#nothing to remember them by just those memories

[balrogballs]

The Clean Break

a little take on Aragorn and Elrond’s final meeting, a removed scene from Cast in Stone (no context required; it’s canon compliant) that I liked too much to toss.

Aragorn was Estel when he broke his wrist, somewhere between five and six years old. It was a perfectly ordinary break, which happened for a perfectly ordinary reason: he had been running about on a wet floor, slipped, and crashed over a threshold. Elladan and Elrohir had come running at his wails, picked him up and took him to Elrond.

He remembers how Elrond explained to him that it was a clean break, and a very small one — it would stop hurting in a few days if he kept it still. The twins, those ardent connoisseurs of broken bones, had kept up a steady stream of joking patter to distract him whilst their father slowly applied a pain-relieving poultice and began to wrap up the wound.

Estel had been sobbing and sobbing, regardless of how mild the injury truly was. He was only five years old, and was more frightened than hurt, because he had never broken a bone in his life and he did not understand what everyone was doing, did not understand why his arm was being covered in white cloth, and it did hurt quite a lot, so he wailed.

And at some point in the process, he remembers looking up and realising that his father was crying too. Elrond hadn't made a sound, but his cheeks were awash in silent, indecipherable tears. Aragorn remembers how his expression didn't change at all, blank and beautiful in the white afternoon light: wrought from stone like a weeping statue, a quiet miracle, a promise of faith.

He remembers Elladan's tense, barked-out "Ada! What is it? What is wrong? You said it’s a clean break!"

And Aragorn remembers how Elrond had sat back on his heels and smiled, the motion pulling his features back into familiar lines. He remembers sitting silently, watching the last tears fall down the marble face, as Elrond said: "hush, my boy, you will scare Estel. Nothing is wrong, it is only a clean break. He will be fine tomorrow."

"Then why are you in tears?" Elrohir had asked, equally worried.

"Oh dear, am I? Aha, I am. Truly, it is only because he is," Elrond admitted sheepishly, sniffing. He had stroked a lock of hair back from Estel's face, laughing self-consciously, and his voice shook only a little. "I hate seeing him in pain. It breaks my heart seeing him cry so ceaselessly, even for such a small cause. It is only that, Elrohir, do not worry."

At the time, the twins had laughed, teased their father for his softness as they often did, made so many jokes about it that even little Estel, who didn't really understand the fuss and at the time had just probably assumed Elrond had a broken wrist too, was laughing alongside the three of them for absolutely no reason at all. It was casual, domestic, completely ordinary and commonplace as far as his childhood went: there were funnier incidents, sadder scenes, happier conversations.

But for some reason, this one is Aragorn's first real memory. The day he broke his wrist is the scaffolding he built his life atop, the day he looked at his father and found something sacred within him.

________

"I thought for a very long time," Aragorn says, on the tallest tower in Minas Tirith, their final meeting. "About what I could give you as a parting gift."

"If it is anything extravagant," Elrond warns him, raising a finger. "You know as well as I that I will take it to mean you are offering me a bride price, and I will take deep offence."

Aragorn grins, winks: "it's actually less than worthless, financially speaking" and cackles at how Elrond actually looks somehow more offended at that option.

"And what is this less than worthless thing you are donating to the one who raised you all your life?" he raises his eyebrows, a smile playing on his lips. "What castoff hand-me-down do you deign to bestow me with?”

"I know you must be weary of rings," Aragorn gestures at Vilya, winking away on Elrond's finger. "But perhaps this one may restore your faith in them."

"I am of a race that thinks nothing: jewels, lives, wars, is eternal," he continues, hair drifting over his face. "Of an old jewelry box my mother had, many trinkets were lost to time, some earrings were without a pair. And such loss of heirlooms never grieved us. After all, they were not ours to grieve."

"The oddest thing in the box was an old, battered golden ring. When I was first given the collection, I was only twenty yet already that ring was far too small for me. I thought that it belonged to a petite woman, perhaps a sister or a mother. Yet more recently, I was thinking of it and it confused me — why would a noblewoman own a cheap, plain ring? The other stones in the box were all precious, valuable, true heirlooms. When my mother died, she told me to pass them on to my children, and I will: but with this ring, I intend to disobey her."

"It was only some weeks ago, as Arwen showed me her own rings, that I realised something," said Aragorn, fishing around in his collar. "That this trinket I carry was no woman's ring, it was made to be worn by a child. You had given me one of these too, if you recall, as per tradition — on my sixth begetting day, a flat gold ring like this with my name carved into the inside. That was when I looked closer at this one, at the inscription on the inside of its hollow."

He unfastens the clasp on the chain, slips a small ring into Elrond's palm. He watches as all the blood leaves the elf's face only to be replaced by a harsh, terrible expression.

"Nothing is eternal, Ada," repeats Aragorn. "But some things should be."

"You are — you are giving me this?" Elrond's voice is strangled, eyes wide. "It —"

"I am. It is not mine to grieve."

Elrond does not say a word, does not even look at Aragorn, instead turning away and walking towards the far side of the balcony where he stood silently, ring clutched tightly in a shaking fist. Aragorn allows him to hold on to dignity.

Dignity, and a small, burnished gold ring.

It was rather battered, some of the plating rubbed off, a groove carved into it from all the times its owner tied it to a string and used it to tease cats with. It had a small dent in the frame, warping it slightly, and if you looked closely you could make out a little tooth mark, as though someone had a habit of gnawing at it. It was less valuable heirloom, more solid proof that the ancient king Elros Tar-Minyatur of Numenor, had once been a messy, careless little boy.

A few minutes pass, in which neither of them speak.

"I had nothing of him," Elrond tells him quietly after a while. "All my life, I had nothing of him at all. It had felt wrong, you see, sailing off to Numenor and demanding his possessions from his grieving children. So for five thousand years, I had nothing of him."

"But I never told you of him," Elrond's voice is searching, harsh and confused, trying to find a justification for the gift. "I had never told you of him, and yes, you had known of him from your lessons but I had tried so hard never to speak of him to you lest you, for one second, thought that I only loved you because you were the heir of Elros. You had no reason to know how I loved him, how fiercely I missed him, how I had nothing of him at all."

Elrond sounds almost angry, wrenching the words through gritted teeth like a scolding, his back still turned to Aragorn: "who made you so kind, Estel? Who made you so selfless — that you — that you give me this without ever being told — that you thought of it — who made you, boy?"

Elrond is breathing in deep, clarifying breaths and Aragorn stands there silently. He does not answer any of the fevered questions. It was Elrond, after all, who once told him over a chalkboard: stupid questions did not deserve answers.

"I never wanted to hurt you, Ada," says Aragorn at last, when only a sliver of sun is left behind in the sky. "Not for a moment. That is why I had… I had… that is why I had hoped we could have a clean break. I just didn't want to hurt you."

"I know you didn't," Elrond says, half-smiling as he turns back, composed again yet not entirely unruffled. "But I would rather it hurt in such a way, than it not hurt at all."

"Would you?"

"Of course," Elrond tells him, unconsciously running a finger across the flat, golden surface of the ring he had slid onto his smallest finger. "After all, the most treasured things in the world are only so valued because of how debilitatingly painful it would be to lose them."

Aragorn cannot speak. He has dawdled and delayed, pushed this parting to a cliff-edge, given gifts and made jokes, all the while waiting for a clean break that would never come for those who love like the two of them. He walks forward in a daze, and Elrond takes him into his arms and Aragorn is five again — building a life atop the scaffolding of the heart Elrond offered to him.

"I do not know what divinity made you this way," his father's voice is rough as he repeats his earlier question, but it does not break. "I do not know which of the Valar wielded the knife that carved you out of kindness. But I am glad, Estel, so glad that I know you."

Aragorn stays pressed in that embrace, shaking. He fights a sudden, absurd urge to laugh and roll his eyes, to say don't ask stupid questions, to say who made me kind? oh, I don't know, perhaps the one who loved me so wholly that he beheld a five year old's silly, childish tears, and wept that I shed them at all.

Still, he does not move: he does not want to see Elrond's face, does not want to see his own, not at this moment. Time passes, strains like molasses through linen, slowly and with great reluctance. At last, the king draws away and takes in this final image, the one who raised him standing before his son with an inscrutable expression on his face.

When he was younger, Aragorn used to think it might make it easier for his father to bend with the marred world if he learned how to be as cruel as it was, instead of taking each slap in the face as a surprise. But he understands now that whilst he wasn't looking, the marred world had bent itself to Elrond's gentleness; that it is a strength, an honest one, to be kind when the world not only abides by cruelty but insists upon it.

Aragorn cannot bring himself to turn and leave, wanting to brand Elrond’s face into the back of his eyelids with knife-hot tears. It is anything but a clean break.

“I cannot bring myself to turn,” he admits, the moonlight limning the silver in his hair. “Because when I turn, you'll be gone, and it will be the end of everything. Is this the end of everything now, Ada? Are we done now, you and I?"

Elrond smiles, looking at Aragorn in the same way he had always looked at him, every day since the moment he was put in his arms: eyes bright with unconditional adoration, unashamed pride, and a constant, total faith in him. He shakes his head.

"You and I will never be done,” he says softly; resolute. It is the only oath he ever makes.

[wtpyrofreak]

The "best thing to happen to Kinger's lower half" is not foreshadowing, but a hint to his past in the circus. Hear me out.

So we all remember "Kinger's Special Place" and how those Checkmates socks (Plus Kinger "wearing" one of them) caused a lot of fans to worry over the fate of our beloved chess piece?

Yeah. The more I think about it, the more I feel like we're viewing all this from the completely wrong angle. This isn't telling us what WILL happen to Kinger...

It's telling us what ALREADY happened to Kinger and WHY he's the way he is now.

Gangle's supposed "Near-abstraction" moment in EP 4 made me think back to Kinger's core memory with his abstracted wife. He couldn't recall the exact string of events that lead up to it, but that moment in the fort where she calmed down enough for him to caress her was forever ingrained into his mind.

Maybe it's because said moment was what saved him from immediately following Queenie into abstraction--

"Erm, eckshualeeeee, when Gangle snapped back from abstracting, she didn't go insane like Kinger. Theory debunked along with your Stupid sauce scandal idea."

Well, yeah. Because she was just starting to abstract before Pomni offered to switch shifts with her. Meanwhile, I think Kinger was already deep into abstracting before ending up in the pillow fort with Queenie.

This silly image of Keychain!Kinger wearing the Queenie sock? It represents HOW CLOSE he was to completely breaking. He still managed to snap back, the absolute chad, but having been so near the brink of no return, the mental damage had been already been done and can't be reversed (much like how you can't come back from fully abstracting).

That's why Kinger's mind is so scrambled/fragmented present day.

Upon this recontextualization, so many things start adding up (at least for me).

Both his and Abstracted!Queenie's behavior follow the same patterns. Erratic and unpredictable in the light. Lucid and calm in the dark.

He can't recall the events between after Queenie abstracting and before he ended up in the pillow fort because he was probably HARDCORE dissociating.

He was more paranoid and unstable than usual after the Gloinks took apart his fortress because they robbed him of his ANCHOR.

And of course, all this can further explain how Kinger has managed to last in the circus longer than anyone else. DO|\|'T FORGET. YOU'RE HERE FOREVER.

...Orrrrr maybe I'm just on extreme hopium + copium over my favorite character and the checkmates socks are just comfy socks and nothing more. I AM the same person who concocted the crack-ass "Spudsy's Signature Special Sauce Scandal" theory, after all. XP

We'll just have to wait and se

(EP 4 Gangle gifs ripped by @fleshgerm)

[letters-to-lgbt-kids]

My dear lgbt+ kids, 

If you are online a lot, especially in spaces or bubbles where people often share their experiences „for awareness“, you may feel like it’s your obligation to share your own life experiences as well. 

This can be a subconscious thing. You would likely never sign your name on „Every gay person who had a traumatic encounter with a homophobic person needs to make a TikTok about it or else they fail their community“ or „If you’re disabled and trans you need to post about your specific struggles or else you don’t even care about visibility for your own communities“. But you may come across people who did make a video or post about their struggles - and feel some guilt or shame when you realize you experienced the same but don’t talk about it. You may feel like they’re using their voice to do something and you just sit around. Or alternatively, you may see those things and feel „inspired“ to share your own story, so you rush to do it.. and later on you realize you actually didn’t feel inspired, you just felt uncomfortable. You didn’t actually want to share your story with strangers and you kinda feel worse now, but you had to do it for awareness, right?

If you relate to any of that, here’s some things I want you to know: 

You don’t owe anyone a list of all labels you identify with. You don’t owe anybody a list of your medical diagnoses. You don’t owe anyone a list of all traumatic events in your life. Asking you for that would be considered wildly inappropriate in almost all circumstances offline… so it definitely can’t be the measure for how „good“ or „brave“ you are online, either. 

Most people who share their stories online don’t really only do it for awareness. They also do it because they want to receive sympathy, comfort, praise, the feeling of community, the unbiased confirmation that what happened to them was wrong etc… or even just the relief of getting it out of their system. And there’s nothing wrong with that! We are all human beings who need each other. But it may take some pressure of you to remember that those posts are not always some selfless, heroic deed purely done for activism. 

Sharing your story online doesn’t necessarily do that much. Don’t get me wrong, it can be really brave and it can definitely start conversations! I don’t mean to discredit anyone who decides to share something deeply personal. But: not every post gets viral or reaches anyone besides the people who already agree with it. So if you don’t really want to talk about being bullied in school, you certainly don’t need to feel like you have to. Who says that it would be YOUR post, out of all the posts about bullying, that’d end up super viral and start some big conversation about bullying and end up in the news? Maybe it’d just get 15 likes and two bot comments. No need to feel guilty on missing out on that. 

Talking about a traumatic experience can bring relief and that’s valid.. but it can also be counterproductive to your healing process. Sharing it „for awareness“ will not be worth it if it makes you feel overwhelmed, unlocks memories you’re not ready to confront in detail, comes with the risk of putting you into a depression spiral, re-traumatizes you by bringing back feelings you felt in that situation etc. Put your healing first. 

People can be real mean, especially when they can hide behind the anonymity the internet offers. Sharing something vulnerable can spread awareness but it can also make you a target of hate, ridicule, disbelief and bullying. This is especially important to consider if it’s something you’re still struggling with or healing from. Not wanting to get mean comments is a valid reason to not share something. Again: Put your healing first. 

You know all that and still want to share your story? All the more power to you! My point here is not to silence your voice. If you WANT to share your story, it can be a really great thing to do. 

I just want to remind you that you should only do it if you truly want to. Never do it out of pressure or obligation - there is none. Your story is yours. You have the right and power to keep it or share it as you wish. 

With all my love, 

Your Tumblr Dad 

[bladefuck]

It had been weeks since the incident. The two best friends had gotten drunk after a Rebel Mission together. It was all a bit hazy to Dylan, honestly. They almost wrecked someones car, laughing and taking pictures, before just managing to bolt back home before anyone could spot them. Wouldn’t want a repeat van incident, after all.

Eric had asked to stay the night at his place, seeing as it was the weekend and they had nothing else planned. After much begging, Dylan’s mom had said yes to the two and given them control over the house as she left to stay with a friend.

This meant the two could get freely drunk, and drunk they got.

The most Dylan remembered was the two stumbling down to the basement after nearly half a bottle of vodka had vanished into their systems. The feeling of skin against skin, rough hands grasping him, the desire to take and take and the lust for more and more.

So it was no surprise that, in the morning, the two both pretended they remembered nothing from their drunken stupor. And though Dylan believed Eric and Eric believed him, the two both knew themselves that those memories and lingering feelings never would vanish.

That wasn’t the only problem, however. Dylan frequently found himself harshly woken up in the morning with swings of nausea and forced to hunch over as he retched his insides out.

The mood swings didn’t help, either. He thought he was going insane with the stress of knowing what he had done, his mood swinging faster than a drunken man on a nightclub floor.

He tried his best to contain them, but it didn’t help when he saw who he blamed for all this nearly everyday, Eric. He had slipped up once, and yelled at the other harshly. But once again he felt the swinging of the pendulum and a familiar wave of despair befall him at the sight of Erics widened eyes and his legs taking a few steps back. He tried apologizing, but nothing came out.

He eventually decided to get to the bottom of it, researching online whenever his mother wasn’t home. But the only answer he found seemed so rediculous he felt himself laughing until there were the formations of tears in the corners of his eyes.

Yet as he continued with these bouts of nausea, mood swings, even odd cravings here and there, he got more and more desperate.

So he tried clearing his thoughts and ignoring the dread gnawing at his heart and frontal lobe as he stood at a pharmacy section of a local store, package in hand as he walked away as quick as possible.

All this had led to him not having much time for Eric, and when factoring in his sudden session of yelling at the other boy one day as school ended, he had expected the other to be pissed with him. Though Eric normally seemed pissed about most things these days, it seemed.

So it came as a shock to Dylan when Eric asked to come over one saturday, weeks later. Though the two could pretend nothing happened, the anxiousness of being near the other remained constant.

As Dylan put the home phone down after giving him permission, he couldn’t help but smile despite the crushing sense of anxiety that fell over him.

Dylan couldn’t stop the pacing he found himself doing as he awaited his best friends arrival. Eventually, he forced himself to stop. He marched into the bathroom nearby, taking out the package and tearing it open.

“Better get this over with before he gets here,” Dylan said to himself. He made sure the door was fully locked despite the fact he was, as of now, the only person in the house, the rest of his family gone at some dumb restaurant outting.

…

The blonde haired man looked deeply into the mirror, as if daring it to stop looking back. When it stayed the exact same, he sighed and pushed back with the palms of his thin white hands.

“Shit, how will I ever tell him?,” he murmured to himself. He knew he could tell his best friend anything. … Right? Yet at the same time, the eternal fear of judgement and abandoment crept over him, its shadowy claws grabbing his body and feeling as if it would tear him to shreds.

“You okay in there, dude?”

Dylan jolted at the sound of the other males voice. He had been so caught up in his own little world he entirely forgot that he invited the other over just now.

“Yeah! Just, uh, give me a second!”

He yelled back. This seemed to be an acceptable answer, as Eric didn’t respond.

He slipped the item he had just finished using into his pocket. Dylan looked up, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and stepped out.

His shorter friend smiled at the sight of him. Dylan saw he already made himself at home in his room, but he supposed it made sense, what with the two being almost inseperable.

Dylan casually sat down at the edge of his bed, which Eric was sprawled out across.

The older man must’ve saw his expression, as his eyes narrowed.

“Something’s up. I can tell,” he put simply. Dylan smiled nervously, but he knew he couldn’t just talk his way out of it like he did with others.

He took a deep breath. He knew Eric better than anyone, he knew he could confess this… he just knew it. Like a pull in his gut that drove him to the man.

“Just- Just promise not to get mad,” he said tentatively, carefully watching the others expression for even a hint of malice in Erics face.

“Okay, fine, you fuckin’ anxious wreck. Promise.”

Dylan smiled at his sarcastic remark and smirk.

“So, you remember how we got drunk a few weeks ago and, uhm, well…”

Dylan trailed off. Those memories were still fresh in his mind like an iron press ingrating it onto his brain. Eric tensed. He expected the other to have forgotten all about that night, with how often he got drunk off his mind. He looked away from the younger man, but after a few moments looked back.

“… Yeah. Why?”

Short and simple, he told himself. Don’t freak Dylan out or anything, don’t scare him off after they’ve already come so far.

He paused when Dylan gulped and fumbled with something in his pocket.

“Whatcha got there, V?”

Eric sat up as he asked this, looking curiously. Dylan sighed. Standing up and on the side of the bed, he looked down at Eric.

In his hand lay a pregnancy test, its sleek white design unmistakable. On a small screen lay two lines, forming the shape of a cross like object.

“Do you want a boy, or a girl?”

Dylan asked meekly, grinning

[thewistlingbadger]

Adding onto this. Silco is probably THE definition of "it's not always about the money spiderman." I hate the take that he's only doing things for his own self interest because it so violently goes against what we're told about him. If Silco was truly in it for the personal power, money, influence, etc, he could and WOULD have stopped a long time ago. If it's just about ego then he doesn't need Zaun to become independent. If he only cared about zaun independence for his own glory and not for his own people then he'd be no better than the chem barons, and we see how Silco views them as parasites who are beneath Silco. Silco loves Zaun for what it is, which is why his vision of a better Zaun is not a Zaun with peace, it's a Zaun with freedom. Silco sees nothing wrong with the under city's chaos and violence, which is why he perpetuates both and doesn't try to stop either. This contrasts Vi, who as a child viewed Zaun as being inferior to Piltover. This contrasts Ekko, who actively tries to improve upon the Undercity. Silco is devoted to his nation not in spite of its flaws but because of its flaws. To him, it's perfect as is, the only problem is that they're oppressed. Silco already views Zaun and Piltover as equals even though they don't have equal power or influence or ability. To him, Zaun is just as good and potentially better than Piltover. All they need is a chance to excel, the opportunity to rise above the hardships that they wouldn't have if not for Piltover. Silco's okay with putting down and harming individual zaunites if it means the collective group will be better off. It's why he sees no problem with shimmer, because even though it's actively destroying the community, it's boosting their economy and furthering themselves from Piltover.

Silco's hatred for topside really can't be understated. It's important to remember that his generation grew up in a much worse zaun. Of course he's willing to use any means necessary to be free from those assholes, especially after all he's sacrificed and the sacrifices of others he's witnessed. Silco seems to really admire his generation for all the shit they had to put up with. He tells Finn before zaun became an enterprise all they had was the loyalty of zaunite brothers and sisters helping each other. "And now I'm forced to share the air with parasites like you who leech off their memory." Personally, in light of season 2, this line makes extra sense because of Felicia. Felicia was one of Silco's closest friends and she laid down her life fighting for the cause ("so you'll die for a cause, but you won't fight for one?!" Now this line makes more sense too), she's the perfect example of a true Zaunite. Silco also used the gray against the chem barons to not only highlight his superiority to them but also to once again differentiate between his generation and the newer generation.

"Oh, you don't recognize it? Have you forgotten where we came from? The mines they had us in? Air so thick it clogged your throat, stuck in your eyes? I pulled you all from the depths and offered you a taste of topside and fresh air. I gave you life. Purpose. But now you've grown fat and complacent. Too much time in the sun. We came from a world where there was never enough to go around, Finn. That is why we fight."

Yes silco does have his own ego and he is doing things for his own selfish interests but he's not doing things ONLY for himself. His own selfishness is truly not his priority, it's the nation of zaun. "I'm doing this for us, Jinx. For the sons and daughters of Zaun."

I don't see Silco as someone who "lost his way" bc there's no evidence to suggest that this wasn't always his way. We know that he wasn't once always this fucked up and evil but from my perspective he's always been the radicalist. He's always been the one behind the Nation of Zaun, the one that's always been willing to do anything to get his goal. Not even the death of Felicia stopped him or even gave him any pause from pursuing his goal. And of course it didn't, Felicia is the one that told him "I don't care if you have to carve it out of the bedrock covered in blisters." Additionally, silco does just see himself as better than the chem barons, he sees himself as better than most zaunites too. Silco has literally gone through hell and back and is now the most powerful man in the undercity. If he can do that, then what's other people's excuse? Of course he's toying with the drug addicts, to him they're the weakest link in the zaunite societal chain. He's literally standing above them as they're at his feet. The fact that some of these drug addicts where Vander supporters also plays into I think (we know at least Huck had a past with Vander). Another reason why I think he sees himself as superior is because he's basically the only person actively trying to get independence. When Vander was their leader, all he cared about was maintaining the status quo. We know some maybe most of Silco's supporters initially joined him because of his promises of Independence and rebellion but we see after the time skip most of them become washed up and no longer care for the goal. The Firelights also don't seem to care about zaun independence either. They're anti silco and anti Piltover and their main goal is rehabilitating the community.

When Silco died, so did the nation of zaun- that idea, that ideology. NO ONE tries to achieve independence after his death. The zaunites start to rally against piltover because of the new oppressive conditions they're being subjected to, not because they're trying to achieve independence. The Firelights I've been trying to get rid of him since day one and what do they do when he's actually gone? Nothing, they don't make a single play for power in the Undercity. The fact that sevika ends up becoming a council member implies that Zaun is still a state under piltover and not its own nation.

Oh yeah I forgot that there's this opinion that Silco "was blindsided by power and wealth" and "lost his way" and "he only did what he did to benefit himself all along" etc etc. Uh. Where- where did you get that from? I'm not even being sarcastic or something, I'm genuinely curious how you can come to this conclusion.

He operates from a crappy office in The Last Drop and the only attributes of wealth he has are cigars and whiskey(?). My man had one pair of pants for 10+ years and only got a fancy coat to look more intimidating. Besides, when chembarons proposed to give back the gemstone to Piltover so their sales don't drop even harder Silco refused. Also he was ready to give up his power when Jayce made imprisoning Jinx a requirement for Zaun to gain independence. Sure, he IS motivated to keep his daughter safe, but it would also mean that his goal will finally be achieved, so there's nothing left for him to do. Both wealth and power are only means to achieve a goal to him. He also doesn't really display that he gets the kick out of it, unlike councilors in Piltover.

"Well yes he wants Zaun to be independent, but only as he personally sees it" when did he EVER say that??😭😭😭😭 Every time he speaks on the topic he only mentions how he wants Zaunites to have opportunities, respect, "more than (Piltover's) runoff". Like- that's literally everything he ever said about this. All that matters to him is independence, he couldn't care less about everything else.

As to "losing his way"...idk I think this can only be attributed to pre-drowning Silco. Because after it he pretty much decided to stick to what he now believed in forever, and at no point except the finale he went south from his beliefs.

Silco isn't "misguided" or "corrupt" or any other similar definition. He's a character who chose to become a monster to bring change to his people. And as s2 didn't do anything about resolving this conflict, he was never really proven wrong.

[sillymommy6969]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝕭AD HABITS

Manon Bannerman x fem!reader

summary: you knew dating was always going to be hard as an idol, whomever it would be with. you made it clear with manon when she accidentally fell for you—and now she seeks solace in a bad habit, it’s the only time you seem to care about her…

warnings: slight!nsfw, angst, drinking, suggestive/sexual themes (dom!manon), toxic!reader, down-bad!manon

Manon sat at the bar, nursing a glass of bourbon, the amber liquid swirling in her glass as if it could somehow calm the storm raging inside her. She was no stranger to the bar scene, being a big party animal prior to her dream academy days. The bar was dim, barely lit by a few low-hanging lamps, and the low hum of the crowd faded into the background. But all she could hear was the deafening silence in her mind, punctuated by memories she wished she could erase.

She reached for her drink, letting the scratch of alcohol burn its way down her throat and spread through her chest.

It was the only thing that helped—at least for a little while. The warmth that filled her didn’t erase the ache, but it dulled it, enough that she could pretend for a second that things could be different. Nor did the alcohol fill the growing void that seemed to deepen every-time she was ushered out of Y/N’s room late at night. But when she was drowning in alcohol, she wasn’t drowning in the overbearing waters of Y/N L/N.

Katseye was not complete without their centre.

Manon may have been known for her visuals, her undeniable beauty and her irresistible stage presence, but Y/N was the ultimate centre of the group.

Her voice paired Sophia’s well, hitting notes normal humans could only dream of. She made a very visually appealing pair with Daniela, and absolutely aced tiktok dances with Megan. Every fan who had discovered Kasteye fell in love with her, one way or another. Manon was no exception.

Y/N, the one who made her heart beat faster with just a glance, the one whose voice, when it blended with hers during their band's performances, could bring her to tears. Y/N, who had always been just a little bit out of reach.

It was silly, really, to hope that something might come of it.

She remembered the first time they had spent any real time together, alone. They had just moved in and the girls decided on a movie night to break the couch in. When everybody else had retired to their rooms at around one, Manon and Y/N were the only ones left. Y/N wanted to call her parents, to tell them she was well and excited for what’s to come of her career and she didn’t want to keep Lara up with her talking. Manon was just giving Daniela the room to do the same, but she couldn’t help but stare up and away from her phone when Y/N would laugh softly at something her dad had said.

When Y/N bid her parents goodnight, there was a bit of an awkward pause before the two fell into a comfortable flow of casual coversation.

It was supposed to be nothing more than casual. But there was something about the way Y/N looked at her, a softness in their eyes that made Manon’s stomach twist. For a moment, she had believed—no, convinced herself—that Y/N felt the same way she had since they met on dream academy. That the lingering touches, the way they’d laugh a little too loudly when their hands brushed, the crazy eye contact meant something.

And for a while, it had felt like it did.

But that was before she let herself fall too deep into it.

She took another sip of her drink, grimacing at the burn. She should’ve known better. She should’ve seen it for what it was from the start—one of those fleeting moments where people connect, but it doesn’t go anywhere. Where someone gives you just enough to make you believe in a future, only to pull it away when it’s too late to walk away without getting hurt.

One night, just about the same as the first night they found themselves alone, Manon finally caved into the desperate desire gnawing away at her self-control.

They were sitting on the couch, Manon’s arm over the top of the cushions behind Y/N’s shoulders.

They put on this movie Y/N had been nagging Manon to watch with her. It was some stupid feature film Manon can’t even remember the name of. It didn’t matter, the whole time the movie played, the Ghanaian woman could not keep her eyes off the younger singer sitting inches away from her. And after thirty minutes of mustering up what little courage she had—which was unusual for a normally cocky and confident Manon—and slid just a little closer to Y/N.

The younger hadn’t seemed to notice, too entrapped in the movie to feel Manon’s warmth close in on her body.

Manon bit her lip, her eyes darting between the way Y/N’s lashes fluttered with each blink, the way her lips were slightly pursed in anticipation for what the film had in store next.

Manon could hear it, her heart drumming against her chest, as blood pumped frantically to the tips of her ears. When Y/N had suddenly grabbed her thigh in shock at a certain jumpscare on the screen, Manon’s breath hitched. The younger laughed it off, apologizing for the sudden outburst.

But, Manon just grabbed the hand that had retreated.

Instead, the arm that was once resting behind Y/N on the couch swung down to circle around the younger’s waist, lifting her lightly off the cushions to be positioned under Manon.

When Manon was overcome by the urgency in her, she leant in to take Y/N’s lips with her own. She did not push her away, she did not stop her, instead, she moaned against the older woman’s mouth, silenced by another caress of her tongue. Manon pleaded for her to stay quiet, so none of the other girls would be awoken by their activity. Y/N only nodded, seeing stars as her teeth sunk into her hand, the other pushing the Ghanaian’s woman deeper in between her legs.

It was a night that changed her life forever.

Weeks after that night, Y/N found herself craving Manon’s lips pressing burning kisses on her body again. But she promised herself at the very beginning—the day Katseye was born—that she would always put her career first. She didn’t think she’d have to worry about relationships with the dating ban in place. She was too busy to go meet new people anyway, and it was all going good until that night.

Still, she would eventually give in to her desires.

It started off with a simple “Hey, you still up?” text, which would then turn into Manon sneaking into Y/N’s room when Lara would be off depending a late night at the studio.

It was so blissful, the feeling of Manon tasting every inch of skin Y/N had to offer. And Manon would make sure to savour the sweet, sweet tingle of Y/N struggling to keep herself from screaming her name for the entire dorm to hear. Because she knew once she’d come down from her high, the work-obsessed, heartless Y/N would come back.

Manon could still remember that night—all too vividly—the night it all fell apart.

They had been rehearsing in the studio, the girls working through a new song they hear going to record. Y/N had been unusually quiet that day, which, in itself, was strange. Y/N was always the one who would lead the girls in song, who would bridge the gap between a simple song and a work of art. when the tension started to rise. But that day, something was different. Manon felt an unease that settled in her chest.

She had caught Y/N’s eye across the room, offering a smile. But instead of the usual warmth in return, Y/N had looked away almost immediately.

It was no different to the way Y/N would usually respond to her, but the younger woman’s reserved attitude with the others raised all kinds of red flags. It wasn’t anything concrete. But that night, when she would come up to cuddle after cleaning her lips of any remnants of Y/N, the younger would almost inch away with a regretful aura. When Manon had tried to brush it off and pull the woman closer, to breathe in the faint lavender aroma from her hair, her beautiful voice uttered the nastiest words.

“Lara’s on her way home. Get out.”

That was the exact moment it really sank in for Manon—Y/N wasn’t in love with her. They were never going to be more than what they were. They were bandmates, colleagues, friends was pushing it, outside that room. Nothing more. And yet, here she was under this woman’s sheets again, clinging to the fantasy, as though it would be enough.

The sound of a chair scraping against the floor pulled Manon out of her thoughts. She looked up, blinking away the haze of alcohol. Y/N was standing there, those piercing eyes staring her down. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze softening with an unreadable expression.

“Manon,” Y/N said quietly, walking over to her. Her voice was like a taunt, a cruel reminder of everything she wanted but could never have.

Manon took another drink, not wanting to look up. She wasn’t sure if she could face her—she’d give in again.

“Manon, this is the third time this week,” she said, her voice thick, “The girls are getting worried about you.”

Y/N slid into the space between Manon’s bar stool and the one beside her, her warm breath brushing the Ghanaian woman’s cheek. She waved the bartender over, quickly asking for Manon’s tab before turning to focus on the latter. Her hands rose to brush Manon’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Manon’s chest hurt, she felt like throwing up.

“Just leave me alone,” she sniffed, “I can spend my night off however I like. I’m fine.”

Y/N didn’t want to push her, biting her lip. It was a nervous habit Manon pointed out multiple times, she had done a good job keeping her anxiety in check, but she was really beginning to worry about her. She was just there, existing in the same space, and Manon wanted to believe that was enough.

But it wasn’t. It never was.

Y/N tilted their head, her gaze softening as she studied her.

The bags under Manon’s eyes darkened, her eyes hooded and her lips glossy from a thick coat of liquor. Her shoulders were slumped and she laid across the bar surface.

She was completely wasted.

“You’re not fine, Manon. You need to stop drinking.”

Manon’s breath hitched, and—in a sort of protest—she took another long swig of her bourbon, her hand trembling slightly. “I’m just… I’m just tired, okay?”

Y/N sighed, swallowing thickly. She reached out slowly, careful not to move too quick before Manon flinched away. Her fingers grabbed the glass, fingertips gently brushing Manon’s hand as she slowly pulled it away from her grasp. She set it away on the bar, quickly motioning for the bartender to pick it up.

“Come on,” Y/N urged, a hand travelling down the small of Manon’s back, “Let’s go home, Meret. Please?”

Her first name. The only person she allowed to call her by name besides her parents. She absolutely loathed how smoothly it rolled off her tongue, like an enticing purr. It was much more rewarding, hearing it sung from her throat when she was writhing beneath her in bed, but now, it was just another crude reminder Manon wanted gone.

“Why do you keep doing this to me?” she whispered, not looking at Y/N. “Why do you keep… pulling me back.”

There was a long pause, the kind of silence that felt like an eternity. Then, Y/N’s hand found hers, gently, as though afraid she might pull away.

“Manon, please,” Y/N said softly. “Not tonight.”

Manon’s breath caught. She felt the rush of emotions she had tried to bury, rising to the surface. But she couldn’t let them take over—not here, not now. Not when it felt like everything was slipping through her fingers.

“Y/N,” she whispered, the words barely a breath. “I love you so much. I need you. Without you, it’s like I don’t know how to breathe… like I don’t know how to live.”

Y/N shook her head. “Stop, please,” she whispered. “I know you’re going through it, but you can’t drink yourself to death.”

“Why not? What’re you gonna do, start acting like you care about me?” Manon’s tears fell freely now, her body shaking with the weight of everything she had tried to keep inside. “Is that what it’ll take for you to love me? For me to die?”

“I do love you. I’m here right now because I love you. And if you truly loved me, you wouldn’t be sitting here while I stay up at night worrying about where you could possibly be.” Y/N shook her head, her own eyes welling with tears, “I had to promise Sophia tonight I’d bring you home. Y’know, the girls are really concerned about you. They’re trying to talk to you, they’re trying to understand you, but you’re pushing them all away.”

“I don’t care about them, I just… I just want you to want me.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, suffocating her. She stepped closer, but the space between them felt impossibly vast, like there was a whole world separating them, and Y/N was afraid she might never be able to overcome it.

"I—" she started, then stopped. She wanted to say the right thing, the thing that would make everything okay.

Manon stood abruptly, her chair scraping harshly against the floor, the sound of it echoing in the silence. "You don’t love me, Y/N. You never did and I don’t want to be such an idiot. I don’t want to keep coming back to you and your selfish ways.”

Y/N opened their mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Manon let out a bitter laugh, though it was shaky, almost hysterical. "Every time, I kept waiting, kept thinking maybe you’d see me, maybe you'd love me the way I love you. But you never do. And I’m so stupid, Y/N. So fucking stupid."

Y/N’s heart was hammering in their chest, their hands trembling as they took a step toward Manon, reaching out as though to bridge the distance between them.

“Meret, I’m begging you. Let me take you home.”

How could she say no to her? To the love of her life?

Y/N reached out again, her hands still. She tucked a rogue braid behind Manon’s ear, taking her leaning into her hand as a “yes” to guiding her out the bar and into Y/N’s BMW outside.

The drive home, Manon had dozed off, her body sluggish in the passenger seat as Y/N glanced back and forth between the road and the woman. It wasn’t long before she pulled into the driveway of Katseye’s dorm. She carefully assisted Manon’s limp body through the door and up the stairs, careful to stay quiet as to not wake the other girls. She could see Sophia standing in her doorway, giving her a nod before retiring to her room for the night.

When Manon was tucked into bed, her clothes stripped of and changed into her pjs, Y/N carefully tiptoed her way into Manon and Daniela’s bathroom, grabbing cotton pads and makeup remover to clean the smudged mascara from the Ghanaian woman’s features.

Y/N made sure the older woman was nestled under her blankets comfortably, brushing her hair from her face as she sat bedside and stared.

Placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, Y/N left the room.

Maybe just for another night, Manon’s receiving the affection she craved. Whether she was aware of it or not.

[avocadorablepirate]

Beneath The Surface - 1

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x fem!reader

Summary: When memories, buried deep within your sea of emotions, resurface, you’re left to question what lies beneath the surface. Did he truly mean to leave you behind, or was there something more to his silence than you ever understood?

Word Count: 1.2K

Warnings: angst, swearing, mentions of death, OP spoilers

previous | next

So I haven’t properly proofread this chapter…been a bit sick this past week, but I was determined to post this part today. It’s not terrible though 🤔…I think.

You had locked yourself up in your room, claiming to be unwell. The truth was simpler: your mind had been consumed by memories you thought you had buried. Memories of him. The boy who once soothed your pain had become the man responsible for it.

He left me behind.

That thought replayed in your head, each repetition sinking deeper into your chest. Just the image of his face brought a sickening churn of emotions — hurt, betrayal, anger, and a flicker of something you refused to name.

The soft knock on your door is what finally drew your attention away from your thoughts. On the other side of the door stood Viola, a small but gentle smile on her face when she found you sprawled on your bed.

“I heard you were feeling sick, everything okay?” she asked, as she made her way further into your bedroom.

“Yeah, nothing a good day’s rest won’t cure,” you responded, and her lips immediately contorted into a frown.

“Then you’re not going to be too happy about this.” Her voice softened, tinged with regret. “Doflamingo needs you.”

You sighed, pushing yourself up into a sitting position. Of course he needs me. You didn’t know why you ever thought you’d be able to get a day to yourself, it had rarely occurred before.

“Of course he does,” you muttered under your breath, setting aside the book you had been pretending to read.

Viola gave you a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry. If it were up to me, I'd let you rest."

You forced a smile, appreciating her kindness. "It's okay. Thanks, Viola."

She nodded, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze before leaving the room. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself for whatever Doflamingo had in store.

The walk to his room felt long and unpleasant as always. The entire palace always made you uncomfortable, its grandeur a stark contrast to the simpler, slightly happier times of your childhood. It was also a reminder of the life you once lived along side your parents, and without him to console you over those memories, it only brought more pain.

But it hadn’t always been like this. You remember when you first moved in, though a palace, it had a comforting and almost cozy feel to it. However, Doflamingo had made drastic changes, his reason being that the Donquixote family should live in a place that befitted them.

You had tried to get him to let you live outside the palace, the discomfort it brought had been too much at first. But Doflamingo insisted that the entire Donquixote family stay within the palace walls. And that’s why you had tried to make your own room as comfortable as possible. However, that had done little to help. With how often Doflamingo made you run around doing errands for him, or insisted that he watch over you, there was barely any time to relax.

As you gave a soft knock against the heavy wooden doors, to let Doflamingo know you had arrived, you pushed it open to find him standing by the window, his back turned to you as you entered.

“You summoned me, Doffy?" you called out, as you slowly made your way towards him, the atmosphere of the room always making you feel uneasy. It was as if the room itself embodied his very being - intimidating and frightening.

He turned on hearing your voice, a smile plastered on his face. "Ah, my little Rose there you are. Feeling better, I hope?"

You nodded, knowing the question was nothing more than a pleasantry. "What do you need?"

His smile widened, and an eerie chill ran down your spine. "I have a special task for you. I need you to retrieve someone for me."

You frowned, confused by his unforeseen happiness. You had heard there was an incident at Punk Hazard, and although you didn’t know the details, you knew Doflamingo had been beyond enraged. It was another reason why you had chosen to stay in your room, to avoid his temper. So, his uncharacteristic cheerfulness almost baffled you.

“Who?” you questioned, although you had an inkling of who it might be.

“Caesar,” he said simply, his tone light but his eyes watching your reaction closely. “I’m sure you’ve heard, there’s been some...issues. I want you to bring him back from Greenbit."

A wave of confusion hit you once again. “Why me?”

It wasn’t like him to send you on retrieval missions. While you had been privy to fights and conflicts, you had never been a fan of them, and Doflamingo knew this. It was why you mainly ran around doing tasks within the palace. He had called it “protection,” but you had always suspected he thought you too soft-hearted for the darker work.

It had happened before, when you were younger and out on a mission. He had nearly lost you then, and he wouldn’t have it happen again.

“I’ve decided you need to be involved in these matters as well. You can’t be the only one who doesn’t get involved, it’s not fair to you. ” A cold knot of dread formed in your stomach when you saw Doflamingo's eyes glint dangerously. You had thought that you would be able to stay away from such tasks given your temperament, but that had clearly changed.

“But why now?” you asked, and you could feel your heart rate pick up when Doflamingo gave you an almost sinister smile.

“We’re short on people. The pirates who attacked Punk Hazard killed Monet, so we need as much backup as we can get. Plus, the others think you need to start doing your bit,” he said, almost nonchalantly, as if the death of one of his comrades didn’t bother him at all. But you brushed it off, subconsciously convincing yourself it was his way of dealing with grief. “And I think this would be the perfect opportunity to test you Rosie.”

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the task ahead. You had always known that the latest additions to the Donquixote family, all but Viola, did not like the almost favouritism that Doflamingo showed - always tasking you with the simpler jobs. This was your chance to prove your worth, and finally get them off your case. Besides, what harm would come from a simple retrieval mission?

"Alright, Doffy. I’ll bring Caesar back."

He smiled, a satisfied gleam in his eyes, almost akin to a predator satisfied with its prey. "Good. And remember, I expect nothing less than success."

As you stepped out into the hall, your resolve wavered slightly, the enormity of the task ahead settling in.

So caught up in your thoughts, you didn’t notice that someone had walked by you into the room. The shutting of the door is what finally drew you out of your thoughts and you briefly glanced back, the voices within the room, a stark reminder of the life you had chosen.

You shook off the unease and focused on the task at hand. Whatever doubts you had, you pushed them aside. There was no room for weakness. You had a mission to complete, and you would do it with all the strength you could muster. For the town you now called home and the people you called family.

As you walked away, the voices in the room grew distant, and you missed out on listening in on a conversation that would have likely saved you from your impending misfortune.

“Doffy why are you sending her to retrieve Caesar?”

Despite his recent misfortune, another sinister smile spread across Doflamingo’s face. “It’s about time I test her abilities. And who better than Law to be the test subject?”

—————

Part 1 done! I feel like I may have included some unnecessary bits here and there, but oh well. I hope you liked it. Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist.

taglist: @riftmage27

[hoonwonlvr]

ROSES ౨ৎ — a L.HS drabble.

SYPNOSIS : Heeseung and Y/N had once shared a love so deep and intense, it was like a living, breathing thing. Every moment they spent together was like a petal on a rose, fragile and fleeting, yet impossibly beautiful. They had been young, reckless, and wildly in love. They had promised each other forever, foolishly believing that nothing could come between them.

☆ . ・But life, as it often does, had other plans.

PAIRING : exbf!heeseung x exgf!reader

WARNING(s) : reader bleeds from the thorns of a rose , drabble

WC : 713

They had drifted apart, the world pulling them in different directions, their love fading slowly like a rose wilting in the sun. But the memories remained, like thorns that dug deep into their hearts, a constant reminder of what they had once had and what they had lost. Every time Heeseung looked at a rose, he was reminded of Y/N, of the sweet memories they had shared. He missed the sound of her voice, the feel of her skin, the scent of her hair. Sometimes it felt like he was drowning in his own sadness, like he was trapped in a never-ending cycle of longing and regret.

They had tried to move on, to find happiness with other people. But those relationships had always paled in comparison to what they had shared. They had found themselves constantly comparing every new love to the intense connection they had once had, and always coming up short.

But despite everything, they had been unable to completely let go of each other. There was always a part of them that still longed for each other, like the lingering scent of a rose that refuses to fade. Heeseung would find himself listening to sad songs, imagining what life would be like if they were still together. Y/N would dream of Heeseung's smile, wake up with a sense of emptiness in her heart. One day, Heeseung was walking through a flower market when he came across a small, perfect rose. It was a soft blush-pink color, the petals a velvety texture. As he looked at it, memories flooded his mind. A picnic under a rose-covered arbor. Y/N, laughing and carefree, her hands covered in rose thorns. He reached out and touched the soft petals, his heart aching with longing.

Y/N happened to be walking by the same flower market, her eyes scanning the array of colorful blossoms. And then she saw it - a single rose that looked like it was begging to be picked. Its petals were a deep, rich red, the thorns sharp and demanding. As she looked at it, she remembered a night under the stars, Heeseung's arms wrapped around her, his lips against her neck.

Without thinking, she reached out and plucked the rose from its stem. The thorns pricked her skin, leaving behind tiny pinpricks of blood. As she looked at the injured finger, she felt a pang in her heart. She didn’t even know why she had picked the rose. It was as if it had been calling out to her, like a beacon of the past. Y/N cradled the rose in her hands, staring down at the blood staining her fingers. For a moment, she just stood there, lost in thought. And then, as if she was being pulled by an invisible force, she began walking.

Her footsteps were purposeful, driven by an instinct she couldn't explain. She knew exactly where she was going, even though she hadn’t consciously made the decision to go there. Before she knew it, she was standing outside a familiar building. It was the apartment complex where Heeseung lived. Y/N hesitated for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest. What was she doing here? What was she hoping to achieve?

She clutched the rose tighter, the thorns digging into her skin. It was foolish, she knew. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t see him again, that she would move on. But here she was, unable to resist the pull towards him. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, steeling herself. She pressed the buzzer for Heeseung's apartment. For a moment, there was no response, and she began to wonder if he was even home. And then, to her surprise, the door opened, and Heeseung stood there, looking as handsome as ever. He stared at her in disbelief, his eyes widening at the sight of her holding the rose, the blood trickling from her wounded finger.

"Y/N," he said, his voice soft. "What are you doing here?" He sounded confused, and maybe a little bit hopeful. He looked at the rose in her hand, his gaze drifting to her injured finger.

She held up the rose, the petals stained with her blood. "I don’t know," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just... I felt like I had to come here. Like I needed to see you." He stepped aside, gesturing for her to come in. As she entered the apartment, she felt a wave of nostalgia wash over her. Everything looked the same as it had when they'd been together - the worn-down leather sofa, the photographs lining the walls.

He guided her to the sofa, his hand gently at her back. He gestured for her to sit down, and sat down next to her. He took her injured finger in his hand, examining the wounds from the thorns. He gently ran his finger over the wounds, his touch soft and tender. "You’re bleeding, Y/N," he said, his voice low. "You should be more careful." She just nodded, her heart racing. The feeling of his hand on her skin was sending ripples of electricity through her body. She hadn't realized how much she had missed the sound of his voice, the way he said her name.

He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze searching. "Why are you here, Y/N?" He repeated the question, his tone softer now. "Why did you come here tonight?" She didn’t know how to answer. How could she explain the inexorable pull that had led her here? How could she describe the aching longing in her heart? “I don’t know,” she repeated, her voice thick with emotion. “I just...I wanted to see you.”

He took the rose from her hands, his fingers brushing against hers. He examined it, his expression unreadable. The silence between them was heavy, charged with unspoken words and unresolved feelings. "This rose," he said, breaking the silence, "it’s just like us." He looked up at her, his eyes sad. "Beautiful on the outside, but with thorns that bite when you get too close." She nodded, understanding. It was a perfect metaphor for their relationship. So much beauty and joy, mixed with pain and heartache. A thorny love that left deep, lasting scars.

He set the rose down on the coffee table, his eyes never leaving her face. He placed his hand on her cheek, his thumb tracing a path over her skin. "Y/N," he said, and she could hear the aching in his voice. "I never stopped thinking about you."

© hoonwonlvr, don't steal or copy, ty!

- sorry guys this isn’t what i usually do i just felt like no smut for td….. and i was also really lazy :(( i was gonna continue it but then i was like umm NO! anw thank you SOSOSOSOSOSO much for over 100 likes on BOTH of my other posts and 18 followers! ily all so much💗💗💗

[deweysdenouement]

“This stays between us,” Ernest instructs his brother as Frank silently stitches the small but deep wound on his right side. “Seriously. Not even if Dewey asks.”

“I’ve never been accused of being a gossip,” Frank murmurs, finishing his work with surgeon-like precision.

“Come on, you owe me one.” Ernest nudges him with his boot. “That man thought I was you.”

“I always tell you not to do that,” Frank scowls. “You should have let me take the hit.”

“You would do the same for me. You have done the same for me.”

Frank drops the used needle into the tray beside his couch with a clank and a blank expression. “That was different,” he says. “I didn’t know the poison was in the sugar. I thought the violence would start after the tea.”

“You expect too much civility from your side,” Ernest tells him. “They were trying to kill either way. Why let someone finish their breakfast?”

“They were very polite.” Frank pours rubbing alcohol onto a cotton pad. “And J always…hey, do not scratch those stitches.”

“My associates just went for the gut.” Ernest winces at the burning sensation of the alcohol. “Didn’t take much of a look at me.”

Frank stares at him. He’s got the kind of stare that goes right through a person.

“What?”

“You’re upset,” Frank states.

“Alright, Captain Empathy.” Ernest rolls his eyes. “I scratched the stitches and it hurt, just get on with telling me off.”

“That would probably make both of us feel better,” Frank agrees. “But I’m asking you why anyway.”

“If you’d been the one who got stabbed, you’d have clammed up until the end of time,” Ernest says bitterly.

“We’re different people.” Frank puts down the cotton pad and folds his hands.

“I wish we were,” Ernest snaps, which he doesn’t mean to say at all, but his side is burning and a not-insignificant amount of his blood is on the floor.

Frank just nods. He doesn’t need any further explanation.

“Do you remember when we were little?” Ernest asks finally. “Before…before everything. And I cried because we all got different colour scarves for our birthday and I wanted red like yours?”

“So we’d match.” Frank smiles a little. “Yours was green.”

“And Dewey’s was yellow.” Ernest nods. “But Father sat us down and he told us that he didn’t want us to just be identical triplets our whole lives. He wanted us all to be as different as we could possibly be. That’s the only memory I have of him.”

“I remember,” Frank’s voice is soft. “I don’t think they ever mixed us up once.”

“I hate that they believed I was you so easily,” he says. Then, “No offence.”

Frank snorts.

“They don’t see a single tell,” he continues. “We’re one person on two sides. Where do you draw the line? What’s me, and what’s me pretending to be you? And what’s me pretending to be you pretending to be me? Are we both just pretending to be a manager?”

“Ernest.” Frank holds out a hand. “Stop.”

“Sorry.” Ernest shakes his head. “Too sincere for you?”

“I read the files on our parents,” Frank says quietly.

Ernest stills. Dewey had handed them each a copy of VFD’s records of their parents some years ago. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to read them, and neither had Ernest. He had been under the impression that Frank had never touched them either. The last he was aware, none of them knew a single thing about their parents beyond blurry, unreliable memories.

“How is that relevant?” Ernest says at last.

“Because…” Frank considers his words. “I looked at all these photos. I read people’s accounts of meeting them. Letters they wrote, diary entries. Even their school reports.”

“And?”

“And I’m nothing like them.” Frank smiles grimly. “I’m too neurotic, I was too clingy at school, I don’t laugh much. Our mother loved sesame and I’m allergic. Our father couldn’t focus on anything, but I can’t put something down until it’s finished. And they seemed so fun.”

“Where is this going?”

“Let me finish.” Frank huffs. “Our father questioned everything. He made trouble every single day at school, but it was because he had the strongest sense of justice any of those teachers had ever seen. He was charming and funny and he loved the sauna. He was a terrible dancer but a great singer. He wanted to be a cowboy when he was little.”

“Frank.” He can feel a dam starting to crack, something swelling to bursting in his chest.

“You’re not me,” Frank says sternly but gently. “You’re our father’s son. And that man is so loved and so missed. Which I’m told he would have been cocky about.”

Ernest laughs a little shakily.

Later, when he returns to his own room to rest, he finds a photo tucked into the pages of the book on his nightstand.

The man in it has a squarer jaw and darker hair, but the smile that looks back at him is like staring in a mirror.

[heliosthegriffin]

Hmm? *Raises eye-brow* Give me a minute.

-----

Home. Is where he wished he was going to die. One last grace for a lifetime, no, many lifetimes of servitude to the greatness of the Imperium, even in regards to the near-immortal life of an Astarte. A grace he would not receive, as he lay dying on the quickly decaying steps of this Temple of heresy and death on some forgotten moon in the depths of uncharted space.

His last adversary in this life, a horror that would drive lesser men to madness, a mixture of flesh, metal, and warp-energies aiming to pull an entire sector of the Imperium into it's own personal realm of Peace and Torment, had already passed from this realm, his blade lodged to the pommel in it's skull, it's enormous body having crushed it's temple in it's death throes, and Jaunes as well.

His eyes were growing weaker and dimmer by the moment, his slow death spanning hours, as his limbs growing weaker, colder, number, and one of his hearts crushed, and its backup organ only barely managing to delay his passing in cold agony. It was in those moments that Jaune reflected, looking around the dead realm around him.

His eyes transcribing into his mind the lost souls that had fought with him in this suicide mission, he tried his best to remember them, to have someone keep their memory alive, till he passed.

A flame lit in his dying eyes, and he forced his broken body up, his master-crafted armor sparking and groaning in it's death-throes, yet meeting his demands, as he walked to the last remaining uncorrupted stone on this world that slowly died with him as it's masters influence that kept it together disappeared.

Pulling out his combat knife, he gouged the stone, not harshly like some of his cousins might have, but with all the grace and skill being a Son of the Great Angel demanded, and Jaune was amongst his oldest sons left alive. Putting each name that followed him here to stone and story, nothing left unsaid about them, if abridged. But, managing to put all but one name onto the stone before he collapsed, a smile on his face, he had enough written about him, let the real heroes be remembered.

His eyes barely saw outside the dark, as he felt the air hum so briefly and quickly were he a less experience marine, he'd have never known it happened at all. A golden giant was next to him, peering down at him and his last work, dwarfing even the largest astartes he had met.

With a bleeding smile, Jaune decided he had earned a bit of coyness. "You wouldn't happen to be the Emperor would you?"

The figure shook his head, then looked at his work again. "I've always admired that about the Blood Angels and their successors, your art would have made your progenitor proud."

"Thank you for a comforting this dying old man," Jaune felt his vision leave him. "I suppose you came to verify my death? Or to clean up what might be left?" His hands didn't respond anymore. His auspex systems stopped working. He was alone in the darkness, but he was not deaf at the least, nor mute. His brothers always had said he talked too much, the ones that became astartes that same time as him. "If it wouldn't be too much of a bother, could you give me a clean death, and bring this with you? If my story ends at the hand of a Custodes of the Emperor, rather than a slow death, I'd feel more honorable about it." Jaune wanted to mention the sword, his sword, but it had never worked for anyone else like it did for him, better it die with him, than get a Brother killed trying to use it. "If not, please just take this epitaph with you, let our work be remembered, don't let them die in anonymity, they have earned their place." His words grew weaker, and he barely heard the Custodes chilling response, and felt his touch on his armor.

"Cousin, your work is not over, the Emperor has need of you." Then there was a pull, and Jaune felt darkness and terror overtake him.

-----

Darkness.

Calm, cold darkness. Peace, a lonely, quiet peace. No one to disturb him, just him and his rest. Was this death?

He stirred.

No. He was not so blessed.

For the Emperor was a cruel master.

His peace was removed, as simultus was forced through fiber connections straight into his nervous system, reactivating ancient neural pathways. Eyes connected into arcane advanced technology that let him see through artifical eyes. The Black Carapace was connected into this hulking machine, letting him control cold metal limbs like he had been born with him.

The Emperor protects.

But, at what cost?

The Emperor damns.

The Venerable Chapter Master Jaune moved and saw light in his new metal frame. Spying the Custodes responsible, the urge to swat him like a bug was barely resistible. "Greetings Honored Cousin."

"Greetings to you as well, Venerable Chapter Master, I see you are adjusting well to your new body."

"Indeed." His voice through the Dreadnought frame was metallic and bass, yet still him. "My work is not done yet,"

"Yes," There was a trace of respect, and knowing in his voice. "Your Brothers await you."

Jaune examined the room, and spied two things. One his blade, resized for his new form, and two, his last work made with hands of flesh.

Taking the blade, he called to the Custode. "I thought this would be impossible to remove," Metal wires mixed with warp-fire he thought had fused it into the fiends skull. Peering at it's blade, he for a moment, he thought, no, he knew, he saw the being staring at him from within.

The Custode merely gave him a glance. "If any Astartes is worthy of being its warden, it must be you, Cousin."

"I see," One more for link to the chains that binded him. He turned and examined his carved stone, and he realized they were in his quarters. He'd leave it here, a reminder. Then with no small amount of tiredness, Jaune followed the Custode to meet his Brothers once again, and to fight once again, until he had nothing left he could sacrifice, until he was nothing. Only then, if he was so blessed, would the Emperor release him.

Jaune arc blogs are either depressed or poly amorous and usually both.

[v0dkasrighthand]

It had been weeks since the incident. The two best friends had gotten drunk after a Rebel Mission together. It was all a bit hazy to Dylan, honestly. They almost wrecked someones car, laughing and taking pictures, before just managing to bolt back home before anyone could spot them. Wouldn’t want a repeat van incident, after all.

Eric had asked to stay the night at his place, seeing as it was the weekend and they had nothing else planned. After much begging, Dylan’s mom had said yes to the two and given them control over the house as she left to stay with a friend.

This meant the two could get freely drunk, and drunk they got.

The most Dylan remembered was the two stumbling down to the basement after nearly half a bottle of vodka had vanished into their systems. The feeling of skin against skin, rough hands grasping him, the desire to take and take and the lust for more and more.

So it was no surprise that, in the morning, the two both pretended they remembered nothing from their drunken stupor. And though Dylan believed Eric and Eric believed him, the two both knew themselves that those memories and lingering feelings never would vanish.

That wasn’t the only problem, however. Dylan frequently found himself harshly woken up in the morning with swings of nausea and forced to hunch over as he retched his insides out.

The mood swings didn’t help, either. He thought he was going insane with the stress of knowing what he had done, his mood swinging faster than a drunken man on a nightclub floor.

He tried his best to contain them, but it didn’t help when he saw who he blamed for all this nearly everyday, Eric. He had slipped up once, and yelled at the other harshly. But once again he felt the swinging of the pendulum and a familiar wave of despair befall him at the sight of Erics widened eyes and his legs taking a few steps back. He tried apologizing, but nothing came out.

He eventually decided to get to the bottom of it, researching online whenever his mother wasn’t home. But the only answer he found seemed so rediculous he felt himself laughing until there were the formations of tears in the corners of his eyes.

Yet as he continued with these bouts of nausea, mood swings, even odd cravings here and there, he got more and more desperate.

So he tried clearing his thoughts and ignoring the dread gnawing at his heart and frontal lobe as he stood at a pharmacy section of a local store, package in hand as he walked away as quick as possible.

All this had led to him not having much time for Eric, and when factoring in his sudden session of yelling at the other boy one day as school ended, he had expected the other to be pissed with him. Though Eric normally seemed pissed about most things these days, it seemed.

So it came as a shock to Dylan when Eric asked to come over one saturday, weeks later. Though the two could pretend nothing happened, the anxiousness of being near the other remained constant.

As Dylan put the home phone down after giving him permission, he couldn’t help but smile despite the crushing sense of anxiety that fell over him.

Dylan couldn’t stop the pacing he found himself doing as he awaited his best friends arrival. Eventually, he forced himself to stop. He marched into the bathroom nearby, taking out the package and tearing it open.

“Better get this over with before he gets here,” Dylan said to himself. He made sure the door was fully locked despite the fact he was, as of now, the only person in the house, the rest of his family gone at some dumb restaurant outting.

…

The blonde haired man looked deeply into the mirror, as if daring it to stop looking back. When it stayed the exact same, he sighed and pushed back with the palms of his thin white hands.

“Shit, how will I ever tell him?,” he murmured to himself. He knew he could tell his best friend anything. … Right? Yet at the same time, the eternal fear of judgement and abandoment crept over him, its shadowy claws grabbing his body and feeling as if it would tear him to shreds.

“You okay in there, dude?”

Dylan jolted at the sound of the other males voice. He had been so caught up in his own little world he entirely forgot that he invited the other over just now.

“Yeah! Just, uh, give me a second!”

He yelled back. This seemed to be an acceptable answer, as Eric didn’t respond.

He slipped the item he had just finished using into his pocket. Dylan looked up, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and stepped out.

His shorter friend smiled at the sight of him. Dylan saw he already made himself at home in his room, but he supposed it made sense, what with the two being almost inseperable.

Dylan casually sat down at the edge of his bed, which Eric was sprawled out across.

The older man must’ve saw his expression, as his eyes narrowed.

“Something’s up. I can tell,” he put simply. Dylan smiled nervously, but he knew he couldn’t just talk his way out of it like he did with others.

He took a deep breath. He knew Eric better than anyone, he knew he could confess this… he just knew it. Like a pull in his gut that drove him to the man.

“Just- Just promise not to get mad,” he said tentatively, carefully watching the others expression for even a hint of malice in Erics face.

“Okay, fine, you fuckin’ anxious wreck. Promise.”

Dylan smiled at his sarcastic remark and smirk.

“So, you remember how we got drunk a few weeks ago and, uhm, well…”

Dylan trailed off. Those memories were still fresh in his mind like an iron press ingrating it onto his brain. Eric tensed. He expected the other to have forgotten all about that night, with how often he got drunk off his mind. He looked away from the younger man, but after a few moments looked back.

“… Yeah. Why?”

Short and simple, he told himself. Don’t freak Dylan out or anything, don’t scare him off after they’ve already come so far.

He paused when Dylan gulped and fumbled with something in his pocket.

“Whatcha got there, V?”

Eric sat up as he asked this, looking curiously. Dylan sighed. Standing up and on the side of the bed, he looked down at Eric.

In his hand lay a pregnancy test, its sleek white design unmistakable. On a small screen lay two lines, forming the shape of a cross like object.

“Do you want a boy, or a girl?”

Dylan asked meekly, grinning

DYLRIC FANFIC DYLRIC 😩

[cthulhum]

the most insane and unrealistic thing about the finale of supernatural is how sam just had a normal life after all that like i know that was his dream for the longest time and he deserved it but imagine spending decades hunting literal monsters with ur brother and angel best friend and uve stopped multiple apocalypses and saved the world countless times and then u just. move on ??? nah

[byanyan]

me remembering that i used to write the two supernatural muses is like uncovering trauma i forgot about i stg

[sunflowersunite]

~ 🌻 ~

[blackswallowtailbutterfly]

Still haven't messaged my mom back. And I don't think I'm going to.

[nexus-nebulae]

love watching weather science videos but like. why am i 1000x more interested in tornadoes over hurricanes. they're both spinning air