#like aaangst

[purplecolouredglasses]

Alright. Posting this to motivate myself to at least finish this during April. There's a prompt that has gripped me and refuses to let go.

"Listen to me," Jack begins what might be the most important conversation of his life. "If you tell me to go, that you never want to see me again..."

Mac flinches back. "Jack-"

But Jack doubles down, tightening his grip and tilting Mac's head until he looks directly into Jack's eyes.

"I'm gonna make sure you reach a safe place and then you're never going to see this old face ever again."

Yeah, it's angsty. I promise a happy end but if you read "although the wind" and thought that one was dark, well, this one might actually be worse, sorry

Hey, all! This is a hype post. Cairo Week is on its way! This is a chance to share a snippet of your projects in a reblog, cheer each other on in the comments, commiserate in the tags. We are so excited to see what you've got cooking!!!

And remember, if life is getting in the way of deadlines or your muse is taking a vacation, the deadlines are really more of guidelines, anyway. We will always take late submissions.

Happy creating, y'all! 💛

[potatobugz]

dog teeth

[thunderpoolisawesome]

Hi, I finally fucking watched it.

Oh hi Neo.

Jeez, Ruby I think you need help.

Otherwise, MY BEES. LORD, BLESSED US WITH THE BEES. 😭😭😭💖💖

SHUT THE FUCK UP; LET ME CRY AND BAWL IN PEACE

[lexa-griffins]

How devasted would farm clexa be if a massive storm destroyed a part of their cottage.... the years they put into rebuilding this house gone, including the sun room Clarke worked so hard on and the chicken coop that Madi has painted with so much care

(No worries, their family and friends immediately put hands to work to rebuild it and despite not being able to help much, the kids are so excited to participate and they even help Clarke build the sun room back up again)

Brb gonna add this to the prompt list under angst :)

[circusinarun]

Mud dogs! Damn... I wanna spinoff abt them <33333

They're playing in "who will look at this bug longer, is getting the last can of food."

(Only Mickey and Leo are playing btw, because Danny ate all already. Plus, these two idiots tried to kill each other because Leo lost and didn't want to get off the game. So they asked Danny to be their referee.)

"I hope mum's ok..."

(Why? ↑↑↑ hehehe, aaangst in the next post :P)

Awh! Cmon! Don't tell me they're not besties!

And these two dumbasses are putting rings, little bagels and stolen things on his tail. heh, funny kids.

And sketch of Leonard!

(I tried to customize his design a bit, but in the end it looks like he's sick.)

[agreeeeeeeeeee]

The Tortured Fangirl Department - How Did it End?

| Gale Dekarios x fem!reader

summary: after weeks of fighting, Gale and y/n have broken up in the middle of the journey, leaving one another, and the party, bereft and reeling.

cw: aaangst, tragic break up, spiders, drinking, mentions of intimacy

an: I made myself sad with this one. Inspired by "How Did it End?" by Taylor Swift.

wc: 2.3k

Dawn broke over the horizon, painting the mist silver and cerulean, and y/n emerged from her tent alone.

Astarion glanced up from fire, towards the ephemeral horizon, then snapped his head back to y/n. Karlach’s bite of jerky fell from her slack jaw.

The last time y/n slept in her own tent…well, no one could remember the last time she slept in her own tent. From the moment she and Gale connected, they'd been inseparable. As entwined as blood and tissue.

“Morning, y/n,” Wyll said, much more couth than the other two waking members of the party.

“Morning,” she said, walking past them and towards the path that led to the lake, a bundle of clothing in her arms.

“You don't think…” Karlach said, nodding towards Gale’s still closed tent.

Astarion shrugged. “Their fighting was growing rather tiresome anyways. I'll be glad for the quiet.”

Wyll rolled his eyes. “We have no idea what happened. Don't presume.”

Ten minutes later, there was shuffling from Gale's tent and finally, the wizard emerged. He was pale-faced and sallow, his hair ruffed and tunic rumpled.

No one spoke as he approached the fire and dropped heavily onto a log. Wyll passed him a pewter mug of ale, and Gale swirled it around, but didn't drink.

“Well, you look like shit,” Astarion said, red eyes narrowed.

Gale didn't look up, didn't even appear to have heard the vampire at all.

Wyll shot Astarion a scathing glare. “Dekarios, what happened?” he asked.

Gale lifted the mug to his lips, taking a tentative sip of the lukewarm brew. His mouth was so dry, he could barely speak, his throat raw. The words nearly choked him, shards of a misery tearing apart his tongue.

“It ended,” he said finally, more breath than language, and a tear rolled down his cheek, soaking into his uncombed beard.

The three of them gasped.

“Over an idiotic fight?” Astarion scoffed.

A ripple of anger broke Gale's stoicism, and he leveled the vampire with a loathsome glare.

“Love is dead!” Karlach wailed, flopping back onto the dirt with her arms flung wide.

“How did it end?” Wyll asked, half concerned for the wellbeing Gale and y/n, half concerned for the future of the party. If this disrupted their dynamic…

“I can't pretend like I understand,” Gale said, resting his forehead on his fingers. “But that doesn't make it hurt less.” The pain was a live thing in his chest, a serpent constricting his heart, tangling his intestines, choking his lungs. No injury sustained in battle compared to the agony of losing her. He would take a thousand stab wounds, a million lashings, over this.

Why was his love never enough?

For most of the night prior, he wondered if it would kill him. The grief. When his eyes opened this morning to see her side of his bedroll empty, he wished it had.

He wished he'd never left the tower. The safety of his books and spells. That was where he belonged, not adventuring with a beautiful dryad, exploring the realm hand in hand, heart to heart.

Now, he was lost.

“I'm sorry, friend—” Rustling from the trees interrupted Wyll, and Gale lowered his head between his knees.

Y/n returned from the lake, her hair hanging in wet tangles down her back. Her damp skin shined in the early morning sunlight, and Gale felt his heart shatter all over again.

Her eyes lingered on him a fraction longer than they should, noting the disarray of his hair, his usually immaculate clothing wrinkled. Her splintered heart gave a painful lurch, the agony stealing her breath.

It took every ounce of resolve to walk past the party, walk past her lost love, and into her sparse tent. So many of her things were still in his. So much of her was tangled with him, and she wasn't sure if she'd ever extract it all. Gale would always have a piece of her.

Tears ran down Gale's face, dripping onto the ground below as he fought to control his breathing, to hide from her, from all of them the depth of his hurt. It was his own fault, after all.

If he had just let the stupid books burn…

But he couldn't, he wouldn't. It was antithetical to who he was, everything he believed in. So what if he risked his hide in the process? That was his risk to make.

Still, he knew how badly his decision hurt y/n. How angry she was that he would risk himself, risk abandoning her in this horrible, merciless world over some paper and ink. And he knew that if she put herself in the same amount of danger he had, it would rock him to his core. He'd never let her out of his sight again.

She said she could no longer trust him or his judgement. Couldn't trust her heart in his flippant hands. And broke his spirit clean in half.

Y/n slipped into her tent, wiping hard at the tears rolling down her cheeks. She wanted so badly to be angry with him, to blame him for the death of them. She wanted to scream, to roar, but their ending was little more than a death rattle.

It was just…over. Ended.

So why was her mind in shambles? A torrent of blame and guilt and fear? Gale had been her anchor, her harbor, and now she was left reeling.

Desperately, viscerally, she wanted him. So much so it hollowed her out inside, tears pouring until she floated like a ghost, bereft and empty.

Her tent flap lifted, and Karlach poked her head in. “Wyll wants us to move out in ten. Astarion is staying behind.” Which meant she and Gale would be going on a mission today. Together.

Y/n slumped back onto her bedroll. “Understood,” she said.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

For the two days journey, they barely spoke. It had been a grueling treck up the western mountains though blistering wind and snow.

Y/n had been forced to share a tent with Karlach both nights to ensure she didn't freeze to death.

Gale had also placed a warming spell on her blankets, rousing himself every hour to ensure it didn't lapse. But, y/n didn't need to know that.

She'd probably rather die of hypothermia than accept help from him at the moment, a thought that brought him momentary amusement, then a deep, gnawing sadness.

Countless nights like these had been spent curled up together in his bed roll, warmed to sweltering by the cantrip and searching hands, greedy mouths.

"Gale," she'd gasp, hushed and honeyed as he lapped beads of sweat from the valley of her throat, the plane of her sternum. Her thigh slung over his hip, the hearth of her pressed against him, beckoning him closer as they rocked together, one fluid tide of movement.

The soft heat of her was everything he'd ever dreamed of, everything he'd never dare hope for. He wanted to sink into her depths, into her skin, into her bones. Bury himself like this forsaken worm into the chambers of her heart, the most sacred tomb.

An ache radiated through his entire body, rendering him unable to speak, unable to stand up straight, to eat, for the rest of their journey.

He'd never felt so weak in his life.

When they reached the summit of the mountain, a den of Giant Spiders separated them from the treasure they saught: a long-buried tomb of an ancient wizard, inside one which was allegedly a powerful relic of healing. One they hoped may rid them of their squirming ailment.

The battle with spiders was never-ending, wave after wave of arachnids descending from the web-covered stalagmites. More then once Gale’s carelessness nearly got him poisoned, or worse, flung from the side of the mountain. Y/n, per usual, fought valiantly and with unshakeable focus, a lethal fighting force unto herself. A quality he deeply admired and envied in equal measure.

Lost in his heartache as he watched her fell one of the largest of the pack, a lesser spider managed to knock him off balance, sending his staff skittering across the stone. The beast loomed over him, venom dripping with an acrid hiss onto the stone by his head.

For a horrible, exhilarating moment, he thought it might kill him. End his suffering once and for all. But then a vicious snap echoed across the cavern. A tendril of magic wrapped around the spiders forelimb more inches from his nose, then wrenched it away from him. Y/n and her thorn whip never missed. Another lash, and Y/n bound it's other legs, giving Wyll an opening to deal the death blow.

He held her stare for half a dozen heartbeats, trying to convey the torment of his soul, his gratitude, his anguish. Why didn't you let it kill me?

Y/n’s expression wavered, offering him the briefest glimpse of her heart, and cleaved through his chest like she'd lashed him.

He had done that, had wounded her so mortally. And still, she saved him.

How could ever make this up to her? He didn't deserve forgiveness, but did that mean he shouldn't try?

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Halfway back to camp, during his watch, Gale noticed y/n’s breathing shift over the roar of Karlach's snores. She woke with a start, a cry at the edge of her lips as she often did at the start of their relationship.

Nightmares had always plagued her, but with Gale, they had retreated almost entirely. He'd bundle her in his arms, her ear pressed against the mark of the netherese orb, and he'd start recounting whatever he'd read that day in excruciating, mind-numbing detail, or hum whatever song was top of mind. The words mattered not, just the coordinate drone of his voice was often enough to lull her into a dreamless slumber.

Goaded by the memories, Gale began to hum, a low, throaty song of unknown origin, one he'd picked up somewhere over the last decades.

Y/n slid back under her bedroll, trembling slightly, and tried to focus on the timbre of Gale's voice, let it wash away the gruesome images in her mind. Gale's face half melted from venom. Her parents home engulfed in flame, their bodies charred and husk-like. Curled up like children.

He began to hum another song, a lilting ballad they'd danced to this past Midsummer Festival. She'd been wearing an impractical, gauzy thing, dyed the most gorgeous lavender shade. A color she'd picked just for him. He was rendered speechless when she stepped into the summer sun, and instead offered a devotional of open-mouthed kisses along every stitch of bare skin, blazing a sinful path that she felt the rest of the evening, and for days after.

He had held her so gently while they danced, his forearm bracketed between her shoulder blades, claiming but not commanding. The air smelled of saltwater and citrus, a drowsy heat dulling their worries of tomorrow.

When the song ended, Gale dropped a kiss along her exposed shoulder, up her neck, until his lips found hers, delicate as spun sugar and just as sweet.

The memory warmed her, settled into her bones and sinnew. She nearly caved. Nearly crawled across the rough, frozen ground to him just so he'd make a fuss over her, use his magic, his body, to warm her back up.

But she resisted, covered her ears against the torture of his melody, and did not move until morning.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

“How long has it been?” Gale asked Wyll, clapping the tome in his lap shut.

Wyll rolled his eyes. “Twenty more minutes than the last time you asked me.”

Karlach, Astarion, and y/n had gone into town together for dinner and a few celebratory drinks. Normally, Gale would have insisted he accompany them, but he couldn't stomach hours of his drunken party members vying for his vacant spot at her side.

He knew y/n had no interest in the others beyond companionship, but Gale was jealous by nature, and was unwilling to subject himself to further torment.

Voices floated through the trees, drunken and obnoxiously loud, and Karlach and y/n stumbled into camp.

Karlach had y/n by the waist, keeping her upright. And from wandering off and into trouble, from Gale's experience. Astarion was right behind them, blood on his chin and tunic, his hair a wild halo of white.

“Have fun?” Wyll asked, his tone sharper than his expression let on.

“Hyuk—yes!” Y/n shouted, tripping over her boots and nearly collapsing.

Gale gave Karlach a warning glare, and the tiefling scoffed.

“You take care of her then, Mr. Perfect Wizard!” Karlach shoved y/n into his arms, almost knocking them both over with her strength.

“Look! All better!” Astarion cooed, petting Gale’s hair as he sauntered by. “The misery was worse then the fighting. Honestly, how long until you kiss and make up?”

Wyll grabbed the vampire by the hair and shoved him into his tent, but Gale paid them no mind, too busy staring down at the giggling bundle of darling in his arms once more.

“Hi, Gale,” y/n whispered, her eyes wide and watery.

“Hello, sweetling,” he hummed, adjusting her so her head rested more comfortably on his shoulder. It was the first words they'd exchanged in weeks, and they left Gale reeling with hope.

Stupid, feckless, traitorous hope.

She traced a finger over his nose, through his overgrown beard, and across his jaw, the muscle feathering with tension. He grasped her smaller hand gently, brushing a kiss over her inner wrist before placing it back into her lap. A tiny indulgence, a moment of weakness.

“Gale,” she breathed, fisting his violet coat.

They couldn't do this. Not while she was drunk, not while the party stood idly by and watched. Not when he knew she'd regret it as soon as inhibition returned.

He couldn't add another regret to the ledger.

“C’mon, love. Let's get you to bed.” He rose with her cradled in his arms, a gesture that once felt like birthright, but somehow became foreign.

She didn't protest, instead buried her face into the warm crook of his neck, breathing in his scent of parchment and candlesmoke. Her lips moved of their own accord, pressing against the drum of his pulse, and a shiver rolled down his spine.

He set y/n down on her bedroll, carefully removing her boots and weapons before tucking her into it. He thought she'd drifted off, her eyes closed and breathing even, limbs heavy against the ground, but when he turned to leave she caught his wrist.

“How did it end?” she asked.

“This isn't the end,” he murmured, brushing and errant lock from her cheek. “We simply learned the right steps to different dances.”

Her brow furrowed, her head shaking side to side. "I'm a terrible dancer"

For the first time in weeks, Gale felt himself smile. He leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss to her forehead, then another on the corner of her mouth.

“Then, we'll learn again, my love. As many times as it takes.”

Fin. 💜

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Thank you so much for reading!

If you're interested in exploring my published work, you can find my debut novel here.

Much love,

Allie

[pisscreant]

god and Kim might be in the hospital planning to contact that funny, endearing friend he made in martinaise. maybe he planned to give him a call, and install those helium headlights like Harry'd suggested...

...only to find out that Harry was since abandoned by the very institution Kim dedicated his life to. he's gone. Harry's been murdered in the most callous and detached way and there's no bringing his killer to justice.

can't get over the bad ending and how awful and unfair it is for Harry to do all that to try and change and rediscover the world only to die alone, miserable and rejected. aaaaaaa

[thedoctorsthings]

Power to the king | Min Yoongi pt. 1

Fantasy/historical au, viking au (attempted lmao), Yoongi x female reader

aaangst, female melancholia, sexism, Yoongi is an asshole (he gets better i promise), loss of girlhood :(

cw: writer trying to be funny and failing, typos probably

This chapter is just the intro, just to introduce you to the characters and to explain the motivation behind the main characters further behaviour.

word count: as always i have no idea

The air is thick in the reception room you’re standing in. Your father is looking at you with stern eyes. His face is rock hard as always and so is your mother’s. they had called you in here to talk to you and now you were awkwardly sitting in a chair while your parents tower over you. Everything involving your parents was always awkward. Their mere presence made temperatures drop five degrees, which was a spectacular skill to have in the icecold climate you already lived in. You think you know what this is about. You’re getting married off. Nineteen years under your parents’ roof is enough. You had been waiting for it with a rock in your stomach since your eighteenth birthday because they had married your older sister when she was that age. This was two years ago, and she was supposed to marry the crown prince of the kingdom but then your father and the king fell out over something you don’t bother to understand. Your sister married some other rich man of noble blood and moved away to a town in the middle of nowhere. You had barely seen her since. Your father had been the king’s right-hand man for years until two years ago. Now they were on less good terms, but your father was still an important adviser to the king. The prince had remained unmarried.

“you’re getting married Y/N”. Even though you had seen this coming from miles away the statement still stole the air from your lungs for a second. There was no arguing with your father, this had been taught to you a long time ago. Even if your father had been kinder there would have been no escaping this. A life without marriage was out of the question for a woman of your status. Besides you’d have to be pretty unlucky to end up with a husband who created an even colder environment than your parents. You had observed your mother for years and learned that the best way for a woman to find happiness was to just make the best of it. Quietly undergo the whole ordeal and if you’re subtle enough you can do whatever you want out of the public eye. If you play your husband just right, you could get him to do anything and more importantly get him to let you do what you want. If that wasn’t the case, there were enough tricks to keep him in the dark about whatever you said and did with your friends. “To whom?”, you asked and it felt like those words got stuck in your throat not allowing any air to pass. Who was to decide what the rest of your life would look like? If you were lucky, they’d marry you off to Jung Hoseok, he was the son of another noble adviser and he had been your friend for years. Although you wouldn’t be in love at least you knew you would be safe, which is more than most women could say. “Crown prince Min Yoongi”, your father replied curtly. You almost felt the need to straighten your back at the mention of the prince. He had a reputation for being cold and unkind but at least you had never heard anything about a tendency for violence. “How is that possible? I thought your relations with the king were strained”. “The last harvest in this province wasn’t good, the people are struggling and can barely pay what they owe us, as governor I have to make sure our people survive and the king could help us, this marriage could be what we need to restore the relationship with the king”. This was typical for your family; everything was explained simply without drama or euphemisms. Not a single acknowledgment of what the impact of this marriage might have on you. They don’t care and you know you don’t have the right to care either. “The king has apparently been fearing a revolt from my side, so he agreed. You can go now”. That was it. This coldness towards you was all you had ever known but you never managed to shake the frog that appeared in your throat every time.

“I found a wife for you”. “You mean the maid that just served us dinner?” “This is no time for jokes Jungkook, your brother should have been married two years ago but because of her father’s stubbornness it took me two more years to find yoongi a bride”. “I guess you’ll be marrying the maid then Jungkook”, Yoongi says without as much as a smirk. “Nobody will be marrying any maids any time soon; this is serious”, the king barks. Yoongi finally looks at his father: “Who is she?” “The daughter of governor Leifsdottir”, “Are ya not quarreling anymore then?” “Stop speaking in that stupid accent Jungkook!”, the king barked again. That seemed to be the only thing he was truly good at. “You sound like an old farmer”, yoongi said and this time with a hint of a smile. “Mother thinks it’s funny”, Jungkook dramatically pouts. “The queen is not in her right mind, quit your fooling around!” dogs could learn something from our dear king. “The governor of Varberg and I have put aside our differences. Besides, we both could benefit from this union. It will keep him calm and in exchange I will help financially, his people are suffering”. “May I at least know her name before you throw me into this joyous union?” “Leifsdottir Y/N” “When are we to marry?” “In two weeks”. Yoongi simply nodded and got up. No point in arguing this, he knew that. Besides, he didn’t care who he would marry, he didn’t care about much anymore, living with a father that sucks the life out of a person. The king did it to Yoongi’s mother and he could feel he was doing it to him too.

On the day of the occasion, you wake up feeling rotten inside. The last two weeks you had spent filled with dread. You never asked to be queen, it involved being liked and that was not your forte. It was so much responsibility that had just been dropped on your shoulders. On top of that you weren’t ready to give up the relative freedom you enjoyed. After this day it would be marital duties and nothing else for you, and as future queen you wouldn’t even have a household to run to keep you occupied. You had met Yoongi once, when he was set to marry your sister. He had visited you at home and you had talked to him briefly while your sister was getting ready. Since you had already had the opportunity to talk once your parents hadn’t found it necessary to make you meet a second time, convenient as always. Now you’re sitting on a bed in a room in the palace they appointed to you. You feel like you’re choking, all last night was spent crying and panicking. When you hear a knock on the door you straighten your back, over your dead body were you going to let anyone know how you’re feeling right now. If you were going to be made queen you’d do it well, you weren’t going to spend your first day as queen to be, crying. You’re not a coward.  “Good morning, madam, it’s time to get you ready”. They wash and dress you and your face doesn’t move a muscle. You don’t struggle, there’s no point.

Yoongi casts a look into the mirror as he gets into his formal attire, “Come in”, he says after hearing a knock on his door. “Ready to give the people what they want?”, Jungkook says as he saunters into the room. “Why do there need to be so many people?”, Yoongi exclaims as Jungkook flings himself onto his bed. “You’re the crown prince brother dearest, everyone wants to know who their future queen will be. They need to see if she’s pretty so they can know if they like her”. “Really, they don’t want to know if she has any interesting takes on how to run the kingdom?”, Yoongi asks sarcastically. “If yer gonna be king yer gonna have to get a better perspective of ye people”. “Jungkook stop impersonating your professor, it’s so bad nobody even gets who you’re trying to imitate”. “If this is any indicator of how you’re going to treat your wife maybe I should take her of your hands”, Jungkook laughs but is brutally interrupted by a pillow in his face. “All right mister grump, they sent me in here to tell you it’s time to get you married”.

According to custom you walk from the palace to the church in procession, and since Yoongi is the crown prince everyone is there to watch the procession. You walk beside your soon-to-be husband, when the procession started, you had tried to seek eye contact, but he didn’t attempt once to look you in the face. You might as well not have been there and so you didn’t try to make contact again. You feel naked in your wedding attire. You’re dressed to the nines but every eye in the city is on you, and you can feel it in your chest. Finally, after what seems like ages you arrive at the cathedral’s doors. The high priest is waiting for you with an unsettling smile on his face. He spreads his arms and welcomes you. You and Yoongi stand face to face while the priest starts rattling off what he has to say. You don’t hear any of it, you don’t make eye contact, instead choosing to look at the crown prince’s chest. He might be looking at your face but you wouldn’t know because you refuse to look at him and suffer the same rejection as before. Your father hands you a sword, the sword with your family crest. Yoongi is handed his family’s sword and when the priest gives the sign you exchange swords. In the process, your hands touch for a split second. His hands are warm which is surprising with the freezing cold blowing around you. After that there’s an oath which you mindlessly repeat, Yoongi does the same. The priest stops talking and before you know it the ceremony is over. You’re driven to the palace for a festive dinner and when you walk into the rowdy dining hall you finally wake up. The entire wedding had gone by in a haze, you had barely had a thought since this morning. It was like your brain had shut down in fear of the realisations you would have if you were conscious. When you sat in your chair next to Yoongi’s at a table looking out over the entire hall, the thoughts came flooding in. This was your life now, the quiet well-behaved wife of the king. No more walks on your own, from now on you would be shadowed by guards every step you took outside the palace. No more playing with the animals your family owned, no more cooking or baking to calm your nerves. It wasn’t fitting for the queen to be in the kitchen. You always loved to go to the forest and just run or find herbs to use in the kitchen. That too would be over now. You were no longer a girl, you were a wife, you were a woman. The little freedom that girls have women have to say goodbye to. From now on you got to enjoy in the endless performance that is every woman’s life. You feel tears well up in your eyes. You clench your fists, no way would you let them see your weakness so soon, but it was too late. The tears were falling down your cheeks now and everybody could see. You feel Yoongi turn to you on your right. “Get yourself together”, he sneer whispers.

Now is the moment you’ve been most nervous for. Men think that women don’t exactly know what happens on a wedding night until it happens to them, but they don’t know just how well women have managed to pass on information without them knowing. Behind closed doors and in hushed voices, most young girls are told everything they need to know. You know what’s coming and as rational as you are you know that Yoongi will not give you any love or warmth. You know he will come into your room, barely undress himself and only touch you when it’s absolutely needed. Still, you find yourself hoping that he will be kinder, that under his ice-cold exterior hides a man full of love. That this man would only reveal himself to you and that you would not need to be so alone for the rest of your life. The moment Yoongi enters the room and closes the door you know it’s idle hope. He doesn’t even look at you. “I will not touch you if you don’t want me to, nobody’s going to check”, it’s a kindness you’d never expected. People always acted like it was absolutely necessary to consummate the marriage the first night. You’d never known that the crown prince would go against tradition that easily. Besides, wasn’t producing an heir your only purpose here? “What am I here for then? I thought I was meant to give you an heir. “We have time, the rest of our lives even, besides I couldn’t touch you anyways”. Ah there was the real reason, you weren’t desirable enough, of course. “Well then I will just get to bed”, you said. At that Yoongi walked back to the door. With his hand already on the door handle he said: “don’t cry like that in public again, I don’t need all my subjects seeing that my wife hates me. It’s not good for my reputation. If you can’t control your emotions excuse yourself and deal with them somewhere private”. With that he slammed the door behind him. You were left in complete silence, sitting on the bed. How dare he. As if he wasn’t the one who dragged you from your home to marry him against your will. This is the moment you made a decision. You would never show any emotion in front of your husband. If he wanted stone cold, he could get stone cold. He didn’t deserve to see the vulnerable side of you and so he never would.

@lifeless-firefly @emerald-notes

[d34dlysinner]

Angst time 😀🔫

How would the King reactions be if MC died on the battlefield.They won the war but they lost the one thing that meant dear to them?

(MORE AAANGST!!! T^T)

Tw: mentions of suicide.

Satan:

He held your lifeless body close to him as everything around him started to settle. He knows that he should feel proud about winning. He should feel haply that it's done, but did he really win when he lost you? He should have done better, he should have protected you better. His mind was a mess and it was conveyed through his moods. Demons were already used to his mood swings, but they only got worse the moment you died on the battlefield. If Satan could he would have started a war again, but he knew that he would lose more and make the situation worse. Sitri even talked him out of it multiple times.

He at times also wished that he could join you or revive you, but something like that also wasn't simple. His nobles, in the meantime try everything they could to either get you back or to calm Satan down. He is known for being a violent, angry yet kind king. Now everyone knows him for being constantly violent and emotionless. His kindness and controlled self faded each time with his mood swings. And each time his mood swings became worse because of your unfair and sudden absence.

Mammon:

He couldn't understand how you died on the battlefield when all of them tried their best to block you from the attacks. Somehow you still were killed at the end. He couldn't shed a tear at the situation as his anger overpowered his sadness. He scolded and even accused some others for not protecting you well enough.

Eventually when he calmed down he decided to put your resting place on the spot you died. It was the last place he saw you alive and he wants to keep the memory that you existed.

His nobles tried to cheer him up, but the benevolent king couldn't feel happy knowing that he somehow still lost. He started getting more greedy with his possessions, especially ones he gave to you. Whatever he gave to you should stay yours. He didn't want anyone to taint or steal it. Thus he let's only trusted demons guard your grave and only a select few visit your grave stone. He didn't care if anyone else wanted to see you because "they loved you" he only wants demons there he could trust well enough to respect the state of your grave. He will punish anyone that disrespected you.

Beelzebub:

He blames himself. He should've stuck to you as glue. He knew that you were human and thus not as tough as the demons or angels and he still left to do other things and defend others. He thought someone else would protect you well enough.

He decided to have a special day in Avisos to remember you by. He would feast that day and thank you for what you have contributed in his life. At times even wishing for your revival or some sort of reincarnation to happen, but he knows that a reincarnation wouldn't be the same as having you back again.

He could never forget what he said that day and even fears forgetting you after centuries.

Leviathan:

He watched your pale form and his bloodied hands trying to keep you alive as they pressed over the wound. He knew that you were gone, but refused to acknowledge this. He was angered. He wished that he never met you if he knew that this was going to be your fate. He wished that he could've protected you better and kept you alive. He wished that he could've killed or even tortured the angels that did this to you before they could've touched an hair of your form.

He gave you a proper burial. He seemed emotionless at times and very introverted to others. This only intensified when you died. His trusted demons knew what he was thinking as he even tried to join you at times. He knew that he should be happy about the war being done, but he couldn't handle losing you. He was jealous that you left him alone in his kingdom. He wished he could've followed you. He even started to think about his role as king. Since the war was done he shouldn't be needed anymore, is what he would think each time. He tried finding excuses to be with you again. The demons in Hades stop him each time. They love their king too much for this too happen. And they all would try and find ways to get you back.

[crazycatfaery]

H҉e҉l҉l҉o҉,҉ ҉t҉h҉i҉s҉ ҉i҉s҉ ҉n҉o҉t҉ ҉h҉i҉l҉l҉i҉e҉! Your HEX anon, back yet again to haunt your inbox! 🧚 I am in love with your answers, because I get to listen to new and inspiring things but also because I laughed so hard I cried at those instrument choices. 🤣 While it isn’t at all related to HEX, there is a song I will need to share with you… but later, when the cats are all out of their bags! 🐈🐈🐈 First things first: more questions! (What do any of these have to do with your gift? An excellent question! But I only ask, I do not answer… 😈 or do I?) 1 - Any thoughts on what Sam, Terra, and Sky refer to the adults as? Ben is obviously Dad to his kids and Saul is absolutely not Dad to Sky, but do you have any preferences, hard dislikes, whatever? Anything that changes from when they’re kids to teenagers in and after canon? 2 - Rose gets a chance to send one message through time to any character. ✉️ Who is it and what is the message? 3 - Please rank the five adult idiots we’re looking at by how emotional they are… and by how emotive they are in case that’s different. Because we agree that they’re all idiots, right? Of course right. 4 - If you had to pick one color to represent the holidays to you, what would it be? (Okay, okay… maybe two. 😜) Until next time! ✨💚

Helloooo Anon (you still haven't run out of those fonts? wild)! Heheh, I’m glad I made you laugh with the instruments. I definitely snickered a lot when I was thinking about who would be which. 😁 Very curious about that song!

These questions are once again great, and I have once again A LOT of thoughts about them, so grab a nice drink and get comfortable, because I haven't held back (do I ever?).

1 - What the kids refer to the adults as: Yes, Ben is “Dad” to Sam and Terra, Sky calls him “professor Harvey” and has a hard time shaking that habit outside of Alfea, though he has full permission to call him “Ben”.

Farah is “Miss Dowling” to everyone ever since the kids considered themselves to be all grown up. As little kids she was “Farah” to the boys, and “Auntie Farah” to Terra, but hearing the other adults and kids strictly refer to her as “Miss Dowling” inside Alfea made them think they should as well(Farah herself agrees with this, what with her wishing to present herself as a stable figurehead, but sometimes she wishes she could hear them call her Auntie again, if only once), and got wary of calling her anything else.

To Terra and Sam, Saul is “Mr Silva” or “Headmaster Silva”, and simply “Silva” outside of school settings. Sky calls him “Silva” during school, and “Saul” outside of school, though he has a hard time to not keep calling him “Silva” all the time, similar with Ben. Sky did call Saul “Da” when he was little, but Saul kept reminding him he wasn’t his dad, so Sky outgrew that eventually.

Rose was always just “Rose” to Sky, and obviously “Mum” to Terra and Sam.

Luna just gets called what’s proper for her rank as queen, and I can imagine that, if we’re talking about a Luna/Ben ship situation, the kids (especially Terra and Sam) would find it incredibly hard to call her “Luna”, even if she would ask them to. I think that Terra would get to that point earlier than Sam, though it depends on how they are written, and how much Luna has redeemed herself in their eyes.

I’m not much into the teens calling the adults “Uncle” or “Auntie”, except maybe in highly emotional and rare circumstances, and only directly towards said adults. Most of all I don’t really like it when they talk with others about “Uncle” or “Auntie”, I think it’s too sappy and makes it seem like they had normal childhoods, which I doubt very much. There’s a sort of distance and strain between the kids and the adults in the show which would make it very out of character, in my opinion.

2 - Rose’s message: Omg Anon, my heart 😩💔. Do you want me to cry? (but also yesss the aaangst, the painnnnn) This was actually incredibly hard. Should it be Ben, her love and life-partner? Or should it be one of her kids, and which one?

Terra obviously has plenty of troubles for which she could use some encouragement from her mother, but I like to think she’s emotionally strong and maybe even more mature than Sam.

Sam has left with Ben after Musa messed with his emotions, and he might feel a bit lost because of that, and could do with a message from Rose?

But then Ben is probably feeling quadruple levels of guilt over leaving Terra, as well as his friends, behind at Alfea (especially after he learns that Farah is really dead). I can imagine he would want some guidance from his wife as to what he should do next. She wasn’t just Sam and Terra’s mother and Ben’s wife, but (in my headcanon at least) Saul and especially Farah’s friend as well. So she may be able to reassure Ben about his choices, and tell him what to do about Saul, Farah, and if he should return to Alfea.

So all in all I think Ben would be best, but they sure could all use that message (although now I’m thinking…what if Farah would get the message? Maybe while she’s in some kind of in-between, and Rose is the one who tells her she has too much unfinished business? Or after she’s resurrected? Don’t mind me, spiraling here).

3 - Emotional adults: Oh boy, another hard one. But also very interesting, I haven’t really thought that deeply before about how emotive the adults are.

Emotional:

Luna. Queen of Solaria and pettiness. 

Rose. Doesn’t make it a secret when she’s angry, but also shares her joyful emotions with everyone. Does get less intense as she grows older and has to learn patience as a mother. 

Farah. Secretly is. Half convinced she isn’t. 

Ben. Can be emotional, but is surprisingly good at keeping his cool in stressful situations, as long as it doesn’t contain anything personal (like his son bleeding out on his table. oop.). Not perfect either, but more in tune with his emotions than any of these idiots.

Saul. Emotion? What is that? Just kidding, Saul experiences loads of emotions, but he’s very good at punching them all down, as we all know. Pitiful man 🤡(affectionately).

Emotive:

Rose. Open book, sometimes to a fault.

Ben. Mostly in body language. Tries to hide behind calming expressions, like for example worry being masked by a smile.

Luna. So much for keeping up appearances. Not as good at hiding it as she likes to think.

Farah. Hides it really well, until confronted with her biggest regrets and guilt. Is slowly starting to learn to be less rigid and more emotive, as seen with Bloom.

Saul. Just reserved for close friends and family, except for bad emotions. Made the rest of the students think he got bewitched by Rosalind or something, with how cool he reacted to Farah’s death.

Someone get these adults a therapist.

4 - Holiday colours: Oh dear. I think… Red and Gold? Or maybe White and Gold? Or Dark Green and Gold? Maybe I should go with just Gold, because I associate it with Christmas as well as New Years. But I love colours! (also, highly underrated: Brown and Gold)

Thank you for making my brain work, again! I really enjoy answering these. Hope to see you back here again soon! 😄

[sinbinfamiliar]

It’s the reason why I gotta keep this is mostly headcanon level content, cause unless it happened over night I dunno. I mean he could have been secretive(though like you said it’s less likely), but oof the narrative spice it could have if it was the case where he was being more secretive then he is nowadays in the game, the aaangst. It’s very good.

It’s most likely me just adding content where there isn’t any or doesn’t need any though, alas. But damn would I love it.

*peers into the fandom tentatively* hello my fellow people’s. I have been trying to dig for some information myself, but I couldn’t find it or I’m not remembering if it’s perhaps at all brought up in any form of note or paper, so I am asking the whole fandom as a whole! Cause…. I may be building a theory or ideas or a headcanon even buuuut I’m a stickler for being canon compliant ish at the very least.

So… Enver Gortash fans, I ask you lovely fellows, does the game ever state, imply, or in any way bring up around what span of time ish that he sort of gains Bane’s attention? Obviously after he gets out of house of hope, but after that I’d not remember ever learning any information that sets it between any other parts of the timeline that are all vaguely placed around.

Like did he start becoming bane’s chosen before selling off Karlach, or after as an example. Cause I’ve been trying to figure it out but I don’t remember if it was ever brought up in papers, dialogue I never saw, or anything of the sort.

So I’m curious if I missed something or if it’s truly up in the air for us fans to kinda place where we see fit.

[leiawritesstories]

Iron Coffin, Iron Chains

Rowaelin Month 2022, Day 14: What If...? Canon...ish. KOA canon divergence. @rowaelinscourt

What if both Rowan and Aelin had been captured at the end of EoS?

Word count: 3,508 oops

Warnings: blood, grief, torture, Cairn, Maeve, angst, death. lots of angst. I'm sorry in advance no i'm not

um...enjoy? or not?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aelin awoke in dark, damp, bone-chilling silence, iron walls pressing down upon her from all sides, iron plates licking at her raw, weeping skin. Cold. She was so cold, the depthless well of wildfire within her completely drained, smothered by the crushing tons of iron keeping her from healing, from feeling, from moving. She hardly dared to move, lest the dark queen suspect she was awake and come to torment her. 

The only thing that brought her any sense of comfort was that Rowan was safe. 

Because she’d left him behind. 

Heard his cry of rage and fury and soul-shattering pain. 

Felt the desperate yank on their bonds, his last grasp at her. 

Pushed away the sounds of her own heart shattering as she gave herself over to the dark queen. 

All for Terrasen. It was all for Terrasen. 

And he was safe. Rowan was safe, he was safe safe safe safe. He was with Aedion and Lysandra and Elide and Lorcan and the last remnants of her people. The last remnants of a continent’s hope. Her hope. They were her only hope. 

She closed her eyes again, the pressure of the ironclad darkness too much to bear with open eyes, and willed herself to go to sleep or at least to fade out of consciousness enough to forget the freezing, aching emptiness inside of her. Sleep, Aelin, she told herself. Just sleep. 

~

The grating screeching rasp of metal on metal yanked her into consciousness, pain flooding all of her senses as she blinked away the bleariness and tried to move her hand up to rub the fog from her eyes. 

And failed. Because her hand--as well as the rest of her--was swaddled in ornate iron armor. 

That godsdamned bitch queen and her godsdamned vendetta. 

Watery blue eyes leered down at her behind a leather half-mask, the Fae male who loomed over the coffin smirking down at her. Cairn, her memory whispered. The male--Cairn. Her torturer. 

How wonderful. 

All he did was leer at her, sweeping a languid, lustful stare over her prone body. Disgusting. No wonder the prick had no consort. Then, he stepped aside, moving far enough beyond the bare sliver of vision that the opened coffin allowed that she could no longer see him. Murmurs sounded outside her prison, low enough that she could hear no words, but the meaning became apparent soon enough. 

When Queen Maeve herself rested one pale, elegant hand on the side of the coffin and peered down at Aelin’s masked face, the icy gaping emptiness in her violet eyes carving straight into Aelin’s battered heart. 

“Hello, niece,” she crooned, a snake’s smile curling her bloodred lips. 

Keeping herself completely still, Aelin narrowed her eyes, glaring back up at the Fae queen. She would not allow herself to respond, no matter how her blood boiled. She would not. She. Would. Not. 

“It is quite unlike you to be so silent, my dear,” Maeve hummed, tapping her nails against the edge of the coffin. “Do not fear, though. My general knows how to make you sing.” 

As if summoned by her words, Cairn reappeared, no mask obscuring the sadistic glee written all over his cruel features. “As my queen commands.” 

Maeve waved a hand. “Not yet, Cairn. The princess must return to full health before you are allowed to begin.” She clapped once, summoning a new set of footsteps. “Aelin, dear,” she cooed, her voice too fluid to be natural, “wouldn’t you like a breath of air?” 

Aelin couldn’t control the faint trace of a gasp that left her at the dark queen’s words. Satisfied, Maeve just smiled that serpentine smile at her, nodded to her right, and swept away, Cairn following in her wake like the good little whipped bitch he was. The footsteps came to the side of the coffin as Aelin braced herself, prepared to face whatever torture might be in store. 

She was lifted out by a handful of healers, their hands gentle, nimble, efficient as they removed the armor from her body, though they left the mask and the gauntlets in place, and laid her on a woolen blanket atop a stone table. In moments, there was warm water cleaning her raw, bloodied back, warm hands brushing over her broken skin, warm golden healing light seeping into her battered body and knitting up the stripes. All too soon, the healers had finished, and they carefully dressed her in simple clothing, reaching for the iron plates of armor when a male’s voice broke into the room. 

“Stop.” 

Aelin forced herself to turn her head just enough tosee the source of that familiar voice, forced herself to gaze emptily across the room and find one of the twins, the golden-haired one with the twin scars crossing his face. Fenrys. His name was Fenrys. 

“Leave us,” Fenrys ordered quietly. “Her Majesty’s command.” The healers bowed and left quietly, vanishing into the depths of the Fae queen’s palace. Fenrys sat by Aelin’s side. “I--” 

Silence. 

She met his onyx gaze, trying to convey her reassurance to him using only her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, rising again. “I am here to ensure you do not leave,” he intoned, his voice going flat and dull. Silently, he fastened pieces of the iron armor back onto her body, enough of it that she couldn’t reach into the dribble of magic slowly replenishing within her. Silently, but gently, he lifted her into his arms and placed her back into the coffin. 

As he slid the lid closed, she read the sorrow in his dark eyes. I’m sorry, Princess. 

She did not know how much time passed before the lid screamed open again, a flickering sliver of torchlight breaking through the blackness to which her eyes had grown accustomed. This time, it was Cairn, fully hooded like the executioner he was, who lifted her out, gracelessly and with effort only to paw at her body like some desperate animal in heat. This time, when the iron plates strapped to her body were removed, it was so the simple shift she wore could be ripped apart to reveal her unblemished skin. 

This time, when she was laid atop a stone table, there was no blanket beneath her body. 

Aelin willed herself to be as immobile as the iron mask covering her face as Cairn traced his gloved hands down the length of her spine, his touch too practiced, too cruel to be a caress. 

“I’m going to enjoy this,” he whispered into her ear. “Breaking you.” 

Steel clinked. 

“Now, Princess,” Cairn murmured, sliding the very tip of a tool up her side with a featherlight touch, “all you have to do is say yes.” Something oily and evil flickered in his immortal gaze. “Just say yes to your queen, and we won’t have to do this.” 

Aelin stared right back at him, refusing to cower. She’d be damned to hell and back if she capitulated to this sneering, snivelling bastard before he had a chance to try and hurt her. 

“Foolish half-breed,” he scoffed. 

And so it began. 

As the male strolled out of the humid, blood-scented room, the white wolf laying by the door rose onto his back legs, his form shifting and growing until Fenrys stood in the wolf’s place, eternal sadness in his posture as he padded across the room, took the basin of water and cloths resting on a shelf, and seated himself next to the table. He did not speak a syllable as he cleaned her body, as his battlefield healing bound up her wounds. All he did was flick glances at her, his dark eyes blinking. 

One for yes. 

Two for no. 

Three for are you alright? 

Four for I am here, I am with you. 

Through the haze of pain numbing her senses, Aelin felt a whisper of a tug, a bare hint of her mate reaching out to her across the distance that yawned between them. As if he could feel her anguish and was trying to take it away from her. Cautious, only daring to do so because it was Fenrys in the room with her, she reached for the bond, sensed the thread in her mind. 

And screamed as she felt a blinding wave of agony crash over her mate. 

~

One level above the cell where Aelin lay battered atop the bench, in an equally windowless stone cell whose walls bore faintly purple streaks, a shirtless Fae male half-stood, half-hovered in the middle of the space, iron chains bound to his wrists and ankles and neck suspending him off the floor in a splayed X shape. The obsidian ink of the tattoo creeping up his left side glittered darkly in the gloom, a layer of wetness seeping into the markings, a slight coppery tang mingling with the iron stench of the air. 

His magic drained, his heart and soul aching worse than the slashes criscrossing his back, Rowan Whitethorn closed his eyes, sent his mind off into the farthest reaches of darkness, unable to stop himself from reaching out to his mate. To Aelin. 

Damn him and his unsteady heart. 

Damn that heart for landing him here in the first place. 

Damn the way his whole being burned with the need to see Aelin freed. 

The dor creaked open, throwing a slash of lantern light into the oppressive darkness as a hooded male entered the cell, coiled whip in his hand. 

“Enjoying the place, Whitethorn?” Cairn crooned, malicious. 

Rowan didn’t give the bastard the victory of an answer. 

“I’ve got to give Her Majesty credit,” the torturer mused, “she certainly had everything in mind when she built this place.” He smirked, the torch in his hand casting eerie shadows across his hooded face. “Though I was never particularly fond of the faebane, myself.” 

Faebane. 

Gods above and gods below. 

No wonder Rowan had felt a blanket suffocating his magic. Maeve had a faebane cell. Of course she would have one of those. The bitch.  

All the better for her little lapdogs to carry out her orders. 

“I wouldn’t worry much about the faebane,” Cairn continued, sneering. “It’ll be the blood loss that gets you, Whitethorn.” 

And without further ado, he swung the whip in his hand. 

Tiny iron filaments embedded into the leather stung Rowan’s flesh, ripping even deeper into his already-weeping back. He gritted his teeth and forced his mind far, far away to a quiet green garden, where only a bare whisper of the physical anguish could reach him. 

Where he saw the blurry outline of his wife, his queen, standing just out of his reach. 

He called to her in a broken whisper, but she did not answer. 

He did not know how much time passed before Cairn coiled the whip, spat on his shredded back, and stalked out of the cell, barking orders at whoever was standing outside the cell. 

Timidly, a demi-Fae healer crept into the darkened cell, leather bag of remedies in her hands. She was completely silent as she tended to his wounds, cleaning and stopping the leaking blood before healing the slashes, knitting flesh and sinew and skin back together until his body was whole again. 

His mind, though--that was not for healers to touch. 

The healer shot a furtive glance around the cell as she finished before turning back to him, facing his weary gaze head-on, and bowing. 

“Doranelle remembers,” she whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear, before she scampered away, shoving the door shut behind her. 

Oblivion claimed him before her words could fully register. 

~

Days and weeks and months bled past in the depths of Maeve’s dungeons, time blurring together into a fog of anguish and oblivion until one day, Cairn strolled into Aelin’s cell with a different object in his hands. A simple strip of cloth, which he bound over her eyes, over the iron mask still covering her face. Over time, the armor had been stripped away piece by piece as she’d broken down, until it was just the gauntlets on her hands and wrists and the mask over her face. 

“Wouldn’t you like a little excursion, Princess?” he hummed, oily words slithering down her spine in the worst possible way. 

She just let herself go limp and unresponsive, unable to find the willpower to glare. 

“Wolf.” Cairn snapped his fingers. “Bring the princess to the throne room. Now.” 

Fenrys rose and shifted into Fae form, his face a controlled blank mask as he lifted Aelin into his arms and followed Cairn out of the chamber, up multiple levels of stairs and down a series of winding halls until a final set of doors swung open and his boots clicked against tiled flooring. 

“The Princess, Your Majesty,” he said flatly and without emotion, setting her down on her bare feet on the icy-cold tiles. 

Cairn slipped the blindfold from her eyes. “Greet your queen, princess,” he crooned. 

Aelin blinked in the sudden, nearly blinding daylight, her eyes adjusting to the unfamiliar brightness before sliding to the dark queen perched on her throne, regarding her as though through a scholar’s lens. 

“Hello, darling niece,” Maeve smiled, absolutely no warmth in her tone. 

For the first time in months, Aelin’s blood sparked. “I am not your darling,” she rasped, her voice croaking from disuse. 

Faster than she could blink, pain exploded across her shoulder blades as Cairn struck her, his blow forcing her to the ground. And a new pain exploded up her legs, the jagged shards of glass scattered on the floor slicing through her fragile, newly reconstructed skin. 

“Speak to Her Majesty with respect,” he snarled, raising his gloved hand to strike her again. 

“Cairn.” Maeve’s cool, detached voice stayed his hand. “Enough.” She turned her frighteningly empty smile to Aelin. “Come here, niece.” 

Aelin did not budge. 

Maeve tapped her jet-black fingernails on the armrest of her ridiculously ornate throne. “Shall we try again? Come.” This time, it was a summons, something dark and twisted wrapping around Aelin’s mind and tugging, pulling her towards the Fae queen. 

Summoning whatever dregs of strength she could muster, Aelin tried to resist, locking her jaw against the onslaught of blazing fire that shot up her legs as the dark queen’s unholy power dragged her forwards through the forest of broken glass. 

“Such foolishness,” the queen sighed. “You have so much strength, my dear. If only you would realize how well you could use it for me.” 

“Anything done in your name is damned,” Aelin whispered, spitting the words out through the tears already dripping down her cheeks. 

Maeve clicked her tongue. “Aelin, Aelin. Perhaps we have not been clear enough.” She flicked her hand at the Fae male standing silently to her left--Connall, the dark-haired Moonbeam twin, Fenrys’s shadow half. “Why do you refuse to be mine, darling?” 

“You’re evil.” Two words. She only managed to speak two words, the agony spearing through her legs inhibiting her speech. 

“Oh, my child,” the queen sighed. “I had hoped that by now you would have realized that I am not evil, but simply practical.” A snake’s smile curled her crimson-stained lips. “And to demonstrate my practicality, I am offering you a choice.” She waved to the side. 

And Connall reappeared, a set of chains in his grasp. 

Chains in which her mate was bound, broken and bruised and battered but with fire gleaming deep in the forest-colored eyes she loved so dearly. 

“Your choice is simple, darling,” the queen cooed. “Either you are mine, or your prince is dead.” 

Aelin barely heard Maeve over the screaming crashing roaring silence obliterating her mind, the purely and utterly heart-stopping terror of seeing her mate, her Rowan bound in chains, the distinct violet tinge of faebane poisoning blushing his normally tanned skin. 

No. 

He could not be here. 

He was in Terrasen. He was safe in Terrasen with her court. He’d stayed. 

He’d stayed.

But the more she stared at him, the more her illusion crumbled, leaving only the blood-soaked memory of his scream as he begged and pleaded and bartered for her release, giving himself over to Cairn in the futile hope that she would be released, only to be hauled onto another of Maeve’s ships and taken to Doranelle with her. 

Rowan gazed back into her eyes across the impossible chasm dividing them, begging her to stay strong, begging her not to capitulate. 

I love you, his stare screamed. To whatever end.

She’d be rutting damned if whatever end was in the evil queen’s throne room. 

You are not fucking dying, she commanded silently, bracing her ironclad hands on the ground and shoving herself up onto her feet, refusing to wince at the fresh waves of agony that speared up her legs as she trod on the broken glass. She turned back to Maeve, meeting the serpent queen’s now-wholly-black eyes, her stare steady and level and fierce and burning. 

“Go to hell,” she breathed. 

And spat right into her eye for good measure. 

Calmly, belying the fury in her posture, Maeve raised one pale hand, wiped the spit off of her ivory face. “Such a pity,” she hummed. Almost bored, she flicked her right hand at Connall. “Kill him.” 

His movements mechanical, Connall withdrew the dagger tucked into his belt, removed the manacle from around Rowan’s neck, grasped a fistful of his soiled, overgrown hair, tipping his head back so the steel could align with the pulsing vein at his throat. For a brief instant, his onyx eyes flicked to Aelin, conflict warring in their depths. 

It all happened so suddenly. 

One instant, Connall’s dagger kissed Rowan’s throat, a tiny pinprick of blood welling by the knife’s point. 

The next breath, that dagger speared clean through the Fae queen’s throat, propelled by a whip-swift winter wind, black oily blood pouring out of the wound, the queen herself gasping and gurgling for air. 

Then Connall gasped and groaned and stared in disbelief at the length of steel protruding through his chest as his twin’s scream echoed through the throne room, Fenrys frozen in a desperate lunge towards Cairn and the sword the brown-haired torturer had plunged straight through Connall’s chest from behind. 

“CONNALL!” Fenrys roared, pure animalistic rage crackling in the air around him. In a flash, he shifted, his mighty wolf’s legs coiling beneath him. And he leapt as Cairn turned around, immortal rage and fury fueling him as his jaws latched around Cairn’s throat and ripped. 

The male didn’t even have time to scream before he crumpled to the floor, blood pouring from where his throat used to be. 

And Aelin reached down and down and down into the pit of wildfire that she’d slowly, carefully been cultivating right under everyone’s noses, drawing up a spear of white-hot flame that scorched through the iron gloves suffocating her hands and launched in a blaze of godly vengeance into the mortally wounded Fae-turned-Valg queen’s throat, slashing in a single, blazingly bright stroke. 

The sudden, deafening silence in the throne room was broken only by the dull thud of Maeve’s head dropping down the stone steps of the dais to land amid the jagged glass scattered across the floor. 

For an eternal moment, nobody moved. 

Until Fenrys rushed across the room, a bare flick of his fingers undoing Rowan’s chains, and crouched by his brother’s side, cradling his head in his lap. “Con,” he croaked, tears falling down his scarred face. “Fuck, Con, please!” 

“Better,” Connall rasped, his eyes fluttering. “Make it better, Fen.” His chest rose and fell, his last breath rattling in his lungs. Rose. And fell. 

Openly sobbing, Fenrys carefully closed his twin’s eyes. “Rest well, brother,” he croaked, gently and tenderly laying him out on the tiled floor, away from the lake of blood and glass spreading over the black marble tiles. 

Rowan whipped a shield of hard, icy air around the pool of death, shoving the glass away from his mate, his queen, his Aelin. “Fireheart,” he breathed unsteadily, dropping to his knees at her side. “My Fireheart.” So much anguish layering his voice. 

Oh, how she hated to see him in pain. “Rowan,” she croaked, sliding her hands through his matted hair to reassure herself that he was real, flesh and blood, not a fabrication of her dreams or the cruel queen’s mind tricks. “You’re here.” 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.” 

Twin tears trickled down her cheeks. “It hurts,” she rasped. 

In a heartbeat, he’d shoved open the throne room doors, yelling for the healers he knew waited just outside for their summons. In moments, the healers clustered around Aelin and Rowan and Fenrys, cleaning and soothing and binding up wounds, ignoring or not seeing or just looking past the battlefield that the throne room had become. 

“Thank you,” Aelin whispered as the healers finished, genuine gratitude shining in her eyes. “Thank you.” 

The same healer who’d whispered to Rowan so many weeks ago in the dungeon bowed now to Aelin. “Doranelle remembers,” she said quietly, firmly. “Doranelle always remembers.”

~~~

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[an-organized-confusion]

Thinking about my feelings for Remus as a character.

Like. I find him absolutely adorable - but not entirely in a patronizing/sanitizing way.

But in the “I’m well aware that I find a lot a things most people don’t, cute“ sort of way. It’s hard to properly articulate it.

See, kid me, insisting on bring home garter snakes fairly often. Or chasing skinks around, in rattler territory. Or finding many other kindsa “Non-Charismatic Megafauna“ endearing/fascinating/valuable.

Or things more sordid/adult and still dig down into the endearingly flawed humanity in such affairs. Or look at the horrifying and weird and laugh, not necessarily in any party’s expense, but to face messy truths like mortality and nature with acceptance.

I think it’s just thanks to curiosity being one of my biggest drivers...

[thedragonnerd]

What if, Namaari is a Queen who hasn’t found her mate and Raya is a slave that she was treated badly by another kingdom that Namaari won over , and she takes Raya as her slave and treats her well and they fall in love and mate and have babies AU

Hi anon! Ooh, an interesting scenario for sure!

I tend to be quite careful when there is a risk of dubious consent or difficult power dynamics, so it might not be a huuundred percent match but I can definitely think of lots to write about! Thanks anon!

[myherowritings]

Me: *absolutely hates angst*

Also me:

[lion-time]

the real VF whump