming stench of alcohol remained pungent. It appeared this young Prince had a thin layer of wine on his skin instead of the usual stench of overwhelming sweat.

You did not see the recognisable sight of silver locks for quite some time after that. Many a nights were you forced to look away to the window as men of all hair but silver took you on the bed you fucked to keep. Yet they were no different from the eldest prince at all. They all had only the idea of completion in mind.

Which you suppose was why it was so shocking when the infamous one-eyed Prince came to the brothel in search of a women to warm his cock, and laid a single eye on you as you stood oblivious on the same balcony you had stood on when you were chosen by his brother.

It was like a strange sick dream when you saw the younger Prince refuse to take his eye off you as he bargained a price with the Madame. Again, he too knew how to strike a deal similarly to his eldest acknowledged sibling.

When the Prince finally entered your chambers and met eyes with your naked form sitting on the bed awaiting to be told the orders, it was made quite quickly to you that the One-Eyed Prince was not like a regular laying customer.

Yet he still had his regular moments it seems, as while he managed to humanise your body, he still found a way to objectify your soul.

The Prince uses you like any other man would, and yet he still somehow manages to find a way to make you feel mortal.

While he takes you, he has you on your back and his eye looking deeply into your own. A single hand of his stroking the left side of your face while a thumb catches on the edge of your lips.

Even after spilling his spent of the skin of your stomach, he explains he cannot dare father a bastard and bring the shame to his already soiled family legacy. Going as far as to grab a lone stained cloth from somewhere in the room to mop up his cooled down spent away and throws someplace random.

The one-eyed Prince stays with you the whole of that night and morning, something you could easily say was a first in your working career.

His head lays on your overworked thighs that twitch randomly in patterns even he with his highly educated mind cannot comprehend. But he does not complain at all, instead only burrowing further into your overwhelming warmth you subconsciously provide him with.

You dare not to say anything as you place a hand on his head and thread your fingers through his hair, waiting with baited breath as his lets out a tired sigh and wraps his arms around your body tighter.

When your fingertips catch on the rough leather of his patch you do not dare take it off in fear of being caught in the familiar feeling of a dragons rage. So you merely ghost your hand over it and he does not make a disapproving sound.

He reminds you heavily of a child craving a mother’s affection, even though you know he has one waiting no doubt anxiously for him in his own chambers back up at the castle. Yet it appears the prince lives in a strange limbo of ignorant bliss, as you can feel his eyelashes brush lightly against the skin of your thigh as he closes his eye, and not a minute later you can feel his bodies breath even out as he begins drifting away.

The One-Eyed Prince falls asleep against your naked spent body, and you can only force your body to relax as your eyes shut tightly and sleep to not come at an easy price. For that night as the Prince rests by the base of your stomach, dreams fill your head of overwhelming fire and blood comes storming down around you.

At the end of your dream mere seconds before you are awoken by the grumbling child, a two eyed man with features mimicking yours holds a sword angled to the base of your throat and sneers at you, before allowing the blade to swing you with heavy cost.

[webslingingslasher]

I miss peter and trouble :( what are they up to??

'if you don't get your hands off me right now, i'll scream.' peter unpeels his hands from your shoulders, you take a step away from him. he's radiating too much heat.

'sorry.' even his voice is sending you up a wall, you turn to give him a glare and sputter at his choice of clothing. 'we're in the middle of a heatwave, our ac is busted and you're wearing a jacket? what the hell is wrong with you? i'm over here sweating my tits off and you're just gonna walk in here wearing a jacket?'

looking at him makes you sick. 'oh my god, you just pissed me off. leave me alone.' peter doesn't leave you alone, he kisses your temple and makes sure not to touch you anywhere else. 'come to the bedroom.'

'i absolutely do not want to have sex with you right now!' peter takes your mood in stride, it's not him, it's the heat. 'i don't want you to have sex with me.'

'then what do you want?'

'you to listen to me.' your eyes narrowed into slits and you cross your arms over your chest. 'i'm not going anywhere until you take that stupid fucking jacket off.'

'that's a weird bargain but i'll take it.' he unzips it in a second, the knowledge of a shirt underneath it makes you unleash a layer of rage and disbelief. 'it's ninety degrees out there and you're wearing layers? our ac is broken, peter! broken and no hope of repair for at least three days and you're wearing layers. wow.'

you're not being dramatic in the slightest either. it's boiling outside, the complex pool is "closed for cleaning," and the stagnant air swarming around your apartment is making you go a little crazy.

'i know, trouble. c'mon, i have something to show you.'

'if it's another jacket, i'm gonna be pissed.' you follow behind peter and hold a sour look while you notice his back isn't soaked with sweat.

'it's not another jacket.'

peter gives you an extremely wide grin at the door, he's proud of what he has behind it. 'ready to love me forever and ever?' there's nothing that could boost your mood, you're currently hanging out in satan's lair.

'yup.' your whole body feels clammy. peter doesn't mind the attitude, he was right with you an hour ago. 'give me a countdown.' you hold no enthusiasm in your voice.

'i'm not going that.'

peter just blinks, you roll your eyes and rush through it. 'three, two one, go.'

your shared room is opened, nothing looks different from the outside but peter ushers you in and you feel... cold. the sheen of sweat that covered every bit of you was frozen in it's tracks, you bask in the temperature change while peter shuts the door behind you.

you look up at the vent, there's no running air but you can hear the faint buzz of it. as you turn to peter, you clock it. your jaw drops, sweet relief was blessed over you.

'oh my god, i love you so much.' you rush to stand in front of the window unit, the air hits your chest and you lift your tanktop up to soak it all in. 'holy shit, this feels so good.' you spin and let out a moan when the air washes over your back.

'uh huh, you're welcome.' peter's cocky and it's deserved. 'you're the best boyfriend ever, i love you so much, please marry me.' you don't care if peter's watching, you're about to get naked and dance in front of the mini ac unit.

'i'm borrowing it from chris, so don't get too attached.' it was an emergency patch for the time being, chris was in jamaica and had no use for the unit. peter was in a one bedroom apartment with a grumpy lover.

he only had to get halfway through his explanation before his friend gave him permission as long as he reinstalled it when his ac was fixed. 'tell chris i love him.'

'i'll tell him you said thanks.'

'close enough.' you bask in the blast of air for another minute before it gets icy, you've been so damn hot that you almost cry at how good it feels to shiver.

flopping to your bed, you welcome the air stream on your legs. 'give me ten minutes and i'll suck your dick.'

'oh, c'mon now. i don't deserve that.'

you sit up to point at him. 'you chose my window so it would be on me at all times. that's selfless love and you deserve to have your dick sucked, don't you dare fight me on it.'

peter sticks his hands up, 'i wouldn't dare.'

'smart boy, now come give me kisses.' 

[glassrowboat]

🎲 I am always one for enabling

4. A kiss atop the head.

One Kiss, Blue Fish. Furina.

Word count: 900+

One kiss for her, one kiss for the little gold colored statuette. A habit now so ingrained into your routine as keys pressed into your palm on your way out the door that it was simply instinct to lean down for both of them. Even after the first layer of golden plating started to wear down and revealed a greenish hue beneath.

Oxidation. Something you have had the chance to grow familiar with as the old statues of dogs in the park tucked away between the building of the capital, all beared proof of their noses being scratched and petted. The sight of it alone had you shaking your head, a smile always fighting to turn your lips up ever so slightly.

This habit had all started from a single joke. One comment, that's all it took after Furina had brought home the mini version of her (err- or the Hydro Archon that she was) that now turned to being part of your daily life.

Your fingers had been gliding over the reward as you heard her debating over what to do with it after coming home. Her gloved fingers clutched onto it in a way that failed to hide how they shook just from the sight of the thing alone.

To place it proud and center on the mantle, she pondered. Maybe even bury it away in the guestroom that you only ever used once. Long forgotten after Furina had grown accustomed to sharing a bed with you. Or, simply, toss it out like it was trash?

To that, a startled and over dramatized gasp left you. Hand to your chest to truly sell that bit of how hurt you were at such an appalling suggestion. “You would dare toss the image of my lover in the garbage?”

So, after your ploy of pretending it mattered more to you that it truly did and a spat that was more playful than anything, you placed the mini Furina on the mantle. Tall and proud. Placing a kiss to its little head, you had turned back to her, a cheeky smile on your lips.

A habit set in stone from there on.

One a certain someone clearly wasn't a fan of as her cheeks were puffed out, and a pout graced her features just like that day.

“If you're just going to give out two kisses, you might as well give the second one to me too.” She insisted, head turned away from you as she held up her nose.

It spoke levels about how comfortable she was with you. Willing to give attitude and sass she would normally be afraid anyone else would look at and think of the Hydro Archon she once represented. But there was no need for that here. Not with you.

“That so?”

Taking a strand of hair, that same one that stuck up in the air no matter how much she tried to tame it in the mornings, you twirled it around your finger. The shades of blue and white were almost hypnotizing to watch even when her head bounced up and down to nod.

“Yes! It only makes sense you would give me, your lover, your affection instead of that thing.”

“Now, now, my little mermaid.” You teased as her gaze fell on the golden trophy, eyes surely puncturing the cheap plating covering it. “I can give you two kisses from here on out if you really want.”

Her small little giggle filled the air, seeming appeased with this outcome. For now.

“And I'll give the little replica two on the way out, too.”

She called your name, a high-pitched whine that accompanied her tugging ever so slightly on your sleeve. The way she always said that truly did capture your attention, more so than anyone else who's ever used it before as you bent down to her height.

Eye to eye as you asked “yes?”

“If that's what you're so intent on doing, then you'll have to give me three.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” Wrapping your arms around her waist, the frills of her outfit tickled your arms as she moved in a little closer. The shuffle of her heels heard on the hardwood floor as Furina moved into your hold. “But of course, three kisses.”

If it makes her happy, then it's more than worth it.

“Then take this from the top."

Furina grabbed your keys off the mantle, pulling them away from the statuette you placed them next to when she had first called for your attention. Rattling in her hand as she placed them in yours.

“All the way from the top? Next thing you know, there will be a clapperboard telling me when I can and can't start helping you bathe.”

“T-that’s not important right now.”

Before she could pull away, to hide her blushing cheeks behind a false attitude and layers of hair she hoped would block her face away, you pressed your lips to her hairline. The perfume Neuvillette gifted her after her departure from the Palais Mermonia, only welcoming your touch even more.

Drawing your in closer as you muttered “one kiss, two kiss, three kiss,” with every peck to her forehead. Only a small part of you is resisting the urge to continue teasing her and say ‘red fish, blue fish’ to finish your little poem.

Alas, that can wait another day.

Just like how tomorrow you plan to give three kisses to the statuette just to see Furina pitch another fit.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

rich girl 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as bullying, manipulation, cheating, noncon/dubcon, Lloyd being Lloyd, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your long awaited ascension to the Home Owners Association proves more than you bargained for. (Silverfox AU)

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, side of Cole Turner

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

Marge plays with the perfect slip of her bleach blond hair. Her lips glisten a shade of pink that reminds you of watermelon and her long lashes perfectly frame her crystal blue eyes. She is the perfect suburban housewife, the leader of the pack. 

The other women look to her as a beacon; they dress like her, speak like her, even try to walk like her. As you look around the tables, the cookie cutter women are almost interchangeable. You don't quite fit the mould but you've contorted yourself as best you can. 

It's your first meeting as part of the Home Owners Association. In your three long years in the suburb, it's been your ultimate goal. Well, it was Cole's. Your husband says you need to keep busy and what better opportunity to make friends. Maybe a great opportunity but not an easy one. 

Your husband just wants the best for you. You know that. Otherwise you wouldn't be living in this gorgeous suburb and your dream house. How could you want anything more? 

Now, you can't. You've done it. You've achieved it all. An HOA member among the privileged and the pretty.  

Caroline clears her throat and you look up. She stares at your french tips tapping on the table. You give a sheepish smile and stop yourself. You can't help it, you're nervous. 

As exciting as it all it, you almost want it to just be over. You want to run home and tell Cole all about it. About how you're one of them.  

You fan yourself with your hand, the sun beating down on the green lawn set with at least half a dozen tables. You're sweating through your foundation and the highlighter and the layers you felt were redundant. Your mascara is starting to stick. You glance over at Mitzy, there is even a trickle of sweat along her dark hairline. How? 

You cross your leg over the other and focus on Marge as she calls attention to the front table. There, her closest allies break bread; Callie who you often mistake for Marge, Olivia and her strawberry blond locks, Eleanor, and older member who kept her hair highlighted and draws her brows on, and Shanice, the youngest of any member, even yourself. 

"Alright, ladies, let's get to business," Marge calls out. You reach for your glass and find the mimosa drained. Right, you drank it all. You set it back and press together your wet fingertips. "Today, we have a new member!" 

Applause rolls through the crowd and you sit up straight, unhooking your leg as you look around meekly. You smile, cheeks tight and your lips tremble. You're so happy but so terrified. 

"And we know how we welcome new members. Honey, please come down," Marge says. 

You take a breath and stand. You gulp and tense your calves as you make a slow progress across the yard, fighting to keep your heels from sinking into the grass. As you reach the front table, your fearless leader welcomes you with a outstretched arm. 

"Our new members get to take on their very own HOA mission," Marge explains as Callie stands, a clipboard in her hands. She comes around beside her longlost twin, "so, Calliope, what do we have?" 

Marge leans over and the two review the clipboard. They hem and haw, muttering. 

"No, Mary is handling that already," Callie says, "these are the new ones." 

They confer then peek back at their table mates, "ladies, please, 14.1b. Do we agree?" 

The women look down at the pink folders and open them, fingertips brushing over paper to find the point in question. The look at each other but something in their expressions is uneasy. Marge clears her throat. 

"Well?" 

"Mm," Eleanor taps her nail on the folder, "yes, I think it will do." 

The others nod, though Shanice does so hesitantly.  

"Marvelous," Marge declares and flips the pages of the clipboard, wiggling free a pristine white envelope with the stamp of the HOA on the sealed flap. She holds it up, presenting it to the audience. 

"By our next meeting, you will report back," Marge declares, "deliver this to the house on the label. Callie," she pushes the clipboard away, "give her the briefing of the issue before she goes. Now we will check in on action items." Marge struts away as Callie pulls loose a sheet of paper and hands it over, "good luck." 

You take it and fold it around the envelope as Marge calls up Erin to present her progress in getting Suzette on Oakfront to remove her Venus statue. You return to your own table, near the back, and sit. Caroline sighs and you glance over at her. 

"What house?" She whispers. 

You let the paper unfold and show her the envelope label. She sniffs and squeezes your elbow, "oh, honey." 

You frown and look down. You stare at the address, you're not sure you're familiar with it. 17 Willow Drive. That's not too far from Elmwood where you live. Should be easy enough. 

💄

You review the directive on the slip of paper. Instead of going straight home, you head a few streets past your house to 17 Willow. You stand across the road in front of 16 and chew your lip. ‘Warning to be delivered to front door. Have occupant sign to acknowledge receipt.’ 

You sigh. You don’t like being the bearer of bad news. You wonder what exactly the homeowner did wrong. Their lawn is tidy and trimmed, the hedges meet the standards of the HOA guidelines, and nothing else sticks out from the row of suburban mansions.  

You cross the street and flick the envelope with your thumb. You hover just outside the gate in your kitten heels. You feel bad already. 

You reach over the white pickets and unclasp the gate. You stroll up the walk, admiring the landscaping. Huh. Paint colour falls within the standard and no unseemly ornaments. You can’t figure out why you’re here. 

You climb the steps and approach the front door. You tap the doorbell and wait, looking around aimlessly. You clutch the paper and envelope tight as your heart races. Maybe all this isn’t for you. You thought the HOA was more a women’s club; they had a book club and social nights and all that stuff, you didn’t really think about the nitty gritty of it all. 

You lean on your left foot, letting your ankle bend.  

“What do you want, toots?” A voice asks from the speaker of the doorbell cam. 

You smile. You didn’t reapply your lipstick. You bend slightly and wave at the lens. 

“Um, hello,” you give your name before you continue, “I’m part of the HOA. I have um, I have something for you.” 

You hear a click. You wait. You check your apple watch as the time stretches on. You peek behind you again then turn back to the front door. You hit the bell again. 

“Leave it in the slot,” the voice growls, “busy.” 

“Oh, right, erm, I do need you to sign--” 

“Christ fuckin’ sakes.” 

The speaker dies out again and you wince at the profanity. Oh, great, he’s already upset. You bounce on your heels and sway. You don’t do well with anger. 

You hear the lock on the inner door twist and you take a breath. You steel yourself and plaster your smile in place. You see a shadow inside then the screen door opens to a naked man with only a hand towel to cover his most intimate spot. He drapes it just in front of his pelvis but you keep your eyes above board. 

“Sorry, I--” 

“I told you, I’m busy,” he snarls, his mustache bristling on his curled lip. 

You swallow and your smile threatens to break. Maybe you should’ve listened and just come back later. You’re speechless as all your mental preparation flutters away. 

“Sir, I, er, I--” 

“Enjoying the view, sweet cheeks?” He scoffs and sends you a wink, “should I lift the towel or what?” 

“Uh, no, please, don’t,” you put your hands up, the envelope nearly slipping from your grasp. “I...” You blink at him. His grey hair droops crookedly, the top longer than the trimmed sides. “Here, er, I just need you to read this and sign--” 

He snatches the letter with one hand and turns it over to look at the HOA stamp. He rolls his eyes. He brings his other hand up, the towel clamped between two fingers and you block out his lower half with your palm and look up. He rips the envelope in two and drops it. 

“You can tell the bimbos to fuck off,” He kicks the remnants towards you, “now if you’ll excuse me, lube’s drying up.” 

He lets the door fall shut and spins around, giving a view of his ass before he slams the inner door. You gasp and bend to gather up the destroyed letter. You quickly retreat, cheeks burning in horror. 

Now you know why Caroline seemed so concerned. 

[thepastisalreadywritten]

The most powerful moment of the coronation of King Charles III was not the gold glittering off carriages or epaulettes — not the pomp and show and signifiers of power.

It was precisely their opposite: when Charles shed his gold robes and stood in a thin white shirt, his frail humanity implied.

Then a screen was erected around him and, shielded, he had a private consultation with the Archbishop of Canterbury, who dabbed anointing oil with his hands on Charles’s bare breast.

"This was the most solemn and personal of moments,” Buckingham Palace said.

Charles was bare before God, in privacy, God being one of the last beings with no need to sign a non-disclosure agreement.

The Princess of Wales looked on as the screen shielded her father-in-law.

By contrast, she was at that point the most magnificent she had ever been, swathed in layer upon layer of regality, the dress, the robes, the hanging chains, headpiece and ribbons all serving to move the viewing gaze — subjects in every sense — from our awareness of Catherine Middleton with her everyday human DNA and towards the shared fiction of her transcendent queenliness.

Less than a year later, this moment is remembered with new and terrible power.

It is spring again, but it’s a time of hard Lenten moral reflection for us as a nation, in relationship to our royals, as well as an ever more voraciously unprivate modern celebrity culture.

Both the King and the princess have cancer, the latter’s disclosed by Catherine in an unprecedented video address on Friday, March 22.

Catherine’s speech was something of a plea bargain in which she traded not only her customary silence but her most personal of health ordeals in order to put an end to toxic rumours swirling online that had become in tone like an unruly mob rattling at the palace gates.

Or rattling at the figurative locks on her medical notes, with three workers at the London Clinic, where she and the King were treated, suspended and under investigation for allegedly trying to access her records (hers, it is important to note, the King’s were unmolested).

📷: Getty Images

What was so powerful about the anointing of the King was the sacredness of that space in which he could be fully human away from observation and judgment.

There should be another one-on-one consultation that is sacred, where anyone, from King to princess to pauper, can expect to be shriven in total privacy, and that is the sanctity of the medical room.

It used to be that priests were our only bound confidants, we could trust them to be privy to all our spiritual ills.

Now doctors are our secular priests: bound by law and ethics to enshrine confidentiality at the heart of the patient relationship.

As a result, our medical privacy in an age of oversharing and online surveillance feels both stranger and more necessary.

If we knew our every GP-inspected rash was to be posted on TikTok for the nation, many of us would quite literally die of embarrassment.

The King’s appointment behind the three-sided screen can now be viewed through the lens of royal illness.

The lavishly embroidered panels and expensive white shirt now replaced by the flimsy three-sided ward screen on wheels and thin hospital gown that can humble us all.

But it also enacts a principle at the very heart of becoming the monarch.

The medical-like screen is erected in the coronation to tell us there are some places the public cannot go; to tell us that there are sacredly personal moments in which a person, any person, however swathed in our projections of power, needs to be nakedly human.

Otherwise, they will go mad. We need to make sure the screens are erected around Catherine now.

Much is said, quite a lot of it by Prince Harry himself, of the dangers of the wives of the princes repeating the tragic history of their mother, Princess Diana, hunted by photographers.

He remains phobic to any hint of tabloid persecution or paparazzi chase. But this is a sideshow, even an anachronism in 2024.

He and others have not recognised how the “chase” has changed. Who needs paparazzi when there are a billion citizen hacks ready to take pictures with their phones, in case a convalescing woman nips to a Windsor farm shop with her husband?

Instead, the appetite now is not to see but to know.

The royals used to have a contract with the public: we pay for them, and in return, they give us their presence.

Nearly all of their official job is to do with surface: to show up, to put in appearances at a set number of functions, whether at the opening of parliament or the opening of a leisure centre.

But now parts of the online mob seem to be staging a coup. We want more than the surface, we want to puncture the skin barrier of the royal family and occupy from the inside.

The “fans” have become an invasive virus. The royal analogy is often that they are trapped in a gilded zoo. This new model, instead, casts the royals more as lab rats.

When Catherine disappeared from view in January after announcing a “planned abdominal operation,” the response from internet truthers was one of irate entitlement.

They are now the 1980s tabloids: ravening for intimacies and making stuff up when thwarted.

This wasn’t the boomer generation, who are both more respectful of the royals and more private about their own health.

It was the fortysomething mothers frustrated when they can’t track the phone location of everyone in their life; or the twentysomethings on Snap Map.

Both desperate for their personalised new Netflix season of “The Royals” to drop.

Catherine presents with such stoicism and dignity, it is easy to forget where this new invasiveness started: when she was pregnant with Prince George in December 2012 and hospitalised for extreme morning sickness.

While she was sleeping on the ward, a radio station in Australia rang the hospital switchboard pretending to be the Queen.

They broadcast the nurse’s comments about Catherine’s “retching.”

One could only find this prank funny if Catherine had already — a young, wretchedly ill, pregnant woman — been dehumanised.

George is now ten and his mother hospitalised again, and in that decade, the physical security of ill royals may have tightened but their claim to bodily autonomy seems to have weakened.

Some say Kensington Palace “brought it on themselves” by their wish for discretion; this claim is duplicitous.

The late Queen Elizabeth II became increasingly debilitated in her final years with not much detail ever given; just as her father, King George VI, died without disclosing his lung cancer.

I’m glad that the British do not subject their heads of state to the same publicised medical reports as the president of the United States; one shouldn’t have to present a stool swab to sit on the throne.

No, instead the apparent justification of all those clicking and posting conspiracy theories “worried for Catherine’s welfare” was this sinful truth.

As a beautiful, 42-year-old mother of three, her drama was more box office than the ailments of those older, a pound of her flesh was worth more.

Pity, Susan Sontag said in her 1978 book Illness as Metaphor, is close to contempt.

Back then cancer was still taboo. Those around the patient, Sontag says, “express pity but also convey contempt.”

Ask any cancer patient and they will say they don’t want pity: it is too isolating, it sets them apart, an unwanted privilege.

This is why the video plea of Catherine was one of affinity, rather than pity or privilege.

Last year, she sat in robes in Westminster Abbey at the coronation of her father-in-law, next to her future king son and future king husband.

In her video address last week, she sat on a classically English garden bench, pale, alone and in jeans, as bare of pomp as any royal can be.

No mention of kings or titles, just Diana’s ring on her hand.

Rather she gave an appeal, parent to parent, human to human, about her “huge shock” and her care for her “young family.”

And, finally, her kinship with anyone who lives in a vulnerable human body susceptible to a democratic illness like cancer, “you are not alone.”

Or, to paraphrase Richard Curtis:

“I’m just a girl, standing in front of a public, asking for some time to endure gruelling chemotherapy."

NOTE: Additional photos have been included in this article.

[rowniebow]

mercy | newt scamander x male reader

Summary: You and Newt have been put in a sticky situation. Newt has been the hot commodity lately, but you were all too ready to bargain. 

Warnings: Angst

Reader: Male, muggle

Parining(s): Newt Scamander x Male Reader

Word Count: 1.9k+

masterlist

Your eyes focused on the cold cement ground you sat upon. Your knees were pulled to your chest. Your head was pounding from all the stress and commotion. You couldn’t help but wonder where you would be as of right now if you had denied the strange British man and stayed working at your nine-to-five factory job. Would you still reside in your pathetic, run down apartment across from Gerda who shared her butter and you shared your eggs with? Would Jerry still be belittling you about how lazy you are at your job? Yes. Most likely Jerry would still be an asshole.

But, most of all, would Newt be in this situation if it weren’t for you? You can’t help but think he would be sitting at home taking care of his creatures if it weren’t for you agreeing to join him. That, at least, is what you said to convince yourself you were okay with what was all happening. Convincing yourself you were at fault for the bad things so your “solution” to the issue - this decision you were making for the both of them - wouldn’t be as painful.

What were you to do, though? When someone shares their most vulnerable feelings with you, and you share your own, are you really supposed to just watch them up and leave without you when their hand is extended as Newt’s was? When they’re offering you an out of your miserable life, and instead an invitation to what you assumed would be a nice quiet life with someone you loved and doing things you loved with them? Are you supposed to say no to joining the person you have grown to care the most about? 

You were yanked out of your thoughts as the loud metal doors were peeled open by two large, muscular men clad in armor and wands out ready to strike if you made even one off move. You couldn’t help but wonder if all that was truly necessary for you: a small man with no capacity to fight back. Good lord, you couldn’t even get rid of spiders. All you could do was ignore them and wish them on their merry way. 

You stood, the shackles hung off of your wrists and ankles. The rusted chain clattered against the cement floors, scratching against your already pounding head. You trudged with the two large men trailing close behind you. They poked at your back every once in a while when you were dragging from exhaustion. 

You three arrived at the large wooden double doors. They creaked as the men opened it to reveal you to the man that hasn’t left your mind in years. 

You took in every aspect of Newt with a gasp. His arms were limp and pale from all the hours they had been hung up against the wall. He was on his knees, but his ankles, bloody and bruised, sat chained to the wall just as his wrists were. Blood drained out of them, you were sure they were tingling with discomfort. He didn’t look up, leaving you to look at his knotted, messy hair. Strands flew everywhere, it didn’t even have its usual shape and part. His dozens of layers of clothes had been removed. He stood limply in his tousled white button down and brown straight legged pants. Both clothing items were ripped at the seams and ruffled beyond the familiarity of Newt’s well-dressed and ironed appearance. 

“Oh, Newtie,” You groaned at the sight of him. Rage filled your veins. You suddenly began to rethink your bargain, wondering if these awful people who had already done this to him would keep their part and let him go after all this. 

Newt looked up with wide eyes at the sound of your voice echoing off of the brick walls. His eyes were swollen and red. His cheeks were patterned in purple and red. Hair fell over his forehead and into his eyes. He struggled at the chains, trying to stand up and move towards you but, of course, he was to no avail. “Y/N,” he called out hoarsely, tears threatening his eyes. You ran towards him, the guards obviously wanting to stop you but they let it happen knowing what was to come. 

“Newt, goodness, my sweet,” You cooed, lightly rubbing your hand over his wounded cheeks as you examined him. He winced slightly as you grazed the open skin but overall he refused to look away from you, shocked to see you in front of him. “Are you okay? Lord- obviously you’re not. It’s okay, alright? I-It’s gonna be over soon, okay?” You hushed your tone, wanting to save all your words for him and only him. 

His bloodied wrists caught your eye, “Can we- Can we please get this bullshit off of him? God,” You hollered out into the echoed room. The chains released themselves, magically, of course, and Newt fell into your arms. He struggled to snake his own limp limbs around your waist. You felt his shaking body and breath and nearly broke down. 

You continued to hold him close, a hand keeping his head in the crook of your neck and another keeping him upright in your arms. “I’m so sorry,” you continuously whispered into his hair that was still soft as ever despite it all. “I love you so much, I’m so sorry.” 

“Now,” A voice boomed from behind you. “Would you like to break the news to him, dearest? Or, shall I?” 

You ignored the threatening voice - the voice from the man who’s at fault for the crimes committed against the two. You only continued whispering your hushed apologies. You reassured Newt, in between quiet sniffs, that he was going to be okay and that it would all be over soon. That he wouldn’t have to worry anymore and he could continue to forget this. 

Newt, listening to your every word and absorbing it (grateful that he gets to hear it again at all), peaked over your shoulder at the presence who had walked in. Neither of the two had seen the man’s face. He stayed hidden under his black, hooded cloak. A mask sat over his face, keeping anyone from seeing him. 

Newt watched the man, blurred from his tears, take several steps in the room. After hours and hours of the torturing done to him by this man, he couldn’t even find the strength in him to do much more than look and groan. He happily let you rock yourselves back and forth as you chanted comforting phrases into his ear for only him to hear, and ran your fingers through his hair, and left your warm heavy hand in the middle of his back and rubbed it in small circles. 

“I suppose I’ll take that as a plea for me to tell him.” The voice boomed out once more. 

Your eyes couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. You quietly sobbed, muttering, “Please, don’t be mad. I love you so much, I’m so sorry.” 

“The little muggle has offered himself in exchange for your peace. For your freedom.” You could hear a smile in the man’s voice as he spoke of your bargain. You could also very clearly hear a sharp gasp from Newt, as he began to moan in disagreement. “Yes, we haven’t decided what to do with him, yet, but-! I am a generous man, myself, so I have decided to make the deal with him.” 

Newt struggled but managed to push himself away from your loving hold. “No, I-I don’t agree with this.” He managed to squeak out. His ragged voice from all the screaming you had heard him do from down the corridor shook and let a cold shake travel through your spine. 

“Yes, well,” The man with the booming voice behind you turned and made his way out of the door. “I thought I’d be kind and let you say goodbye. We’ll be back for you soon enough.” His uncaring voice sent rage through Newt. His fist clenched but he was too weak to do much of anything. 

The door slammed shut leaving you two alone with one another. “No,” Newt began but you wouldn’t let him finish.

“Love, I can’t let them hurt you anymore than they already have. Or the creatures. You get to leave with them, I made sure of that.”

“N-No, but,” He gulped, doing his best to soothe his scratchy throat. “I-I don’t get to leave with you,”

“That’s okay-,”

“No! It’s n-not okay.” His eyelids fluttered and his mouth twitched at the ends.

“Yes, it is,” You moved your hands to hold his cheeks. His head struggled to stay up with the weight of gods pushing him down. “You’re gonna be okay and the creatures are going to be okay and that’s what matters.”

“No! I-I-I won’t be okay!” He let out a pained sob. The waterfalls escaped his green eyes.

“You will. And you’ll live a nice quiet life like you said you would.” The smile that graced your lips was filled with nothing but pain and Newt saw right through that.

He stayed silent for a moment. “I don’t want to be okay without you. I don’t want to live a ‘nice quiet life’ without you. That-That is just no life at all, one without you.” 

Salty drops of water streamed down your face at his words. What could you even say to that? You’ve been telling yourself you are doing this for him but it’s not as if you would be anything less than angry if he were doing the same for you. 

“There-There must be a-another way.” Newt shook his head, refusing to believe this was the reality he was going to have to accept. He kept his eyes trained on you the whole time as he took in every detail, anxious this was going to be the last time he saw your face. He absorbed your skin and where it wrinkled. He memorized every divet in your imperfect perfect complexion. How your eyes were swollen and red from rubbing them all day. The way the light reflected off of your mesmerizing eyes. How insanely beautiful you looked in every way all of the time. He couldn’t believe he scored someone as gorgeous as you, inside and out. Fully and completely beautiful. 

“Newt,” You whispered his name, afraid if you said it any louder then the name would escape the two of you and run off somewhere it shouldn't be. “I love you. You are going to be okay. You are resilient and stubborn - I know you can do it.”

“I-I don’t want to, Y/N.” He sighed taking you in. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” You whispered as the doors burst open again with a slam. You rushed back into his arms for one final moment where you could feel safe.

“Please, don’t leave me. Don’t do this to me,” 

“I love you so much, Newtie. To the moon and back.”

“I-I love you, too.” 

The hushed words exchanged between the two were cut short as the big men came to pry you and Newt off of each other. You continued to fight to reach him, but your strength was nothing in comparison and you were only left reaching your hand out as the space between you two grew. Newt continued to scream and holler, even gathering the will to stand and jog after them. But, of course, he was overpowered by yet another unnecessarily strong guard. 

The last thing you saw of Newt was him on his knees, screaming your name and pleas for mercy.

[meepetteoneonly]

Raphael and Tiamant (the DND dragon goddess and archdevil) theory

So I will once again refer to all the pieces of the puzzle already discovered and shared by @certifieddilfenjoyer and another layer of theories and questions about Raphael...

(Sorry for spam, I just wanted to add it to my theory collection but I also want to make a separate post, because I am so excited!)

We already know, that Vlaakith made a deal with some devil in order to carry out the coup against Mother Gith, i.e. mother of Orpheus. However, the important information is also what Lae’Zael tells us after we are attacked by Githyanki at Wyrm’s Lookout the night before we reach Baldur’s Gate.

Once we successfuly defeated Orpheus’s protectors and Emperor uncovered himself, Lae’Zael tells us, that what we know about Orpheus is only half of a story and that Gith managed to defeat Illithids because she made a deal with Archdevil Tiamant. Also, she explains that it was Tiamant who gifted Githyankis their red dragons.

Furthermore, she tells us that Mother Gith stayed in Hells and that Tiamant’s envoy helped Vlaakith with her mission to become the queen.

Tiamant’s enovy. A devil with wry charm who did a deal with Vlaakith (according to the disk we find in Astral Prism near Orpheus). I wonder, who that may be… 

Now - who is this Archdevil Tiamant? I didn’t know either, but Forgotten Realms wiki had my back again:

Tiamant was the lawful evil dragon goddess of greed, queen of evil dragons and, for a time, reluctant servant of the greater gods Bane and later Asmodeus.

Do we know how Gortash become chosen of Bane, btw?

Tiamat was a unique chromatic dragon, who had one head for each primary color of the most common species of chromatics (black, blue, green, red, white). Each head was able to operate entirely independently of each other and had the powers of a member of the respective race of dragonkind.

Primary colours are subtle theme that is common to Orpheus’s bubble, the bubble we can see inside Astral Prism for the first or so time we get inside.

Also, „Astral Prism… or Prison“, as Gortash put it in his notes… Prism is triangular piece of glass that disperse the light into primary colours.

Tiamat had three manifestations in Avernus as well, one of which never left the gate to Dis. She also had a lair in Avernus, on the Nine Hells, known as Tiamat's Lair.

Tiamat's Lair was the divine realm and prison of Tiamat in Avernus, the first layer of the Nine Hells, according to the Great Wheel cosmology. The realm was a large cave system within a tall mountain, hidden in the hills of Avernus. It held the only known portal that led to the second layer, Dis. 

Avernus. Here we are. Interesting, isn’t it?

The lair was also inhabited by Tiamat's mates and their descendants. The realm was generally avoided by demons, who were aware of Tiamat's lack of interest in the Blood War.It was, however, occasionally visited by devils offering gifts, hoping to seal bargains with Tiamat.

Do we know anyone who is always up to a bargain?

Tiamat wanted to take control of the Realms, and even as she was thwarted again and again by her enemies, she didn't give up. As of 1491 DR, however, her primary goal was to break free from the Nine Hells.

Having once been an archfiend living on Avernus, Tiamat was loosely allied with Bel and lent him many Abishai to fight in the Blood War. She resented Mammon for converting some evil dragons away from her. She helped Asmodeus forge his Ruby Rod.  She developed an enmity with Asmodeus and the archdevil Bel after they betrayed her.

The crafting of the rod required the shard of evil and a huge ruby to be soaked in the blood of a thousand sacrificed mortals, quenched in Tiamat's acidic saliva, and polished with 777 angel tears.

That’s a little weird but I guess it is better to have a ruby quenched in super-powerful dragon goddess’s saliva than to have no ruby at all.

Also, Orphic hammer is decorated with red gems as well. And infernal chains binding Orpheus and Hope are attached to some red rocks. Rubys, prehaps?

Finally, Raphael doesn’t seem to be someone into crafting and forging, so there has to be someone who forged the shackles and muzzle for Orpheus and Astral Prism. Given that Astral Prism was probably created at the same time Tiamant was doing business with Gith, maybe it was her… Or maybe she helped Raphael? 

As regards the blood of secrificed mortals, I wonder, was Mephistopheles up to something similar with the Rite of Profane Ascension? 

Ok, let’s continue… 

The church of Tiamat was regimented by a strict hierarchy of ranks and titles. Her clerics were occupied by the twin tasks of acquiring an ever-increasing hoard of wealth for the faith and sabotaging the faiths of other deities. As a result, they occupied most of their time with an unending series of thefts, assassinations, acts of vandalism, and arson. In Unther and Chessenta they were primarily concerned with seizing as much power as possible, while in western Faerun, the cult's agents were focused on subverting the Cult of the Dragon.

Which is interesting. The Cult of Dragon attacked Baldur’s Gate and when Wyll came to the rescue, he end up being tied to Mizora. If you speak with Wyll about the event, he tells you that Mizora didn’t care for the city, but Zariel sent her for some reason.

The Forgotten Realms wiki provides: … However, to avoid disappointing Asmodeus again and to prevent a conflict with Bel, Tiamat refused, instead offering to be Asmodeus' champion and devouring all who opposed him (and offering covert aid to Zariel to prevent Bel from becoming too powerful). So, did Zariel sent Mizora to help Wyll with Cult of the Dragon to do Tiamant some favour? 

This was everything I managed to put together after I rushed to research this Tiamant lady right after Lae’Zael spoke about her in the game. 

So my theory is that Raphael somehow serve Tiamant (or served) or that he has some kind of bargain with her. But the only weak proof is that Tiamant’s envoy helped Vlaakith and that this envoy had wry charm… That’s not much.

I also found this super cool fanart of Tiamant by an artist Jexion and in my opinion, I could see Raphael on his knees for someone like that...

[hallucinatinghalos]

I hated the idea of Lestat being married in season three when I first saw it circulating here. But it's become a brainworm and I'm starting to think it could work. First off, it's been mentioned and is probably the reason the idea first came about, he's older than in the books and so there are more years between Auvergne and Paris that need a backstory. He's 34 when turned in the adaptation. In that time period he'd more than likely be married before reaching that age. When you consider that his family has a title but are impoverished. It's likely they would bargain him for a potential wife's dowry. It would be socially acceptable and possibly expected. Also, they violently denied him an education and priesthood, they denied him the theatre troupe for cruel and selfish reasons. Why would they hesitate in binding him to an arranged marriage for their gain? His wants be damned, always. It feels very in the spirit of TVL. I think it would need to be arranged at a young age that would've been acceptable for the time, as young as seventeen even. With her probably dying in childbirth, how soon and before or after other children would be born/conceived who knows. I'm guessing within five years of the marriage she'd pass, with around five years of him struggling in the lost state Nicki finds him in in the books, then four+ happy years in Paris with Nicki pre-turning. If he had been a father, even for a short amount of time or just an expectant one, it would make his failure with Claudia all the more encompassing without taking anything away from their arc. It also feels like you could make a psychological connection to him always making fledglings as a vampire to his wife losing every pregnancy or them losing every child. But that would be a leap, and more a head cannon thing. Ultimately, I think their life together would be short and if there were children they would also be doomed by the times or the eventual revolution. Ever plagued by loss is Lestat.

I can imagine the scene after the wolf kill when Lestat is recuperating in his room and Nicki comes with his father to present the coat to him happening still, but this time Nicki comes alone. Love instantly blossoming within Lestat, already a widower, for this man who is seeing him at his lowest but gazes at him as if he is an incredible, impossible being.

All of the emotional turmoil Lestat goes through in Auvergne, the vulnerability he shares with Nicki, would still be there but given more life experience for this adaptation's Lestat. His paralyzing fear of death more layered by being rooted in grief and loss as well as his anxiety plagued disposition.

The tragedy of him then losing his life just as he's finally finding peace and happiness would remain.

I also admit there are many reasons it could not work, like why would he have never mentioned this other important person (or children!) to Louis? But would Louis have any reason to mention it to Daniel if he had? Would it change the dynamic with Nicki too much? Gabrielle? Can they throw in such a huge change like that, and it not feel too off even if it works within the adaptation? But him being turned at 34 instead of 20 is huge. That's fourteen years of experience to be created. They have to do something and him hunting and hating his dad and big brothers (for good reason) and his circumstances for an extra fourteen years sounds less entertaining than an arranged marriage. There would also be an interesting nod to the books if they have him married off at 20 instead of turned. An unwanted marriage as a little death? I'm not all in on the idea but, point is, it may not be so bad. They could still make this part of his life have all the same emotional reverb as the book with a married backstory and I know there is far more there that this team could flesh out. So, if they go that direction, I'm not worried anymore is my point.

This is otherwise all pointless rambling so if you've made it this far thanks for hanging in there.

How about a side note since you're here? Could the painting of the woman in the coffin room, the one he placed overlooking him as he rests, be said tragic wife or just another thing he picked up cleaning out the NOLA antique shops? Could it be a parallel to Louis with his painting of Paul and Claudia's dress?

Please feel free to add to this whole thing or spit venom at it. I'm always open to corrections and new ideas and different takes. This is all just what-ifs for fun anyway. I may not respond just because I suck at it, but it won't mean I don't appreciate and enjoy your thoughts.

[a-static-grief]

[ SCALE simply went through the portal on the informant's command, unminding of the noise the other two made. ]

-- ⚖️

[it lead to...]

*an elevator?*

( @the-inphinite-elevator )

[acim-ed-ortsac]

the Devil doesn’t bargain

Reader and Proud Immortal Demon Way

You were naive.

Died by the hands of a speeding car, you reincarnated into the world SVSSS…or PIDW you’re assuming since you found yourself becoming a slave with Shen Jiu and Yue  Qi, with your slave number being Ba for eight. The slavers found you when you were a toddler, bringing you to where the other slave children were. There, you were raised alongside Shen Jiu and Yue Qi. You were quite happy because Shen Jiu was your favorite character, despite not being there in the three books. 

He was human with many layers and sides. You didn’t see an evil scumbag or a bitter slave that became a Peak Lord, but rather a child that was molded by society’s cruelty. Having taken psychology, you knew the Nature vs Nurture theory and evidence of it. And it’s clear that Shen Jiu is the product of Nurture rather than Nature.

You three were inseparable, becoming the dusk of Qi-ge’s light and A-jiu’s night. You had no hesitation to steal if it meant that your friends would be fed. A-Jiu would scold you while Qi-he would fuss over you, checking for wounds. It was then you swore you would change their fates from the original plot.

Even when you three were sent to the Qiu Household and Qi-ge ran away with the promise of returning, you stayed with A-Jiu to share his suffering. You became a friend and kindred spirit. 

Even when you burned the Qiu’s house, except for Qiu Haitang, the women and the children. You held A-jiu’s hand all this time, smiling at him. Shen Jiu asked, “Will you not leave me?”

And you only graced him with a smile while saying, “I’ll be with you, A-Jiu. Whether fire, water, or air. Through light and darkness, I’ll be with you. And if you die, I’ll burn the world that has wronged you.”

You watched his eyes tear up as determination roared in your chest, prepared to change his fate.

30 years later…

A-jiu’s dead.

You stared emotionlessly at the corpse of Shen Jiu, now Shen Qingqiu, who’s now a bound corpse in the middle of the Huanhua palace room where his trial was. Cultivators, especially the ones from the great four sects were either celebrating his death and those angered that he got out too quickly before he could be replayed tenfold.

You walked towards the corpse, ignoring any voice that spoke your way, they were irrelevant. You took A-Jiu in your arms, his cold body against your warm and alive one as you embraced him. You nosed into the crook of his neck as anger began to bubble like a pot of water on a stove. Shaking, you hold him tightly as you grit your teeth.

“What are they doing!?”

“A friend?”

“As if that scum has any friends!”

The last line broke any restraint as you screamed into the ceiling with unbridled anger, letting out the demon that resided in you unleashed.

BENDY!

The ink demon was delighted to be out.

A shrilling screech followed by a guttural roar resounded throughout the room before black inky tentacles shot out of you and latched themselves onto everyone within the sect building. No one could escape, even as they resisted and struggled, it was fruitless as the tentacles latched onto their heads, rendering them still and vulnerable.

As you fed them the memories of Shen Jiu, letting them watch the nightmare you and he went through, you began singing. Call you mad in grief and sorrow, it’s the last piece of sanity you could entertain before actually going mad with anger, grief, and sorrow.

Before you destroyed Jianghu.

The lyrics left your lips before you even noticed, broken with incoming sobs.

 “ The moon will sing a song for me,

I loved you like the sun

Bore the shadows that you made

With no light of my own

I shine with only the light you gave me…

I shine with only the light you gave me…”

The voices from the puddles join in with your singing, comforting your loss. Tears fell like a waterfall from your eyes, only to be wiped by a grotesque and deformed hand. The hand itself was barely covered by a glove, which only protected the palm and not the three fingers it had. A deep and guttural voice spoke beside you, near your ear. “Angry, little human?”

You looked back at Bendy, whose human teeth were stretched into an inhumanely wide smile, his horns curved back, and his body disfigured and disproportionate. He looms over you, towers even, but you feel no fear.

“So much,” you replied as the tentacles slowly retreated back onto Bendy, you came out of your back. One by one, the cultivators in the room regain awareness of their surroundings, pale with horror and realization. You glanced at Luo Binghe, who at one point had sympathized with him and loved him, who looked at you with new realization, paleness, and something unreadable.

You moved on to the Cang Qiong sect, where the peak lords are white as a sheet as they realize what they had done to your misunderstood friend.

Qiu Haitang, whom you glared with disgust, trembled. “No…it can’t be..my brother—“

“Was a lecherous, greedy, scum bastard,” you spat out the words like acid. “Qiu Janlou,”’ you said the name like it was a bitter delicacy. “That’s what he was. And you were too blind to see it, stupid princess.”

“I thought you were lying!” She cried, so into her head at the revelation and revealed that she didn’t notice you walking towards her. It wasn’t only till you gripped her head with your fingers, squishing her cheeks painfully while digging your nails. “Do you also wanna know?” You said loudly for all of them to hear. “Your brother lusted after you! That man was not only a lecher but also an incestuous mutt! A pathetic human being so low to even live!”

Before the girl could say anything, you slapped her, nails scratching her cheek. “You spoiled,” another slap “coddled, “and another “weak mistress!” A final slap sent her to the ground, her pretty face marred with scars from your nails.

You flicked the blood of your nails, sneering in disgust. Her sobs didn’t deserve any sympathy from you.

You then looked at the Old Palace master, a smile so vile with anger that he would've melted on the spot. “And all you pathetic cultivators talk about scum, you  aren’t aware that a certain scum hides amongst you!”

They all turn to the Old Palace Master, who tries and fails to put up a kind facade. “What evidence do you have—“

“Oh, we’re really going that route?” You smiled with teeth, Bendy as the Ink Demon laughed behind you. “How about we ask Tianlang-Jun that!”

At your words, demonic qi filled the room as the said demon lord entered with casual swag, Zhuzhi-lang by his side. They gasped at his appearance, disbelief, and anger as they tried to make sense of this.

Tianlang-Jun, for his part, smiles casually yet his eyes hold malicious anger. “My, it has been quite a while since I’ve seen some familiar faces,” his eyes immediately went to the Old Palace Master. “Especially you.”

“How!?” The old man cried, speaking the question everyone had in mind.

With dramatic flair, you looked at Luo Binghe. “Luo Binghe, I would like to introduce to you Tianlang-Jun, your father. Who loved your mother, Su Xiyan, with all of his heart. Unfortunately, her Shizun was obsessed with her and out of jealousy, lied to the whole cultivation world to get rid of Tianlang-Jun. Who poisoned Su Xiyan to kill the baby who is now known as Luo Binghe.”

Meeting the said young man’s eyes, you then stated. “And the reason why you became an orphan.”

You ignored the hitched breath as you looked at the cultivators gathered, “Pathetic cultivators, young and old, I have come to announce the destruction of Jianghu!”

Expectedly, this outraged everyone excluding the two demons and you. Yue Qi looked at you pleadingly, trying to negotiate or settle this peacefully, but you snapped your head at him with fierce eyes. “Don’t talk to me so familiarly, Zhangmen-shixiong.” You said mockingly, outraging his shidis and disciples in his sect. “He was your brother, your friend! And yet you sided with the majority when it came to rumors and accusations! Didn’t I tell you to stay by his side, to give the benefit of the doubt to these rumors!? Are my visits a waste of time if this is the result!?” You groused, fingers elongating and scales fluttering on your cheek. “What a poor brother you have been to A-Jiu, you pathetic excuse of a brother!”

With a snap of your fingers, shards of glass hurriedly gathered into the air to form a single shard. The reflection then changed to the entirety of the Central Plains, whose faces were horrified and angry. You laughed, “People of the human realm, do you judge these cultivators as unworthy protectors of you all!?”

“Yes!” The people in the shard answer.

“What’s going on…” a cultivator asked, losing sense of reality.

“They know?!”

“The common people were watching the whole time!?”

“Stop them!” The Little Palace mistress shrieked, outraged that not only her father was slandered but soon their reputation would be destroyed.

“Silence!” You growled at her. “You have your answer from the people,”

Deciding enough was enough, you looked up at the sky with arms raised at your sides. “You celebrate his death, I’ll only celebrate…”

“When your ashes fall.”

From there, like a broken dam, demons poured into the building with glee.

Years later…

The story of the ruler of the Human realm spread for millennia. The story of how they overthrew the Emperor and his courts, how they exposed the truth of the cultivator world and brought it down to rebuild it back up. The story of how the Ruler of the Human realm soon merged and traded with the Demon Realm’s Emperor, Tianlang-Jun, who had been wronged by the cultivators.

In return for freeing him, Tianlang-Jun handed his only blood son to them as payment for their loss of a friend.

Some may pity the half-blood, but others would say that he got what he deserved for being blinded by hate and anger.

There were stories of the Qing Jing peak lord, Shen Qingqiu, who was abused at youth, and climbed to the top to have security, only to be gifted with accusations and a trial by the cultivators he adored. 

There were songs about the tragedy of the two friends, the death of Shen Jiu, and the loss of the Ruler.

Demons and humans soon assimilated into each other, and racism between them soon became little as they understood one another. Cultivators soon became not demon eradications but rather equal to demons when it comes to fighting. The ruler of the Human realm does not tolerate racism, nor do they tolerate slavery, leading to the abolishment of slavery and giving the homeless a place of food and shelter while giving children a chance to learn and adults a chance to earn.

Yet, despite the good they have achieved, the ruler of the human realm soon died afterward, leaving their head disciple as heir.

The son of Tianlang-Jun, Luo Binghe, soon returned to the Demon Realm and it was whispered that he had changed while under the human ruler. There are whispers from servants that he has mellowed down and soon became hard-working yet stoic, not taking any wives or husbands nor concubines.

There were whispers of the servants from his chambers that said that when he would think he was alone, he would clutch a fan and a stuffed toy in his hands, pulling them close to his chest.

No one knew of the Ink Demon that lurks in the Human Palace, following, and tailing the Ruler. No one knows of its inky abyss that had sent rats of pathetic beings down to become one of the monstrous creations or a Lost Soul. No one knows that once the Ruler has passed, it soon lingers in the shadows of their Head disciple who took on the mantle to rule.

———-

All was dark before voices invaded your ears, stirring you to the waking world. When you woke up to clear green eyes, you weren’t surprised to find yourself back in the past with Shen Jiu. And by the looks of it, the wretched Qiu shack they put the two of you in.

You snarled internally when you looked at A-Jiu’s broken legs, “No…”

You refused to repeat the past.

Manhandling Shen Jiu on your back, you broke down the wooden wall of the shack with your body before running with Shen Jiu.

You won’t let Shen Jiu die.

You won’t let him be wronged.

You will make sure he’s raised with love.

With knowledge.

You’ll make sure he’s living happily.

Away from Cang Qiong.

Away from other cultivators.

Away from Luo Binghe.

With your knowledge of the future and the teachings that you had learned before your death, you’re sure of things.

A year ago…

The sound of screams was music to your ears, watching in glee as everything was thrown into chaos. Bendy having his fun with tearing apart any foolish cultivator that tried to go up against you. You watched as those who had wronged your friend were thrown to the ground before being branded as property for the demons to claim.

That was your end of the deal, offering any cultivator in the designated place that catches the eyes of the demons helping you.

You clapped with manic joy as you watched the Little Palace Mistress wail at the hot brand being burned on her skin by a large demon, who looked at her with leering eyes. Was this wrong? Morally, yes. But then again, it was an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Hammurabi's code historically. You did say to A-Jiu that you will burn the world that wronged him to the ground, and you’re about to do that.

You in your madness of rage, glee, and vindictiveness, spun in the middle of the chaos. “Kings have honor,” your right hand flung to the side open-handed in the air “Soldiers have bravery,” your other hand reached to the other side, making you go in a wide arm stance with two of your hands up in the air as if praising the gods up above. You then brought your hands together before clasping at your chest, “And poets have heart.” You smiled even when you felt a threat going behind your back. “But all I have…” Even when they raised a sword upon you before bringing it down…

Swish! Clang!

Luo Binghe looked absolutely dashing in his demonic heritage when you stopped Xin Mo with a scythe you procured from your sleeve. You kept your smile even then, eyes wide with fury, ink dripping down your face as if you were melting.

"̵̧̛̻̦̲̮̱̻̰̱̰̰͊̊Ḭ̶̧̺̜̮͙̗̙͓̿́͊̓̏̑͐̔̍͒̉͂̈́Ṡ̶̞̣̹͓̻̣̝͚̾̎ ̵̨̨͚̤̗̓͗̐̌̉R̵̢̡̩̦̘̗̪͇̬̺̓͆̓́̀͜͠Ą̷̮͎͎͒Ğ̸̫͎̗̠͓̖͇Ę̵̧̺̹̣̫͚̹͔̞͋̂̈́̐̍̈́͐̋̚!̵̡̧̼̠͓̥͓̬̗͕̜̙̄̈́͋̈͑̒̉͆"̷̟͎͉́̒̚ ———————

Throughout the years, you’ve managed to avoid Cang Qiong and the other sects, even people that hurt you and Shen Jiu such as Wu Yanzi. (Although you killed him when you had the chance.) You taught A-Jiu everything you knew about being a cultivator, such as opening your spiritual sense and forming a golden core, and even stole some manuals that’ll help you.

You both lived out your days in a cave, which you redecorated to both of your liking. A-Jiu learned to sew robes for the two of you, the quality immaculate, as expected as the soon-to-be - now the former peak lord.

You taught him how to read and write, which garnered his suspicions. You told him the truth, how you knew the future, and how you retained your memories. At first, A-Jiu was in disbelief but soon believed you since you had knowledge that was above a slave.

You two lived happily…

Until people from the past came looking for Shen Jiu.

Ao3

[liyawritesss]

Hi! Hope you having a great day, do you still taking Arcane request. If so can you do a Ekko x GN reader where the two of them having really bad fight then the reader said they should take a break of this relationship and left the Firelight place. Didn't come back for a while. Both of them regret that decision but they too stubborn to said it.

It's been a week since that fight, the reader was a mechanic. They trying to fix something for a friend but ran out of things to fix, so the reader go out to find some supply. At that time the firelight was out fighting Silco's people, At first the reader choose to ignored but notice Ekko got injured from one of the guys that when the reader run out to help Ekko and the firelight beating those bad guys.

After a while helping Ekko get back to the try to make the wound better. The reader about to leave, returning to their work place. But Ekko pulling back, want to make up the fight before and didn't want their relationship to end like that. The reader apologize about that fight and they make up!

(You can make it a little drama like having a boy or girl got too comfy with Ekko or not your choice! Angst at the beginning then fluff in the end and sorry if my grammar bad, English isn't my first language)

ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ ɪᴛ, ᴅᴀʀʟɪɴɢ; ꜱʜᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ

Pairing: Arcane!Ekko x Black!Fem!Firelight!Reader

Type: Fic

Word Count: 5.0k

Synopsis: When a minor mistake leads a stakeout mission astray, Ekko’s choice of words has you wondering where his emotions for you lie. It becomes apparent that even after seven years, the toic of discussion is one that still cuts deep for the both of you.

Warnings: cursing, show-accurate violence, mentions of drugs and drug-use (shimmer), mentions of guns & explosions, mentions of injuries

A/N: havent written for my man in a hot minute so thank you for this request! Absolutely adore Ekko, and while I think this could be way better, i know if I mess with it it wont be as good as I want it to be lmao. Sooooo here it is, hope you enjoy! Song Inspiration: “Devil Doesn’t Bargain”, “Boy in the Bubble”, and “Let Me Down Slowly” by Alec Benjamin, “lovely” by Billie Eilish ft. Khalid, “Broken Clocks” by SZA, “like that” by Bea Miller

Tags: @writingintheshadowsforever @mbakuetshurisprincess @verachii @cafehyunji @lulu-network @babyboiboyega @badass-dora-milaje @vander-affectionate @evermorewest

Sign Up For My Taglist Here!

The air that surrounded the Firelight soldiers as the squad returned to the hideout could be described as something akin to tension.

It was heavy, weighing on the soldiers shoulders as the squad of five hung their battle wear and accessories in their respective cubbies for housing. No one dared to speak, for fear that the unbridled temper that was thinly veiled by their leader’s quiet demeanor would be unleashed if a word was spoken into the unanimously agreed upon silence.

It was thick, evident in the way the squad members pushed through the hot and sticky summer air to hang their belongings. The hesitance slowed their movements, careful not to cause any abrupt disturbances in the carefully crafted momentum that would guarantee the three other squad members precise escape from the gear room and into the open clearing of the sanctuary, where although the air was still blazing hot, it was better to breathe than the air inside, looming with hostility.

Three would find their escapes successful, returning to their individual rooms to release the stress that had settled in their muscles from the night's events. And although they had escaped the worst of it, something still lingered in their stomachs as the distance between them and the last two remaining squad members in the gear room grew.

It wasn’t just tension. It was apprehension.

White locs were dirtied with gunpowder and sweat, a thin layer of it also coating his dark cacao skin. A deep frown makes its way onto the leader’s face, frown lines prominent on his forehead, thick nose scrunched in vexation. He leaned against a nearby table, arms swollen and toned with muscle folded across his chest as he stared at the woman before him. He was trying to calm himself, formulate the words he would say in a way that wouldn’t be regrettable, but as the events of the night continued to replay in his mind, he found his efforts nugatory.

It wasn’t just tension; it was apprehension.

He watched the woman before him take her precious time in putting up her gear. She wasn’t ignorant to the tension in the room. She wasn’t ignorant, but she knew the cause of it. She knew the reason why she was taking her time in stripping off her coat, making sure it hung on the right hook by the right tag. She knew the reason behind taking extra care in extracting her mask from her face, placing the facial ornament flat onto the floor of the cubby. She knew the reason why she was taking extra care in removing her gloves instead of ripping them off like normal.

It wasn’t just tension.

It was apprehension.

“So,” the leader’s voice echoes out into the room, the first vocal sound to do so outside of the rustle of clothing against wood and clacking of the same material against the frame of the cubby made from metal. His voice  was deep, laced with madden, restrained, “wanna talk about what the fuck that was out there?”

“Nothing,” you responded, short and curt. You were biting your tongue, the both of you knew it. You were restraining yourself just as much as he was, “it was nothing-”

“Bullshit,” the white haired boy interjects, “you don’t do shit like that and call it ‘nothing’, (Y/N).”

He could see your jaw flexing, attempting to keep your mouth closed and your resolve intact as you stored away your last glove, closing the cubby door, all without looking at him. 

“I’m not doing this with you.” You firmly announce. Your pair of feet that had been stuck in the same position finally followed your will to move as you turned to the doorway, preparing to leave the room.

“You don’t have a choice, Captain!”

His voice is booming, thunderous like a God, and it commands you to halt your movements. The use of your title makes you grit your teeth, a tight breath slipping past your lips in a gamble for reclaiming your composure.

The leader pushes himself from his leaning position, standing firmly on his own two feet, hands coming together in a prayer motion in front of his face to stifle the agitation in his voice he was sure to let slip.

“We had a plan,” he says securely, though ironic in the current situation, “we had a plan to track movement. We had a plan to solely track that shipment; why the fuck did you divert from the plan?”

This wasn’t just tension; it was apprehension.

“The fuck do you want me to say, Ekko?” You seeth through gritted teeth, slowly but surely turning to face the boy behind you. “What the fuck is there to say?”

There’s an intensity in the air that comes from the severity of the situation at hand. Both of you restraining yourselves from enacting a yelling match, attempting to prevent the inevitable; trying to remain civil for each other’s sakes. Because if anyone knew how badly this could end, it would be the both of you.

“I fucked up,” you admit, though that was already evident in the heated silence that followed the squad home, “I made a fucking mistake. Is that what you want to hear?”

“No,” Ekko answers imply, “no, that’s not what I want to hear. Because that’s bullshit, too.”

“Excuse me?” You scoff, your expression mixed with shock and disbelief. “How are you gonna tell me about what I did? You think I don’t know what a fucking mistake is-”

“That wasn’t no fucking ‘mistake’, (Y/N)!” Ekko interjects again, and it’s the subtlety of which he does so that begins to spark an ember in your core with him. 

“We been in this game- we been together- for seven years, (Y/N),” the brown eyed boy continues, “seven fucking years. You think I don’t know your mistakes by now? You think I don’t know you?”

Of course he does, you think. Otherwise he wouldn’t be as angered as he is right now. 

“I know what it was,” he proclaims, pointing at you in an accusatory motion “it was your head.”

“My head?” You reiterate, said limb on your body tilting to the side, a growing annoyance evident in your voice. “What about my head, Ekko?”

“You really gon’ make me say it out loud?”

“Yes, cuz I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

It was a lie; you knew very well what he was referencing. You weren’t sure how it was so easy for such words to spill from your lips. Maybe it was because of the suddenness of this confrontation, despite knowing it was bound to happen. You’d played every plausible scenario of how this exact moment would play out, attempting to prepare yourself for Ekko’s questioning, and the inevitable argument that would take place. Maybe it was because you wanted him to hurry this charade along, despising his natural skill of dragging things on for far longer than what they needed to be.

“I have you as my sniper for a reason,” Ekko begins, “I have you as my second in command for a reason. Not because you’re the only person I’ve got left-” a fib of his own spills from his lips, but addressing it would not steer the conversation anywhere but in circles, “-not because you’re my fucking girlfriend, but because you proved that you could always hold a chill head. That you could take the orders given. That you could make the calls when I can't.”

“I’m sure you’ll get to a point eventually, Ek.” You scoff, refraining from rolling your eyes as he lectured you as if you were still children, holled up in an alleyway on the streets of the Undercity, hiding from enforcer soldiers.

“Whatever the fuck that was out there, was not a calm and chill head. So I need you to tell me,” Ekko steps closer, the sound of his combat boots echoing throughout the tattered walls of the gear room, “what did you see that knocked you off?”

“This is ridiculous, Ekko,” you profess, “what’re you gonna do if I don’t?” Take me off the tracking team? Demote me?”

Perhaps it wasn’t wise to say such daring words to the very leader of the rebellion you swore your life to. If there was anything about Ekko that was redeeming, it was his unyielding devotion to owning his title and standing on his word. And as he stands before you, an arms length away with chocolate brown irises blazing into yours with a fire so hot it could scorch your own fierce ones, there’s a gnawing at your stomach that tells you that he absolutely would. 

“You think I won’t?”

Silence filled the already tension-thick atmosphere, seeping into the folds and making it all the more unbearable. You weren’t sure how long the two of you stared at each other in a battle of will, a common practice the two of you engaged in whenever a disagreement arised. Without an audience, the glares in exchange lasted for what felt like minutes, hours. 

And Ekko wasn’t backing down.

“Are you serious?” You muttered through gritted teeth. “All this over a dumb mistake that will never happen again?”

“It was a mistake that could have costed us lives!” Ekko bellows once more, and if it weren't for it being the second time he had raised his voice, you may have flinched by the volume it had risen to. “We can’t afford to make mistakes, (Y/N) - especially with what we do - you know that more than anyone here!”

“And it wont happen again!” You declared, garnering agitation in your voice from having to repeat yourself more than you would like to. 

“And how can I know that, (Y/N)!?” Ekko shouts, challenging your words once more, and it more than suggests to you that he doesn’t believe them. He knows you’re not telling him everything, and it irks him to his core.

You turn once again with a mission to leave, even getting your feet to start moving, but that doesn’t stop Ekko from continuing to speak his mind. “What’s so hard about telling me what you saw!?”

“How many times do I have to tell you that it was nothing?”

“You can tell me a thousand times and I still won’t believe you-” the white haired boy rebutted, “because this isn’t you, (Y/N)!”

You weren’t sure for how long your back and forth ensued. Countless minutes of shouting back and forth, overlapping words, pleas to come clean, pleas to forget. This kind of situation wasn’t unfamiliar territory for the two of you. Ekko had a lot of weight on his shoulders, a lot of trauma he hadn’t yet faced, that he had pushed deep down to never be addressed. You understood, because you related. 

You both were there that night. You both witnessed the same act of monstrosity from the sworn enemy of your people’s leader. It was the very catalyst for the current occupation the both of you shared as leaders in a dwindling community, striving for peace and unadulterated existence while simultaneously fighting against the overwhelming clutch Silco’s grasp held on Zaun.

The woman you had become was because of that bastard's treachery and cruelty, who played a game that cost the lives of thousands. A woman of practicality, precision and calculated action. In this world there was very little room for emotion. Years ago, you wouldn’t gotten roughed up a little, but now, it got you a one-way ticket to the green, polluted waters of the desolate sewer system to be feasted on by the rats…and whatever other poor monstrosities that came from SIlco’s Shimmer.

Ekko knows this. Ekko knows all of it. Which is why he finds himself so frustrated that you won’t talk to him. It’s only in the midst of his grunting and growling that it clicks to him. A possibility as to why you acted out of such a practiced routine. Yet, he doesn’t know if he should rejoice about his revelation, or grow even more heated.

“You saw her.”

Three words that seemed to silence the world spilled from his lips in a breathy gasp. He knows he’s right when your lips come together in a tight line, and for the first time since the confrontation was initiated, your eyes divert from his.

You saw her.

“You saw her, didn’t you?” He asks, but is met with silence once again.

The topic of Jinx was always a sensitive one. Ekko may have been able to fool himself into detachment from the blue haired girl, shredding whatever hope he had left of recovering the old Powder who loved to go on runs with the two of you and made trinkets for your birthdays out of scrap metal and hard work. However, the same could not be said for you.

“(Y/N)-”

“So what if I did?” The rebuttal is sharp tongued and weighty, heavy with emotion, and Ekko knows what is inevitable to come.

“So what if I did see her, Ekko? What would you say?” You ask through gritted teeth, words strained as you feel the dam of emotions inside of you starting to overflow. “The same old shit you say all the time? That she’s gone and there’s no path of redemption for her? That she’s not worth saving?”

He’d never said such words aloud, but Ekko was guilty of thinking them, and to hear them verbalized tore open the same wound in his heart he’d patched up time and time again with each mention of the long lost friend.

“You may be able to let go, Ekko,” you grumble through gritted teeth, eyes watering over, and Ekko doesn’t know if its the sight of you crying or if it's the way the conversation has shifted that has him stilling, jaw clenched tightly, “but I can’t do that…I just can’t.”

And then, you left. And suddenly the unbearably thick summer air turned bitingly cold against Ekko’s skin as he watched you walk away. And as Ekko wipes down the length of his face, he knows there’s nothing much left for him to do but wait.

Wait until the air has become more bearable to breath. Wait until the tension has subsided. Wait until apprehension no longer clogs his stomach heavily, so that regrettable words would not be spoken.

“Hey, I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Going to the market?”

“Yeah. Your bike needs a rotator chain, I’m gonna see if I can find one on the west end.”

One week. Seven days. 168 hours since you’ve last seen Ekko.

“Be careful out there. Silco’s goons have been making rounds again, and they aren’t sparing anyone in these parts.”

You don’t remember leaving the sanctuary. You just remember waking up on your friends couch after, according to them, was a rough and stormy night. You probably blacked out after your screaming match with him, and had an overwhelming desire to just get away. Your friend’s place was the only spot safe enough for you to crash at until you got your head straight.

Though, after seeing what you saw, could you really expect to snap back in a mere few hours?

“I’ll be good. They won’t touch me if they know what’s good for them.”

You left the tiny home of your friend, clad in the same clothes you had left in and a jacket you were quick to grab from their wardrobe. They lived pretty high up above the marketplace - the homes of the residents of Zaun were built into the underside of the extravagant Piltover, where everything was dark, dank, and cold. Layers upon layers of makeshift apartments stacked on top of one another for conservation of what little space the undercity did have.

Your hand grabbed the pole of the crossbridge that led from the side your friend’s apartment was to the other, and with expert precision, you maneuvered your way down the several levels and layers of homes connected by bridges of wood, metal and concrete.

Memories of parkouring as a little girl began to flutter into your mind. How you loved to best Ekko, the self proclaimed ‘King of Parkour’, at his own game. How Powder would tag along with you because she wanted to be with her friends-

Fuck, you weren’t suppose to think about her.

You were thankful your feet met the ground before more thoughts of Powder filled your mind, because if you had still been swinging from pole to pole and jumping from wood to metal, you’d surely lose your balance and come falling down the rest of the way. It was the effect the past had one you; and an unfortunate one at that.

It’s as if the second you find landing and start to walk in the direction of the marketplace, your ears catch wind of commotion to your left. The muffled grunting and clamoring causes you to pause and turn, peering out of your hood to see what was happening.

You’d always been the one to answer a call to action, so there wasn’t much surprise when you found yourself inching closer to the alleyway of which was producing the concerning sounds. It had only been ingrained into you from your youth, and had become second nature in the wake of Silco’s reign. Having a knack for helping people was a blessing and a curse, and while it got you into more trouble than you would like, the favors that you’d stocked up on came in handy.

Approaching the alleyway closer you could make out two figures standing - Silco’s men, no doubt, given the way they dress and the horrible filth they speak. Then there’s a person on the ground, wearing green.

Green was the color of the Firelights, and so naturally, you assumed the worst.

With your ankle pressing against the small knife hidden in your boot, you knew what had to be done. You crouched down behind a stack of crates and whistled, catching one of the perp’s attention. As they approached your direction for inspection, in one quick motion, you slipped the knife from your boot, took hold of the perp’s arm and knocked him into the wall. The blade made itself a home in his neck, muffling any yell he would’ve mustered out.

By the time you were finished, the second perp had been taken care of as well by the victim they were cornering. Revealing yourself from behind the stack of crates, your worries had been confirmed when getting a closer look at the coat the other person was wearing.

It was indeed a Firelights coat - a deep forest green to blend in with the shadows but still be distinguishable. The Firelight had been injured it seemed, as they held their arm close and with care, wincing with every movement of it that was made.

“Hey,” you called out to them, advancing closer to them as you did so, “you alright? Where’s your partner? You know if you’re patrolling you gotta be in pairs-”

“(Y/N)!” The Firelight gasps out in relief, confusing you. “Lieutenant- you’ve gotta help us! We were outnumbered- a-and got split up, they jumped us!- from every corner, we didn’t see them coming-”

“Hey, hey, hey,” You quickly soothing, grounding the obviously frightened soldier with reassuring hands on their shoulder, guiding them to breathe, “you have to slow down for me, and breathe so you can clearly-”

“-a-and it’s Ekko- Ekko, he got hurt-”

And in that moment, your world slows, and there’s an instant pit in your stomach that comes from thinking the worst. If Ekko of all people got taken out of commission, whatever that was going on was serious.

“...okay,” you start after your shock passes over you. As if a switch in your brain is flipped, and now you’re in fight mode, “you need to take me to where you all split from. Now.”

Your voice is commanding and stern, leaving no room for discussion. The Firelight, still holding his arm, nods at your command. As the two of you leave, you pick up the weapon that the second perp had been carrying on his back; it wasn’t anything compared to your sniper gun, but it would have to do.

According to the Firelight, the mission was to stop one of Silco’s Shimmer transports to a hotspot location known for distribution of the drug. The normal prep for such a mission was done properly, but there was an underestimation of power in numbers on Silco’s end. What’s more, a certain blue haired girl decided to make her presence known as well, and her erraticness threw everyone off square. To save face, Ekko commanded everyone to split up.

Which meant Ekko was alone, and hurt, and probably wallowing in some form of guilt, and that could not do. A guilty Ekko was not a functional one.

“We were over there when the fight started,” said the Firelight as the two of you stood on top of a roof overlooking the distribution post, “when he made the call, I saw him go east in the direction of the Last Drop. The two other soldiers went west, and I ran south.”

Two large, burly men, littered with tattoos and hardened by the streets, guarded a small cart covered with blue metal barrels, a strip of thick translucent plastic going down the side, showing the bright magenta liquid inside. Four more paced around the small clearing area, seemingly on the lookout for someone.

Six men within a ten yard radius of each other. If you were right, that cart held about thirty gallons of Shimmer. Tests done on the drug proved that it was highly flammable, which normally meant that with your sniper gun, setting the scene ablaze would be easy. But with a mere regular shotgun in your possession, you’d need an extra boost.

“Look in your pouch for me,” you direct to the Firelight soldier, “do you got any of those spark pouches?”

The Firelight uses his good arm to fish in his thigh pouch, producing a small, red sack of gunpowder. “What’re you thinking, Lieutenant?”

“We need to take these guys out while destroying that shipment in the process,” you explain, pointing towards the triangular shape of trajectory between each of the guardsmen and the cart, “the spray of the Shimmer is about fifteen yards, which will cover more than enough of the ten yard radius those guys are in. I need you to throw that spark pouch right in between the two guards on my signal. When I shoot, it’s gonna be enough Shimmer spray to kill them…but we gotta move fast to avoid it.”

It wouldn’t have been the first time someone looked at you crazy for such a straightforward plan. You’d garnered many such stares since you first began in the Firelight ranks. There was a method to your madness, as Ekko would put it, and there had never been a reason for anyone to not trust your judgements or plans. Despite the Firelight’s initial questioning of the credibility of such a plan, there was no choice but for him to go along.

The two of you backed up as much as possible on the rooftop to make it easier for a clean getaway. Once in position, you pulled out the gun you had acquired earlier, checking the magazine for sufficient bullets. Then, you took aim at the center of the cart, inhaling a deep breath to steady your hand and focus your vision.

At one, the world began to slow when your aim focussed steadily.

At two, you prepared your wrist for the recoil that would shock your hand.

At three, the Firelight soldier threw the spark pouch with expert precision. Not a second later, the shot from your gun rung out.

The sight that Ekko wakes up to is a pleasant one compared to the week he’s had.

The sun is blinding through his makeshift sunroof. There’s a dull pain on his side, and a ringing in his ears that subsides the more his vision focuses. It’s a great contrast to what he thought he’d be seeing when he awoke, but he welcomes the feeling of home that washes over his being.

His eyes turn to his side where he sees you, sitting next to his bed. His jacket is thrown loosely over your shoulders, and in your hands, you twirl a piece of folded paper. His eyebrows furrow at the sight; he isn’t expecting you to be here with him.

Noticing that he’d woken up, you focus your attention on the injured man. The folded letter is placed on the crate that acts as a nightstand next to Ekko’s bed, and you lean forward onto the bed to get closer to him. His hair is disheveled, locs splayed everywhere on his pillow and on his face. His abdomen is bandaged tightly, yet even the white gauze leaves little to the imagination. And the sun shines on his cocoa colored skin, contrasting against your own as you slip his larger hand into your own.

You needed to feel him, and be thankful that he was here.

“Hey, you,” Ekko croaks out, voice raspy and patchy from what you can only assume was yelling and sleep.

“Hi,” you mutter out against the back of his hand, lips pulled into a tight smile.

“Thought you were still mad at me.”

“”m not mad,” you mumble, shaking your head, “just glad you're okay.”

The fact that you’re not being snarky with him tells Ekko that there’s something weighing on you; something that’s not remorse for your absence, but something deeper. His eyes travel over to the nightstand, falling onto the letter once again.

“What’s that?” He points out, curiosity filling his patchy voice.

There’s a moment’s pause before you speak again, your voice somber and emotional; “It’s….what I saw.”

What I saw can only be referring to the incident a week prior, Ekko determines. His eyes turn back to you, his hand giving yours a gentle tug towards him, gesturing for you to climb into bed with him. He meets little resistance, and takes a little pride in how easily you slip into his side, molding against his form as you were made to. His arm wraps around your shoulders, helping you hide in the crook of his neck; a much needed escape you’ve wanted to indulge in for a while.

“Deal with it later,” he mumbles against your hairline, “jus’ stay with me.”

Resting against Ekko’s broad chest, you thought on his words. Knowing yourself, dealing with things later wouldn’t be as productive as he’d hope. You’d want to forget the subject entirely, revert back to the same concealment as before. Knowing the both of you, it couldn't be dealt with later.

“It was her eyes, Ekko,” You mumbled into his shirt, prompting the darker male to turn his attention to you, “there was something in them, Ekko. I swear there was.”

Seeing Jinx on that night wasn’t what any of you had intended. She’d very scarcely shown her face on the streets of Zaun, presumably at SIlco’s behest. As mad of a kingpin he was, he himself couldn’t deny the deranged nature the blue haired girl had. And yet, when she showed signs of stability, he seemed to allow her off on transportation missions at the very least. And it just so happened that after six years, a week ago was the first time you’d seen Jinx since the night Vander died.

When you saw those blue eyes, dulled and lifeless, it hurt. Hurt to know that the possibility of Powder truly being gone was higher than what you’d let yourself believe. Hurt to know that you would never have your friend back, and that there would never be any chance of recovering the family you’d list all those years ago.

You’d seen her, and then, she saw you. And when she did, the world slowed. And for a second, when your eyes caught each other, a flash of something came across her eyes that caused your body to react against your well-trained judgment. It was as if she had recognized you and felt a sense of…wistfulness.

Though it didn’t reflect anything of the like when she raised her gun towards you, and you had no choice but to act before she could.

“There was a moment where I…thought she recognized me,” you muttered, “but then she….raised her gun to me.”

Ekko’s chest stuttered as he released a shaky breath to your words. There’s a pause before you speak again, “Is it easier for you to just…believe she’s really gone?”

A long moment of silence passes…”Yeah, it is.”

Ekko has always thought about Jinx. It’s hard not to when her presence can change any of his plans on a whim, since he has people to protect and her mentality is as finicky as a time bomb. But Powder…he hates to think about her.

“If she was gone from the start,” Ekko mutters through a voice crack, “it means there wasn’t a chance to save her in the first place. Means I never failed in saving her, I guess.”

Your hand reaches up to caress Ekko’s face, jaw clenched tight from his own words, and when you look into his eyes, you can see the vulnerability he tries so hard to hide when talking about the blue haired girl. There was beauty in it, you always told him, though you never thought he truly believed you when you said it. Ekko was never given much grace to be vulnerable, to be a boy. He’d found that in you; so you knew it took a lot for him to even admit as such to your question.

You don’t really get to be a kid after watching the people you love die in front of you. Even the ones who still walk the land with another soul in their bodies.

You press a kiss onto his lips; gentle, affirming, and grounding. Your thumb runs the length of his cheekbones and  you find comfort in the crevice of his neck once again. When Ekko relaxes against your hold, you release a breath of air, and think that perhaps it’s best that you adopt his way of thinking as well.

Powder was gone, but at least in this hell, you had each other.

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[afreakingdork]

Crush Too Much - Part 4

RotTMNT Donatello x GN!Reader

Warnings: Light Angst, Fluff, Embarrassment, Overbearing Siblings, Aged-up Turtles

Synopsis:  So you met a customer three times at work and that made a pretty big impression on you? That’s nothing to necessarily get worked up over, but when you’re all prepared to ask for his number the next time you see  him and his brother gets involved instead, you might be in for something  more than you bargained for.

FIRST 💜 PREVIOUS

“So….” Was the melodic tone of his voice when he was joking grating or was it just the fact that Leo had insufferably been avoiding said topic of your meeting with Donnie while heavily implying he was going to ask about it at any given moment. Either way, after the first 7 fake-outs, you were no longer holding your breath.

“Mhm?” The response was automatic at this point. Using his tiny plate as a useless middleman, you watched as 5 tiny sandwich triangles disappeared into Leo’s mouth.

“I sort of liked the huge piece that takes up a whole section over on the left.” He pointed towards the said piece and the two of your wound around the packed gallery to get closer to it.

“Is it because it’s blue?” It wasn’t that you weren’t enjoying the event or even his company, but you wished he would just rip the bandage off already.

He looked at your with genuine offense. “I will not be reduced to a  mere shade. I can’t believe you would think moi to be so one-note.” He placed a dramatic hand to his chest which absolutely did not help his point. When you’d first arrived at the venue, he gushed over the same brand new trademark blue crushed velvet dinner jacket he now happened to be emphasizing. One of his eyes popped open to find you unamused by the layers of nonsense he was spouting so he straightened up as if properly inspecting the art. “I was going to say I like how you can’t see the brush strokes from far away, but you can up close.”

For the first time that whole evening, he’d had an actual astute observation. The change of pace was like a breath of fresh air. This particular topic was also something you’d heard your friend mention. “I think it has something to do with relationship between color and form.” You turned to look up at the piece. The muddled shades of blue reminded you of the good parts of the evening thus far. It felt like the two of you had successfully conned your way into what was very much a public event. You'd both snatched away a good portion of the free food and no one seemed to think you were freeloaders because of Leo’s outrageous ability to fit in amongst the art crowd by just saying the most the most ridiculous things you had ever heard. Different factions of critics ate up his nonsense and you were only alerted to the deception because every time it worked out, Leo would shoot you an obnoxious wink.

“’Color and texture are ends in themselves.’”

That one sounded like a quote, but you weren’t sure. Maybe he wasn’t all mouth and had been picking up on the cacophony of conversations that drifted amongst the high ceilings. You took a sip of a sparkling cider that you had been nursing since eating a few too many deli meats. “So what kind of feeling do you get from it?” You tilted your head to one side wondering yourself. Blue was usually synonymous with sadness, but that didn’t seem right.

“Curiosity over what happened when you kept my darling brother out for several hours last week.”

You sputtered into another sip and tried not to let your choking fit disturb the other patrons. Leo patted you on the back and after you were able to force oxygen into your lungs once again, you looked up to find him gazing down at you with an self-satisfied grin spread wickedly across his face.  You wanted nothing more than to smack it right off. He'd dangled the bait in front of you all evening and you'd been able to resist. You were so mad at yourself there was little room to be mad at him. Further frustrated by your brain's lack of response, you did the next most petty thing and walked away. You dress shoes pinched your feet from their otherwise disuse.

“Aw, Y/N, come on!” He called after you and you stubbornly inserted yourself amongst a crowd of people surrounding a oozing statue of liberty sculpture. You could feel Leo catch-up, but your humility had yet to do the same. “Don’t be like that. You knew it was coming! It can be difficulty when you’re going up against a number 1 player like myself, but I’m sure by tomorrow you will deeply appreciate how hilarious that was.”

A warped reflection of the blue trickster shrugged in your glass. “But right now…?”

“You are mad, yes I got that.” The crowd dispersed to the next piece and Leo stepped up beside you.

“I thought you made the boundary lines pretty clear about Donnie the last time we talked.” You cradled the glass across your chest to telegraph that you were still closed off.

“Donnie, hm?” You weren’t looking at him, but you could just tell his eye brows were waggling.

You were just annoyed enough that you were able to mentally stomp out any flames of blush that the comment may have otherwise sparked. You had been able to strike up a few, albeit short, text conversation with Donnie since your bao meeting. The purple-themed man had even gone so far as to text you that same night about his family’s response to the food. Needless to say you lost more than a few hours of sleep just trying to get your heart to stop beating uncontrollably out of your chest.

Even though you were now only silent out of contemplation, Leo still took it as a cue to drop that particular part of the subject and return to the matter as a whole. “Fine, D is his own person! Yes, you got me! I said that, but that doesn’t mean I’m not super curious about the little impromptu date you went on!”

“It wasn’t-!”

He held up a hand to stop you. “Phrasing, don’t get to tied up in it.” He waved the hand off as if the stop signal he’d given was too serious. “I’m not saying he’s as pure as freshly fallen snow, but people don’t catch his fancy as much as things and nerd stuff do.” Leo shrugged his shoulders as if it was a silly uncontrollable fact of the universe. “So what if we don’t focus on him or the content, but maybe what you did?”

“I didn’t do anything…” You finally offered him a side glance out of how absurd the question was. He was acting like you had duped his brother somehow.

“Come on!” You hadn’t realized you were wearing Leo’s nerves thin until he actively starting to unravel. His knees buckled and his shoulders slumped down until his hands almost touched the floor. “You have to give me something. I thought you were just going to ask for his number!?”

His youthful dramatics were cute so far as it brought out the kid side of him that was far more manageable. “I asked him to go eat first is all.”

“Donnie isn’t really the one of us you can bait with food…” Still crumpled over, Leo narrowed his eyes at you.

“I don’t know what else to tell you.” It was your turn to mimic his earlier cosmically unhelpful shrug. “It’s the truth.”

Leo was uncharacteristically quiet for awhile. You lowered your drink barrier and turned to look at him. He was staring at some black and white photographs. His brow had the slightest crease in it. Just as you were about to ask, you saw his lips part instead.

“So crush, infatuation, or something else?” He was slow to turn to you for your response.

The significance of the question created a mental blowback so strong your whole frame shifted. He turned to stare and his gaze was so intense that you dropped yours to the floor. Your dress shoes shone back at you. You knocked them together at the toes ever so slightly.

“I’m still not sure.”

“Take you time…” You could hear a movement of Leo’s jacket as he presumably turned away from you. “But don’t take too long. Donnie is smart, but he’s also just as dumb as the rest of us in a lot of ways. Don’t even think about hurting him.”

“I would never!” Your gaze snapped up to meet Leo’s back. “Not intentionally… at least…”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

Your hands fisted at your sides, but Leo did his characteristic mental 180 and bounded back into his bubbly self as a carter came out with a new tray of canapés.

-

Stumbling out onto the street, the darkened sky disoriented you. Hadn’t the clock rolled over to morning. You took a few weary steps before leaning against a wrought iron fence. You used the brick they were built off of to sit your backpack down. It took some fishing, but you unearthed your phone from between your textbooks and notepads to find the time around 5am; just long enough from sunrise where the sky hadn’t reflected the oncoming dawn. Both yours and your phone’s batteries where lethally low. You sighed and packed your things back up, wrapping your coat tightly around you. Your late night cram session turned video game night had run so far over that you had no hope of getting back to your apartment for any sleep before you’d need to be on your way to your morning class. You made it several steps down the sidewalk as the loaming burden of today’s test seemed as dark as the ocean above. You needed to reorient.

The street was empty so you led a leisurely pace and closed your eyes to check your most pressing needs based on importance. The omnipresent sleep was out of the questions so you shoved that top notification to the side. In its place a new item appeared in the form of caffeine. Opening your eyes and seeing you’d made it a good way down the road without running into anything meant your luck was faring well. An energy drink this early was not something your stomach would tolerate so that meant sustenance was on the menu also. At this hour and on your current budget, you could hit a cheap coffee shop. Some of your facilities returned to you as a streetlight glowed overhead. It would also be a great place to charge your phone. Walking with more purpose now that you had a plan, the next hurdle appeared instantly: without your phone you couldn’t look up the closest or cheapest shop.

You paused, doing a minor heel turn to look up and down the street. This wasn’t an area you were really familiar with. The study group had been hosted by a classmate you’d only met this semester. After brains were thoroughly stuffed with knowledge, the video games had come out. The others, weaker to sleep, had filed out on by one until only you and the host were left. They’d ushered you out, bleary eyed, and were presumably already unconscious which meant so going back for directions was out of the question. Another breathy sigh and you resumed your trudging. You’d have to find somewhere the old fashioned way. You let instinct lead you, turning corners whenever you felt like it. On one particular street, there seemed to be a two or three people mingling down the block. You carved your path outward toward the street and saw there was some sort of break between building rows. It was the most promising lead you’d had so far. If nothing else, you could try to ask the people for directions.

Reaching the break you slowed as everything took on a dream-like quality. Lights were strung all around a plaza bathing it in a golden hue. Cute café table sets were tucked into one side and two open mini food trucks were operating out of the opposite end. The brick inlay of the space shifted outwards from a center point into a mesmerizing swirled pattern.  You stepped along a row watching the way your shoes followed the lines. It brought a smile to your face which was made all the brighter when you realized one of the trucks was serving coffees, teas, and pastries. You resisted the urge to run, but only succeeding in instead speed walking your way over.

There was a man hunched over with his back turned to you in the truck. It gave you time to nervously check their hand drawn chalkboard. You were pleasantly surprised to find the prices were reasonable the limited menu seemed tasty.

“Can I help you?”

You turned to him and started off your order with a warm drink. He commiserated on the ever approaching winter. When you ordered your pastry next he offered to warm it up and that could not have sounded any better. You thanked him and paid before remembering something else needed a pick-me-up also.

“This probably sounds ridiculous because we’re literally outside, but do you have a place where I could charge my phone?”

The man chuckled between grinding coffee beans. “You’d think we wouldn’t, but we actually have one outdoor outlet.” He wiped his hands on a cloth before pointing to the café tables. “Though it looks like someone’s using it so you’ll have to share.”

Following his finger and throwing a gratitude over your shoulder, you felt time slow. The only person in the seating area looked ethereal under the twinkling lights. His head was tipped down, but his purple hoodie was unmistakable. One of your hands moved up to your face and you pinched your cheek hard, wincing at the sharp sting. You couldn’t believe it was real. You crossed the bricked space and approached Donatello.

“Mind if I use the charger too?” It felt like an out of body experience.

“Knock yourself out, I’m only using one plug.”

He hadn’t noticed yet, that was somehow even better. You slowly set your bag on the table to fish out both your phone and charger. It took a little longer than it should have because your eyes were glued to him. He was hunched over and oddly enough, not on his phone for once. He was a bit too shaded to see, but it almost seemed like he his eyes were closed. Leaning over the table to where the socket was, you plugged your phone in.

“Wait… Y/N?” You wondered what had finally tipped him off.

“Hey, Donnie.” You smiled at him, straightening up.

“This is…” He straightened his posture and looked at you with a cocked neck. “How did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t.” You smiled, zipping your bag up.

“I need to work out the exact calculations, but I can assure you that the odds of us running into each other outside of our respective neighborhoods in a city with a population of a little over 9 million is extremely high. There must be some kind of outside interference.” He tugged on the edges of his hoodie to cover the exposed parts of his legs.

“Trust me, I thought I dreamed you for a second.” You shook your head and took your bag from off the table.

“Does that mean you dream of me often? Your psyche better be doing me justice.” His monotone delivery didn’t read flirt, but the contents of the sentence had you swooning.

“Hm, maybe someday you can read my dream journal.” You muttered, looking back to the coffee stand.

“Ah, so you also keep a log of your dreams? There’s no exact science to it yet, but I feel as though sometime in the near future we can learn a great deal about how long-term memory is utilized in the dreamscape.” He held out a hand of glory. “Someday the future generation will look back on the data of Donatello Hamato as the greatest scholar of his time. Also, I will definitely be remembered for the presumable number of Nobel prizes I’ve been awarded.” Creating an L-shape between his thumb and first finger, he brought it to his chin as he devilishly imagined his illustrious future.

You had meant the journal bit as a joke, but you adored that he took it seriously. It didn’t keep you from being sarcastic about the rest. “Speaking of dreams…”

“I consider myself a scientist foremost and a realist after that. I've simply stated a given!”

“Ah to be young!” You crooned, shouldering you bag like it was far too heavy.

“Another unknown, I might be older than you.” He pointed out both literally and figuratively. You both shared your respective birthdays and he cackled. “I’ve got you beat!”

“Fine, but only someone with youth on their side would be out dressed like that in this weather.” You pointed down to the green branching out from between purple coverage.

The look on his face soured instantly and you debated retracting your statement. Instead he clicked his tongue and gestured for you to take a seat. You took the one across from him and could feel some sort of story coming on. “So the lair lost power and I was given not a second of peace while I alone was tasked with the repair. Unable to take the constant barrage of 'when will it be done, Donnie?' and 'what happened to the backup generator, Donnie?' nonsense any longer, I told them I needed some air. I was just going to take a walk and start anew, preferably with some music to drown them out, but my precious phone was about to die.” He groaned and wiped a hand down his face. He then reached for a drink cup that had been otherwise left forgotten. The moment he lifted it a pathetic whine struggled it's way up his throat. In an act of pure frustration, he crushed the apparently empty cup in hand. “Great! Just great!!”

“Order up!”

You gripped the table, torn between getting your much needed drink and leaving an obviously distraught Donnie behind.

“Just-" He didn’t have the energy for further words and waved you off.

“I’ll be right back!” You pressed before heading over to pick up your breakfast. Your backpack thumped against your back as you gave a meager jog to the counter. You slowed on approach, passing the chalkboard sign which gave you an idea. “Uh, can I do a last minute addition?”

“Sure! What’ll it be?” The man anchored an arm to the counter, ready. You leaned in as if it were a secret and placed the order with a hushed tone. Thankfully the barista was game and leaned into the demonstration himself. When you were done, he glanced across the plaza and pointed at Donatello. “For him?”

“Yes.” You bobbed your head.

A laugh bubbled up in the man, but he seemed to remember the classified nature of the order and cleared his throat. “That’s perfect. I love it.” You paid and he gave you a beaming smile. “Wait right there and I’ll whip it right up.”

You did as you were told with only a few nervous glances back at Donnie. The man was in a purple heap and thankfully didn’t seem to be going anywhere. You were glad you’d forgotten to take your backpack off when you had sat down.

“Here we go!” Instead of the to-go cup that both your drink and Donnie’s previous had been in, the man handed you a tall glass with a matching stirring spoon. You gawked at it in amazement. “Hurry and get it over to him before it mixes. Oh, and I’m sure you will, but be careful with the glass. We’re not actually supposed to give those out to the customers, but I figured this was a special occasion.” He punctuated his sentence with a wink and you felt almost weepy at the kindness this man bestowed upon you.

Juggling your order and the delicate cup, you brought it back over to the table. Donnie’s head was down and folded into his arms. Ypu struggled with a tinge of guilt over the fact that you were grateful for it. Hoping the reveal would at least make up for it, you steeled yourself. “Donnie…” You urged, carefully setting the glass down in front of him.

“Hrm?” He grumbled from underneath his layers. “It’s best if you just leave me. I might as well try again tomorrow.”

“Then I have bad news for you about the time.” You couldn’t keep the airy tone out of your voice. His dramatizations were too much.

“Don’t tell me it’s sunrise already!?” He raised his head and froze. His eyes widened at the concoction in front of him. In the glass was a steaming, cascading mix of rich golden coffee and purple cream. “What…?”

“It’s an ube latte.” You smiled and carefully took a seat. Setting your bag aside, you palmed your cup to warm your hands and watched as Donnie uncurled out of his ball. He gave the drink a stir with stick and you took your first delicious sip of your caffeinated beverage.

“It is my color…” He remarked with a sense of fondness. You nodded and resisted the urge to scarf down your whole pastry. The mix of food, drink, and Donnie’s rising spirits warmed your body.

He grasped the glass and took a sip. “Hmmm.” He then acted as if he were a sommelier, twirling the liquid and sniffing it between small tastings. “It’s a bit sweet for my tastes, but the nuttiness pairs really well with the espresso.”

“As long as you don’t hate it, that’s a win for me!” You nodded, just finishing off the last flaky bite.

“It’s not your responsibility to cheer me up.” Cradling the cup in a similar way for warmth, he continued to sip the beverage.

“Is that what I did? I was just thinking purple goes with purple.” You gave him a catlike grin and took a long luxurious swig of your ever emptying drink.

“I would like to reinstate the line of questioning about this being a set-up.” He pointed at you and there was an air of playfulness to the otherwise staunch delivery that was not lost on you.

“Damn, I knew the barista wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut.” You snapped your finger in frustration and both of you chuckled.

Several moments of silence passed before Donnie gave a long winded sigh. “I believe I left off when I was about to lose my phone?” His brows hung heavy with effort.

“That’s right, but you don’t have to get into it if you don’t want to.”

He shook his head. “I like to finish what I start.” He leaned back in his chair and took the latte with him. “So I change course for the nearest cafe and catch a glimpse of orange which means I was definitely followed!”

In rapt attention it occurred to you that must mean his other siblings were also color coded. It seemed like it should be obvious seeing as how the only one you knew was too, but it somehow wasn’t.

“I catch up to Mikey and he says he was just worried about me, but he’s a terrible liar.” Donnie rolled his eyes. “His phone goes off and after a short grapple for the device, I find that the others are using him as a gauge to see when I had ‘calmed down’ and to give an ‘eta when the power would be back on.’” You were impressed that he was able to inject so much anger into air quotes. “Like that’s all I’m good for! They act like my emotions are just a hindrance when they pop up because I usually don’t have them!”    

Your eyes widened. That was a particularly loaded sentence. You wanted to interject to reassure him that it had never crossed your mind that he didn’t have emotions, but interrupting him didn’t seem right either.

“Cue a long winded chase where Raph and Leo came topside in pursuit and…” Donnie rolled a wrist in demonstration before flattening out for the finale. “Needless to say I lost them since it’s been… Oh.” He smacked the hand to his forehead. “I had asked about the time?”

Waking your phone up, your read off the number. “It’s almost 6am.”

“I lost them about two and a half hours ago, so I would rate it as a pretty successful escape.” He took a long swig of his drink, almost finishing it off. “Since I ran out, I didn’t have time to throw on pants as I would have if I had known I was going to be stuck out in the cold for so long.” The weight of the story lightened into his characteristic dry tone.

Finishing off your drink, you ruminated over the tale as Donnie continued to recuperate. The words ‘lair’ and ‘topside’ were jumping out to you as particularly strange. Were they a family of super villains? They didn’t seem like it, but it was such a strange word choice. You really wished you knew what they did for a living. As you came out of your thoughts, you watched Donnie chug the rest of his latte and give a long breathy exhale that seemed to blow out his concerns.

“I did not yet thank you for this.” He set the glass down with the stirrer tinkling from the movement. “Still too sweet overall, but I suppose one could say it was ‘just what I needed.’” He put on a different voice for the quote and you wondered who he was mimicking. “Though to be more accurate there were many factors that improved my current mood.” He paused, his lip pursed before eyeing you. “If you did track me, you picked a very good time to reveal your location. To reiterate: thank you.”

Oh how you wished you had any liquid left in your cup to justify hiding behind it. “Any time!” You were torn between upholding the gesture and playing your skipping heart beat off with a joke. “My sensors are specifically tuned for when Donnie is in distress.” Your mouth jumped ahead of both your brain and heart. You wanted to bang your head against the table.

Donnie, on the other hand, smiled softly. “That might be something I should consider adding to my repertoire.” He tapped his device and made a quick note with nimble fingers especially considering how many he had.

“Are you saying you track your brothers?” You wondered through a laugh. This meeting might have charged you up just as much as your breakfast had.

“Nooo…” He drew out the word and looked left to right with narrowed suspicion. "I definitely do no such thing."

That was not convincing in the slightest, but also seemed to absurd to be a real thing. It wouldn't keep you from teasing him for it though. “And you said Mikey…?” You really hoped you had gotten that name right. “Was the a bad liar?”  

“Yes, Mikey, but otherwise, I don’t care to know what you mean!” He retorted, folding his arms. Pale hues started to color the sky. You saw them as you craned back, enjoying the moment.

“I have a mid-term in just over an hour.” You told the single streaked cloud above.

“I’m sorry, what?!” Donnie banged the table with a sudden jolt and the glass cup tipped violently. Slow motion horror spread across your face as your brought uour gaze back down only to see the cup suddenly right itself before your eyes.

“Wh-“ You muttered in disbelief, raising a hand to feebly point at the action.

“No!” He ordered, pointing his own finger in a more accusatory manner. “We’ve been focused on me this whole time when I should have been questioning you! Why are you up so early? You look like you haven’t slept at all! You’re going to take a test in this state? Where’s your academic honor!? Did you even study?!”  

You stared back at him weakly. The ever growing light overhead was certainly not helping the bags under your eyes, but all you could think about was how much he must value education. That and he apparently had the reflexes of a ninja.

“If you aren’t going to answer me then get up. Up!” He flung his arms in time with the command, picking up his glass and standing himself.

You scrambled to follow suit while gathering your trash. “In my defense, I was up all night studying.” You would just leave out the gaming part out for the time being. It was something you could consider texting him as a fun teasing surprise after your class.

“An all-nighter?” He seemed utterly revolted as he strode over to the drink truck where a line was starting to form.

After watching him deposit the glass, you pouted and turned your head away as he approached. “I’m hearing a lot of lecture from the guy who is also awake… What did you say you were doing? Electrician work?”

His inhale was so sharp he almost whistled. “How dare you!? Tradespersons have honorable professions, but my arsenal includes so much more that comparing what I do to a single line of work is utterly disgraceful!” You walked out of the plaza together, but the indignity was too much for him. He rounded you and pressed a finger right to your forehead. “Apologize to me while I’ll still accept it!”

The best you could do was crinkle your overjoyed smile.

“And stop smiling! Why are you even smiling?!”

If only he knew how lucky you counted yourself.

💜 NEXT 💜

[adaptacy]

A Found Flame {Pt.8}

Pairing: Mentor!Gale Dekarios x Apprentice!GN!Reader

(Previous Chapter) – (Next Chapter) ➔ (AO3)

A/N: got to the astral boat scene... cried a lil. got to the mystra meeting... punched my monitor a lil. /j anyways i made a new divider thing cause the other one was a placeholder and uhmm dont judge it pls i am nawwwt an artist i just slapped together some bits n pieces

Word count: 1.2k

He couldn’t have been more than sixty miles from Daggerford when he first felt it. Hardly subtle was the sensation that bordered on the edge of painful – a stinging pain, like a papercut or a pinch – as the orb was disturbed. He pulled his brown mare to a halt, who offered only an irritated whinny, and his palm pressed to his chest. Even when it was buried beneath three layers of fabric, he could feel the buried beat, thumping against his ribs in some attempt to escape. He wasn’t sure if it was the cold or fear that rendered his throat so irrationally dry, and his eyes flicked to the saddlebag to his left, reminding himself that his dagger rested mere inches away, should he need to use it. 

Not that he felt it was truly an option he could make – not when they remained in Waterdeep, waiting for him. Not when his mother sent letter after letter requesting his presence, worrying about him spending all of his time in that damned tower. Not when he still had so much to do, to teach, hells – to learn.

But the weave didn’t care. Mortal worries, mortal fears, mortal disobedience. What the weave wanted from him, it would take, and no bargaining would score him any better. 

It beats again, but the reasoning is beyond him. He stumbles, awkwardly shifting off of his horse and staggering off of the road, the saddlebag now in his hand. The horse whinnies once more behind him, giving a stomp of disapproval, but it doesn’t yet flee. 

Another beat, and this one echoes in the very earth around him, the leaves of the woods – the Misty Forest, he concludes – trembling at the power that he holds? The ground shudders, and again, he stumbles, falling to his knees, dirtying the plush plum of his coat. One hand presses against the trunk of a tree, desperate for stability, and the other rustles through his bag, hissing as his fingers grace the silver blade of his dagger, staining it with fresh blood. Then they find the hilt, and the weapon is retracted. He meets its eyes – his own eyes – and he feels the judgment. The shame. 

What a mess he’s become. A terrible waste of talent. A miserable slum of what was once a wonderful wizard. How far he’s sunken, wallowing as a lowlife where he once had a seat at the very table of the Lord’s Helm. A short-lived seat, it was, but the stark difference of status is nauseating. 

He hasn’t said all that needs to be said. He hasn’t seen his mothers face in, what, years? Certainly not since this gods-forsaken blight has invaded his body. He hasn’t told her he loves her, not face-to-face, in perhaps even longer. He used to share tea with her every other week. He used to brag to her about his newest studies, read his journals to her as she praised her son as though he’d done something truly life-changing. He’d promised her – promised her that he would do something with them. That, one way or another, he’d change the world, for her, for his prodigious talent, for Mystra–

Gods, Mystra. 

They’d never understand. Perhaps nobody could – the mere idea of godhood isn’t something the average mortal fumbles with the concept of. To touch godhood, real godhood, to feel godhood’s embrace, to taste godhood, to love and argue and plead with godhood? 

No, nobody could understand. 

There was, once, a reason he wrecked his body to such unfathomable levels. A beautiful, divine, wonderfully perfect reason. A reason he’d hunted down the extent of her reaches, dared to tussle with some influence even larger than his goddess, a reason he threatened the very origin of the weave itself. 

There was a reason he’d gotten so far, and fallen even further. He liked to believe there was a reason he was chosen. A reason beyond his charm. A reason beyond her playfulness. How arrogant everyone else must have been – reminding him again, and again, and again, that he was not special. Not to her, not to them, hardly even to himself. How sweetly she spoke to him. How highly she praised him. How generous she’d been, to so fondly accept his kisses, his touch, his love, only to sever all ties the instant he strayed too far. 

His grip tightens on the dagger, and the earth trembles again – he wants to find a purpose. Beyond being the plaything everyone says he is. Beyond being just a muse in her long history of flings, of mortal manipulation, of abandoned chosen after abandoned chosen. His eyes close, and he tries to find a sense of belonging in his memories with her. Whether it be in her lectures, her fleeting warmth, her luring coos or her mystical prowess. 

He tries to find a sense of belonging seated at her side. So many years of his life, wasted to entertain her for a mere fraction of her trite immortality. In decades, he’ll be nothing more than a few lines in even fewer books, a word of warning to young wizards everywhere. He’s read them before, the names thus far belonging to men all but unfamiliar to him. Karsus, Dornar Silverhand, Khelben. Even Elminster shared such similar encounters, only ever brought up in quickly-fading exhales, shame stringing the sentences along, unwilling and cold. 

Youth lent him such forgiveness. Disregarding the tales were easy – this Mystra would be different. This Mystra would love him the way he loved her. 

But he’s no longer the doe-eyed seventeen year old he was when he granted her the benefit of the doubt. Instead, he’s nearly forty, and tired, and weary, and finding himself at the receiving end of a ridged, steel-forged blade, the orb pulsing, twisting, battling to overrule the beating of his heart.

And the woods shake again, and he feels the apical tip press into his skin, earning a hiss of discomfort from his bared teeth. 

He pressures the blade further, but the earth shakes again, and he’s thrown off his balance, the blade lodging instead in his shoulder, and he groans in overwhelming discomfort, his irritation for the misplacement only overshadowed by the pain searing through his nerves. 

The orb doesn’t erupt, but the sky certainly does, splitting to cast a large darkness over the forest – over the entire world, for all that he knows. He rolls onto his back, fighting to remove the blade from his shoulder, but his grasps are awkward and far too hesitant. A large, snaking mass of flesh-like anatomy swipes over the forest, knocking trees around him, and his chase for suicide is halted by an intense horror, completely unaware of what in the hells is happening above him. He coughs, choking on his pain, and another curse of biology crashes into the forest. 

He’s able to follow the form to its root, finding a terrifically unfamiliar hard-encased body of flight soaring the sky above him. At last, he rips the dagger from his shoulder, crying out at the tearing of muscle, and he instinctually tosses it aside. He hears the horse, at last, galloping to a safety he can only yearn for, and he’s not even granted a chance to see which direction it ran before the appendage of likely certified doom separates into smaller tendrils, the trees knocked aside once more until one grazes his torso, perhaps only by a mere stroke of luck, or the lack thereof, and he’s whisked into a pitch-black loss of consciousness.

[loupy-mongoose]

I don't know how you shade things so perfectly! I'm excellent at blending colors but I can't shade even if my life depended on it!😅🤣

How do you do it so good? Could you lend me some tips?

First off, thank you very much, but I refuse to accept my shading as "perfect". I'm proud of how far I've come, but it ain't perfect!

Tips... Hmmmm...

I have a pretty good understanding of the characters' and objects three-dimensional shape in my mind, so when I shade I subconsciously keep in mind how the light will affect them and where shadows will form.

Don't be afraid to look at books, references, tutorials, and Youtube videos! Take advantage of the vast library of resources at your fingertips!

I've spent a lot of my teen years watching speedpaints--Twarda8's Pokemon paintings on Youtube are old favorites of mine. Ironically their playlist called "Junk'n'Old" played a MASSIVE part in my artistic upbringing. One man's trash is another man's treasure~ I've also looked at many many mannnyyyy tutorials over the years, some of them multiple times, taking in how different shapes affect the shadow outcome. For example, sharp cut-offs will result in solid lines of shadow, while rounder shapes will have softer transitions from dark to light.

Take, for instance, my latest masterpiece; The eyebrows are meant to somewhat sharply overhang the eyelid, so they cause a sharper shadow cut-off.

While rounder parts of the body have smoother shading.

Mix and match them depending on the shapes present! (Hopefully that's coherent enough. X3)

A few extra things;

-Different light sources and surroundings can influence shadows as well. For example, the sun will create sharp, defined shadows, but clouds will soften the shadows considerably.

-When shading colored artworks, try to avoid using pure black to shade. If possible with your tools, use a darker color set to the Multiply or another darkening blend mode. Experiment! (I have another post about my painting process here if you're interested, although the canvas size in that may be incorrect now.)

-Find brushes you're comfortable with! I don't want to advocate that an artist can't be good without certain brushes, but I do think it's important to love the tools you use. But also don't feel like you have to stick with them for eternity--Every once in a while I get dissatisfied with my brushes and tweak them a bit, or dump them for others.

-For doodle shading like the above, I scribble in rough chunks where I want the shadow to be, then smudge and erase them as I see fit. All on a separate layer from the line-art, of course.

That may be more than you bargained for, but you can pick and choose what you want to take from this, if anything at all. I just felt like dumping. Happy shading! ^w^

[princessofmerchants]

Nesta and the Cauldron 💫 - a list of questions and puzzle pieces post-HOFAS

"... Wrapped in black eternity, Nesta and the Cauldron twined, burning through the darkness like a newborn star."

—from "Beginning," the prologue of A Court of Silver Flames

(HOFAS spoilers after the break)

I began rereading ACOSF post-HOFAS and boy was I shocked and delighted by what I found in the very first scene of the book, which is also one of my favorite scenes in all of SJM canon...

Here's a screenshot of the last part of the prologue to ACOSF, called "Beginning".

After reading HOFAS, and learning what we did from the Starborn Princess Silene, along with the events of that book as well as those in ACOSF and going all the way back to ACOMAF,

I have new questions!

What could it mean that Nesta and Elain, both humans, were submerged in the Cauldron in the same way the magical objects of the Fae like Gwydion, Truthteller, and the Dread Trove items were? Does the fact that they were alive themselves first, and human at that, make a difference? (We know from the Blood Rite magic that Nesta is not recognized as a Made magical object in the Rite because her magic is suppressed like everyone else's...)

Was the Cauldron in Hybern different (more corrupt, perhaps from Fionn's death and his potential link to the health of the world in which Prythian resides), than it was when it Made Gwydion, Truthteller, and the Trove items? Or was its corruption (wrongness) the same kind that originates from the Daglan poisoning it before Gwydion and the Trove were Made?

When Nesta stole a large portion of the Cauldron's "raw power," was there more to the power besides its connection to Death, that somehow ties in to either the Starborn power that originates and thrives in the island of the Prison, or perhaps instead to the ancient Fae power that predates the seasonal and solar elemental power affinities that evolved after the time of High King Fionn? Is it similar or different to the way the Starsword/Gwydion and its imbued Made power has an affinity for the Staborn line of Fae?

We know at the end of ACOSF and from HOFAS that the Mother prevents all of Nesta's stolen power from leaving her when she bargains with the Cauldron and the Mother to save Feyre - and here in the ACOSF prologue Nesta and the Cauldron together are described as a newborn star. In being Made by the Cauldron, then first stealing its power but later being gifted back with some of it by the Mother - is there a connection or affinity here also to the power of the land on which the Prison sits that was forged through this process?

Regarding Nesta's bargain tattoo, which was an eight pointed star, the symbol of the Starborn power and its people - is the Mother (Urd in Midgardian parlance) the source of bargain magic in Prythian? As Bryce asks to Nesta - Why was Nesta's bargain tattoo with Cassian an eight pointed star? And also, why do the Illyrians (who were created by the Daglan but led by their ancester Enalius in alliance with the Fae in defeating those same Daglan) have a sword technique and sequence that takes this shape too? And what do any of these details have to do with 1) Gwydion and its Making in the Cauldron, and/or 2) Nesta and HER Making in the Cauldron?

And don't think I've forgotten about Elain - the longtime question of What happened when she went in the Cauldron? remains but with the added layer of how her own experience in the Cauldron and its gifting of Seer powers may or may not be similar or different to not only how the ancient Fae Made objects were imbued with power but also how her sister Nesta was imbued with (that same?) power?

Put differently, is this newborn star imagery (experience?) of Nesta and the Cauldron unique to Nesta because of the amount (and kind) of raw power she took, or is it shared among all humans who have been immersed in the Cauldron (of which we know of three - Nesta, Elain, and Briallyn, though Briallyn is now Unmade - and Jurian we can assume was brought back using the Cauldron with his eye but from what we can tell he has come back human and not Fae, and so we can presume while he was brought back from a terrible half existence, he wasn't Made, at least we have no evidence he has been...)

I'm just really, really interested in the following puzzle pieces:

-Gwydion, Truthteller, and the Trove were Made in the Cauldron

-Nesta and Elain were also Made in the Cauldron, but when Nesta was made she stole raw power from the essence of the Cauldron itself, enough to disable it for a time

-This transfer of power from the Cauldron to Nesta reminds me of how Silene talks about the power of the ancient Fae of Prythian including the Starborn power, and the material way Theia's Star power gets divided into three parts that are reunited by Bryce but that had actual physical locations for thousands of years (pointing out as well that the Cauldron has also always had a physical, material location throughout history)

-The Mother gifted Nesta with some of the power she had stolen then offered back in a bargain to save Feyre - we see that gifted power in action in HOFAS to great effect

-Nesta's bargain tattoo with Cassian was the symbol of the Staborn people and their power and also the symbol of an Illyrian sword technique

-Bryce, Starborn Heir, thinks these things connect Nesta to Gwydion, which was Made by the Cauldron just like Nesta was and which can be wielded by those who possess the Starborn power in some capacity

-Nesta can move through the wards in the Prison in a way no one else in Prythian seems to be able to, and in a way Bryce (Starborn line descendent) could too

I'm not going to actually predict any concrete theories from all of this. But we also know SJM committed to the existence of a multi-verse when KoA was published, after which HOEAB was published, followed by ACOSF....lots of time to think through how she was going to describe Nesta stealing power from the Cauldron in this scene.

I think there's meaning in this ACOSF prologue we are only just beginning to understand, about what the consequences of this tangling between Nesta and the Cauldron will in fact be. 💫

(And, it's the year of our Lord 2024 and there are new things to write and think about Nesta and the Cauldron - what a time to be alive 💃)