#she’ll never return from the war

[babydykestar]

my work wife is moving to tennessee so her son can pursue his stupid mountain biking hobby so i’m going to kill myself in front of her and her husband and also her son. how do you stop carnal desire for a coworker who would never conceivably fuck you and who is leaving you and who you love working with because shes the only one who is even slightly as strange in the same way you are

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Soft Landings

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader x Azzi Fudd

Fandom: UConn Women’s Basketball

Summary: After giving birth to baby Skylar, you returns home with Paige and Azzi for their first day as a family of three.

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paige05bby , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @shikaizer

There’s something about hospital mornings. They’re too bright and too slow. And everything smells like disinfectant and banana pudding that’s been sitting out too long.

I was already propped up in the bed, Skylar sleeping in her bassinet, when the nurse came in with our discharge paperwork. Paige was up and stretching like she hadn’t just spent the last two nights sleeping in a half-chair, half-human-pretzel formation. Azzi was brushing her teeth with a travel-sized brush and one sock on. She’d been crying quietly again this morning—happy tears, she said.

I felt like I’d been run over by several buses. But Skylar was here. Healthy. Perfect. And we were finally going home.

“Alright,” the nurse smiled. “Ready to go meet the world, Skylar?”

Azzi gasped and immediately scooped her up. “Nope! The world can wait. We’re on private access only for at least 24 hours.”

I laughed softly. My body still ached in strange places. My boobs felt like overinflated water balloons. I was sweating even though the room was cold. But my heart?

It had never been fuller.

Packing up was chaotic in the sweetest way. Paige had a whole system.

“Okay, baby bag, double-checked. Swaddle blanket. Car seat installed last week. You did watch the video I sent, right, Az?”

“I helped install it, Paige.”

“Yeah, but did you watch the video?”

“I was the video!”

I grinned from the bed, watching them buzz around like two over-caffeinated bees. Azzi was checking Skylar’s cap, adjusting it like she was preparing her for a photo shoot. Paige was busy making sure my water bottle, nipple pads, snacks, and every single form the hospital had given us were packed away in the overstuffed duffle.

“Alright,” Paige said, finally exhaling. “You ready, mama?”

The nurse returned with a wheelchair.

“I can walk,” I said immediately.

“Nope,” Azzi grinned, already helping me swing my legs to the edge of the bed. “Hospital policy.”

“But I feel fine—”

“Wheelchair.” Paige pointed. “Sit down, superwoman.”

I scowled, but I sat. The moment I did, I exhaled with relief. My body was not ready to be walking around like I didn’t just push a baby out 72 hours ago.

Paige picked up Skylar, who was strapped into her newborn car seat like a little burrito. Her head lolled slightly and her pouty lips parted in her sleep.

And then Paige did it.

The dad walk.

She held that car seat like it was the most precious, breakable object on Earth—elbows locked, eyes wide, moving like someone carrying nitroglycerin through a war zone. Azzi and I both burst into laughter.

“Stop laughing,” Paige said, turning slowly. “If I tilt her even slightly wrong, she’ll wake up. This is serious. I trained for this.”

Azzi leaned down and kissed my cheek before grabbing the wheelchair handles. “Alright, mama. Let’s get you and Miss Skylar home.”

The ride home was quiet, with only a few occasional whimpers from Skylar in the back seat. Paige drove like she was hauling royal cargo, glaring at every pothole and going 5 under the speed limit.

Azzi held my hand the entire way home.

I don’t know why I teared up when we pulled up to the apartment. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was hormones. Maybe it was the fact that the “Welcome Baby Skylar” banner Kayla taped to the front door was crooked and adorable and spelled ‘Skylaur’ before she crossed out the ‘u’ in Sharpie.

“I love you guys,” I sniffled.

Paige turned off the car and looked back. “We love you more.”

Once we got inside, I barely made it to the couch before Skylar started to fuss. Azzi unbuckled her and brought her over, already cooing.

“Okay, baby girl, let’s try skin-to-skin, huh?” Azzi said, slipping out of her hoodie and cradling Skylar to her chest. Within seconds, Skylar calmed, nestling right under her collarbone like she belonged there.

“She likes your heartbeat,” I whispered, watching from the couch.

“She likes her mommy,” Paige said, settling beside me and handing me a blanket. “And her mama. She knows she’s safe.”

“I thought we were gonna let people come by today,” I said, watching Skylar yawn.

Paige reached over to brush a strand of hair from my face. “We talked about it while you were sleeping. And we said no. You’re not entertaining anybody. You’re healing.”

Azzi nodded, still swaying with Skylar in her arms. “They all saw her enough at the hospital. They’ll see her soon enough. Right now, it’s just us.”

They treated me like a queen the rest of the day.

I tried to clean up after lunch? Paige took the sponge out of my hand.

I tried to fold some of Skylar’s blankets? Azzi gave me a look and pointed toward the couch like I was on a time-out.

I tried to vacuum? Paige literally unplugged the vacuum and said, “Babe. Sit. Down.”

Instead, they brought me food. My favorite food.

All the stuff I couldn’t have while pregnant—sushi, deli meat, extra espresso in my iced coffee. And they didn’t stop there. They brought out a tray full of sweet treats: brownies, sour candy, strawberry cheesecake bites.

“You’re gonna give me a sugar crash,” I groaned, halfway through my brownie.

“That’s the goal,” Azzi grinned. “Then you’ll have to nap.”

Skylar was fussy that afternoon.

Nothing crazy—just those newborn squeaks and whines that made you want to both cry and laugh at the same time. She spit up all over Paige during one diaper change, which Azzi caught in a photo and is absolutely never going to delete.

“She’s so cute,” I whispered that night, just watching her sleep in her bassinet beside our bed.

Paige was rubbing my back with one hand while scrolling through her phone with the other. “You’ve said that like thirty times today.”

“She is though.”

Azzi poked her head in from the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. “She’s gonna get a complex.”

“She’s already got one,” I muttered. “Every time we stop looking at her, she squeaks for attention.”

“Just like her mama,” Paige teased, kissing my shoulder.

“Hey,” I said. “Not wrong. But hey.”

What they didn’t prepare me for?

The breast milk thing.

I woke up at 2am sweating through my shirt and practically leaking.

“Oh my god,” I whispered, staring down at myself. “What the hell.”

Paige stirred next to me. “You okay?”

“I look like I went swimming in my own milk,” I muttered, climbing out of bed slowly. “My boobs feel like they’re gonna explode.”

Azzi helped me set up the pump, both of them whispering sleepy encouragements as I filled the freezer bags with what felt like way too much milk for someone who’d only been home for a day.

“I’m overproducing,” I said quietly, trying not to panic. “It’s too much.”

“You’re amazing,” Paige whispered. “Skylar’s lucky. We’ll make space in the freezer. Don’t worry.”

Azzi kissed my forehead as she labeled the bags. “You’re doing perfect, mama. We’ve got this.”

At 3:30am, I was still awake. Watching Skylar sleep. Her tiny hand rested near her face, lips parted, chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. She made a soft little sound and my heart flipped all over again.

“I see you,” Paige said softly from behind me.

“I’m just watching her.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“She’s so quiet when she sleeps. Like a little angel.”

“You’re also an angel,” she murmured, gently pulling me away. “A tired one. Back in bed, baby.”

Azzi was already fluffing pillows.

“Okay, okay,” I sighed as I climbed in. “But if she cries—”

“She won’t,” Paige whispered, kissing my forehead. “And if she does, we got her.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

That night, wrapped up between them, I felt everything hit at once—the exhaustion, the soreness, the overwhelming love. Not just for Skylar. But for Paige and Azzi. For the home we’d made. For this messy, sacred, beautiful little beginning.

Skylar stirred softly in her bassinet.

Azzi’s hand found mine in the dark.

Paige pressed her cheek against my temple.

And I whispered, “I’ve never been so happy in my life.”

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[shatterinseconds]

Keith snags the cuff of Lance’s Garrison uniform. His gaze remains trained on the fading sunset before them, the soft orange glow finally sinking below the horizon, yet still manages to capture all of Lance’s attention.

“Don’t go,” he says. Lance’s mouth opens, brows rising in confusion; Keith’s grip tightens. “Don’t go on that date with Allura.”

“You—You were the one who convinced me, dude.” Honestly, without Keith’s supportive words no more than a couple minutes ago, he wasn’t planning on going through with it. He’s still not convinced that Allura is entirely enthused by the idea anyways but he asked so he has a promise to keep.

“I was being selfless.”

Keith hasn’t let go of his sleeve but Lance hasn’t tried to pull away either. They’re frozen, locked together. When Lance refuses to give any sort of further response, Keith finally pins his gaze on him. Something churns inside Lance’s stomach, anticipation of sorts, something that sets his nerve endings on fire.

Leaning forward on the balls of his feet, Lance crouches to match Keith’s height where he sits. “What would you do,” he starts, mostly a whisper, as his eyes flick around Keith’s face, “if you were selfish?”

Keith cups the back of Lance’s neck, draws him in until even the last of the sun’s rays can’t find a gap between them, and kisses him. Lance gasps against Keith’s mouth. Caught by the surprise and soft pressure, he quickly returns the favor. He wraps his fingers in Keith’s hair and falls to his knees.

All the while, twilight descends around them.

“That,” Keith answers when he pulls away. His eyes glimmer like the stars and Lance is hypnotized. “I’d do that.”

Lance ducks his head. He struggles to breathe, still caught up in the ‘what the hell just happened’ and ‘did what I think just happened really happen.’ Hesitantly, he touches his lips. “You need to be selfish more often,” he croaks, voice hitching against the back of his throat. 

“So do you.”

An hour from now, Lance will still make good on his promise. He’ll bring Allura to his family’s house but she’ll be introduced as his friend and the woman who has saved him countless times. It’s something she’ll thank him for once the dinner concludes, confessing only platonic feelings for him and nothing more. He’ll never feel more relieved.

Afterwards, he will meet up with Keith. They’ll walk the midnight streets and enjoy each other's company while having a much needed chat. When they return to Earth after the war officially ends, he’ll bring Keith to his parent’s house as he should have done the first time and introduce him as his boyfriend.

Right now, however, in this moment, Lance leans forward to kiss Keith again.

~~~~

Inspired by @lunewarden's amazing art!

[sodamnradd]

“Those are rotten for you.”

Draco jumped, startled by Granger’s presence. He hadn’t heard her coming. How alarming. He needed to be switched on at all times.

A beat too late, he replied, “What do you reckon will kill me first? This,” he lifted the cigarette, “or the war?”

“They turn your teeth yellow.”

His grin bore no kindness. “Who am I trying to impress?”

He’d joined The Order three weeks ago, shared this house with her for eight days, and this was the first time she’d approached him to chat. He was in no mood.

She shouldered past him into the house. “Goodnight, Malfoy.”

-

Granger reached for his cigarette, incensed. “Put that out! They’ll see it.”

He stretched his hand beyond her reach. “We’re bait. Our job is to be seen.”

“Not so obviously.” She Accio’d the cigarette and extinguished it in a huff. “It’s like you want us to get killed.”

Why was she here? She was too crucial for this role. Too valuable to have Draco, the team pariah, as her back up. If he screwed up, she could die.

She didn’t, of course, because when the crack of Apparation shattered the silence, they fought fiercely side by side.

-

A stone skittered down the cliff face and Draco glanced up to find Granger approaching. She swung her legs over the ledge, sitting beside him.

“Can I have some of that?” Her knuckles were dirt-stained. Tears shiny on her cheeks.

He passed her the cigarette.

She took a generous drag, handed it back to him, then put her head between her hands and began to sob.

He didn’t know how to comfort her.

What was another casualty during war? But Granger internalized every death as if she’d committed it herself.

He offered her another drag.

She wound her arms around him instead, as if the offering had been an invitation to seek comfort from him, and buried her face in his chest.

He stiffened. Flicked the cigarette over the edge of the cliff. Then, gradually, placed his arm around her.

The sun slipped behind the endless woods and still they sat there.

-

Draco stubbed his cigarette beneath his shoe and lit another, pacing back and forth.

“I should be at the Forest of Dean tonight,” he said the moment Kingsley entered the room.

“You’re needed here,” replied Kingsley without give.

“Granger and I have been partners for weeks—”

“We’ve told you not to get comfortable—”

“That’s utter bollocks!”

“She’ll be fine,” interrupted Ginny. “She’s with Ron.”

Draco blew smoke in her face.

“Prick,” she spat, storming away.

-

“It’s not that deep,” insisted Granger. But her voice told him otherwise.

He sent her up to his room. Furiously nicking Blood-Replenishing potion and bandages from the emergency supply.

He cleaned the wound on her arm and wrapped it meticulously. Fuming when she flinched. He would strangle Kingsley with his bare hands. This was why they couldn’t be apart.

As Granger slept, Draco smoked through a pack, never taking his eyes off her. What if the spell had slashed an artery? What if it had been a different curse?

There was no freedom in war, but nobody would stand between him and this witch ever again.

-

He was sharing a dart with Susan Bones when Granger entered the yard.

Unaware they had company, Bones boldly suggested, “I’m down to fuck, if you are.”

Draco watched Granger’s eyes flick between them. Her mouth flattened, and she left wordlessly.

“I’ve got someone,” he said, watching her shadow retreat. He didn’t yet, but hopefully soon.

-

Granger said, “Will you brush your teeth?” as Draco discarded his cigarette.

He considered saying no, but decided it was in his best interest to listen.

In his very best interest, in fact, when she crawled onto his lap upon his return. Large brown eyes blinking up at him. “Do you want to kiss me?” she asked.

He dipped forward to show her exactly what he’d wanted for weeks, but she pressed her fingers over his lips. “Are you sleeping with her?”

He knew who she meant, but still asked, “Who?”

“Susan.”

“Never. Nobody.” He kissed her fingers.

She replaced them with her mouth.

-

“Where are you going?” he growled, as Granger rolled out of bed. It was still dark.

“I’m being summoned.” She searched blindly for her bra, her knickers.

He checked his wand, finding it unnervingly cold. They were separating them again.

He grabbed her wrist, and she stumbled into his arms. “Draco!”

He kissed her deeply, breathlessly. “Run away with me.”

“But—"

“We’ll still fight,” he added, lighting a smoke. “On our own terms. They’re corrupt, Hermione. We’ll wind up dead with them.”

She hesitated. They had discussed this many times. Going rogue. There was more to be done without pseudo-authorities policing their moves. Plus, they couldn’t be apart anymore without losing their minds.

“On one condition,” she declared, snatching the cigarette from his fingers and flicking it away. “You’ll quit smoking.”

He watched it burn out. Then considered the witch in his bed. Perhaps she didn’t know it yet, but he would do anything for her.

Draco and Hermione were gone before sunrise.

(861 words, photo and prompt on twitter)

[iloveacaibowls111]

How JJK men act when you go out without them

gojo

the moment you say you’re going out without him, he’s offended.

not dramatically—well, okay, very dramatically. sprawled across the bed like he’s been shot. “you’re leaving me? like this?”


you roll your eyes.


he rolls over, face planted in the pillow. “what if i die while you’re gone?”


“i’ll text shoko to deal with your ghost.”


“she’ll just tell you to block me.”

he doesn’t stop you from leaving, but he does insert himself into every step of the process. holds your makeup sponge like it’s sacred. asks why you need three kinds of mascara. flips through your closet like he’s your stylist-slash-hater.


“you’re wearing this?”


“yes.”


“...okay, slay, but don’t talk to anyone.”

when you finally make it to the door, he hugs you like it’s the last time he’ll ever see you. sniffles for dramatic effect. kisses your cheek, your lips, your forehead, your shoulder.

and when you’re gone, he’ll sulk for exactly twenty minutes before sending a picture of himself looking sad with the caption: “rotting. miss u.”

geto

he’s quiet about it.


just sits on the couch, one leg draped over the other, flipping through a book or scrolling his phone while you get ready. you think he doesn’t care.

but the second you step out of the room in your outfit, he looks up. and he stares.


not in a creepy way. in a “you’re gonna make me act out” way.


he doesn’t say much, just hums under his breath and gives you this look—lazy, dangerous, like he’s considering canceling your plans for you.

“you look nice,” he says, voice low, eyes unreadable.


you raise an eyebrow. “Nice?”


he closes his book. “...gorgeous.”

he doesn’t protest when you head for the door, but his hand catches your wrist as you pass. a soft tug. a kiss to your knuckles.


“don’t be too long,” he murmurs.

and when you come home later, he’s already waiting on the couch—pretending he wasn’t checking the time every twenty minutes.

choso

he doesn’t understand. not completely.


“where are you going again?”


“out. with friends.”


“but... we’re here.”


you laugh. he doesn’t. he’s confused.

he follows you around the apartment like a lost cat. watches you do your hair like it’s witchcraft. picks up your earrings, turning them over like they’re tiny puzzles.
when you spray perfume, he sneezes once, then immediately goes, “...you smell good.”

he gets clingier the closer it gets to the time you leave. arms around your waist while you try to put on shoes. cheek pressed to your back. mumbling.


“do you have to go?”


“i’ll be back in a few hours.”


“...that’s so long.”

you promise to text him. he nods, solemn like you’ve just deployed to war.

when you return later that night, you find him dozing off on the couch, still in the spot where you left him, phone face-up beside him with your chat open.

toji

he acts like he doesn’t care.


leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you get ready with a half-smirk.


“look at you, getting all dressed up,” he says. “who you tryin’ to impress?”

you roll your eyes. “my friends.”


“sure,” he says, like he doesn’t believe a damn word.

he doesn’t say don’t go, but he keeps getting in the way. brushing past you in the hallway. “accidentally” stealing your hairbrush. tugging you back by the belt loops to kiss your neck and mumble something about how that skirt is really short, huh?

he’s annoying. smug. possessive in that lowkey, cocky way he can never quite hide.

but when you actually open the door to leave, he quiets down. leans in. presses a kiss to your jaw.

“text me when you’re on the way back,” he says.

and he waits up, even if he pretends he didn’t.

nanami

he’s fine with it. supportive, even.


asks what time you’ll be home, if you want him to prep anything for when you return. offers to call a cab ahead of time.


he’s helpful. thoughtful. a little too calm.

you know he’s a little jealous, though. not in a controlling way—just in that quiet i’d rather you stayed here with me kind of way.


he won’t say it, but he watches you in the mirror as you put on jewelry. helps straighten your collar. fixes the twist in your watch strap.

“have fun,” he says, brushing your hair behind your ear. “be safe.”


you nod. “you okay?”


“always,” he replies. “just wish i was going with you.”

when you come home, he’s already folded your coat over the back of the chair, set a glass of water on your nightstand, and turned down the bed.


he’s reading when you walk in. closes the book as soon as he hears you.

“welcome back,” he says, and kisses your temple.

no guilt. no pouting. just happy you’re home.

[avocad1s]

Requests are open and the latest sparked some ideas so…

Imagine the reader not having specific favorites, but more groups favorites, like a reader that’s a big fan of the Knights of Favonious or The Akademiya

Note: KoF, Adepti, Akademiya, Fatui, and the Abyss mentioned with some small snippets from characters in those groups. But all of them have a small overview of how they view your favoritism over them.

The Knights Of Favonius are pretty humble unlike the other nations. Although they may be criticized by a certain tavern owner, even he won’t question your favor towards the Knights (openly). Having your favor feels like a blessing from the Anemo Archon, many of them even believe that handling the stormterror incident themselves made them win your favor.

Although he isn’t around currently, daddy I mean— Varka feels a sense of pride knowing he left the wellbeing in Mondstadt in good hands. He is looking forward to finally meeting you once he returns. Jean constantly overworks herself, but she’s knows that it’s worth it if she can keep your favor. Mondstadt might seem “inadequate” when compared to other nations when it comes to where you should stay but Jean will make sure you’re never uncomfortable.

When it comes to your comfort, Jean would turn to Diluc, he may not be apart of the Knights but he does own the Dawn Winery and everyone knows you’ll enjoy staying there. Outrider Amber will make it her responsibility to guide you to the heart of Mondstadt and back to Dawn Winery during your entire stay. She’ll teach you how to glide! Just be sure not to mention that to anyone else… some might be upset that she could’ve put you in danger.

Speaking of danger, Klee adores being able to play with you! She will take you fish blasting! Yes it can be a bit dangerous but it’s fun! However once someone realizes that Klee and Their Grace hasn’t been seen in a while, they begin to panic. Usually Albedo, Kaeya or Rosaria are the ones to find you first, then the fun is over. (Klee may or may not get solitary confinement 💀)

Kaeya is a smooth talker and very charismatic that it’s difficult to discern just how flustered he’ll get in your presence. He’ll use his good talking skills to get you to himself, usually inviting you out to Good Hunter or even for a drink (if you’re a drinker) but being in your presence and knowing that he is apart of the group you openly favor over anyone else in Teyvat makes him tremble. Although in front of you he’ll just give a simple smile and charm you with his flattery.

———

Oh the Adepti are so respectful towards you. I mean, they served directly under Rex Lapis for centuries. They do not allow mortals to disrespect Rex Lapis, I’d be surprised if they even let anyone have a thought that could be considered disrespectful towards you. They feel a sense of pride knowing that they are your favorite. However unlike the others, they aren’t too vocal about it.

Sharing tea with you is by far their favorite thing to do. Inviting you to Jueyun Karst to enjoy the finest of tea and meals while reminiscing about Liyue’s past is something they all always wanted. During the Archon war, while they all fought for Rex Lapis, everything was still in your name. So now that Teyvat is at peace, (for now) they just want to enjoy an eternity with you.

Xiao is usually the one who tries to stay away from you. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be around, far from it, but in his mind he feels as if he’s only useful to you if you’re in danger. When you spend time with the adepti he is unsure if he should come. Would you even want him there? But the second he hears you call his name, he’ll appear no matter what. Prepared to face any danger you might be in… but there’s none. In fact it’s just you, Cloud Retainer, Moon Carver, Mountain Shaper, and Ganyu. Xiao would remove his mask and place down his polearm silently enjoying his time in your presence.

Xianyun who has just recently began visiting Liyue Harbor in her human form again is definitely most open when it comes to you. Spending all her mora to buy things she knows you’ll like (and getting scammed) and inviting you to join her and Shenhe for tea. If you’re not in the mood for tea? Why don’t the two of you dissect these new human inventions that managed to capture her interest. How exactly does this machine from Fontaine keep a kite floating?

———

The Akademiya values their wisdom over anything else, and now they have your favor? Well, they’re kinda smug about it, you know? Many of them already believed they were better than the other nations (cough, cough, the Grand Sage) and having you in their corner might just make them a bit more insufferable. Unless it’s after Nahida takes back the reign.

The Akademiya would prefer if you stayed in Sumeru. The second you’re ready to settle down, Kaveh will be the first to approach you, he would be honored to be the architect that builds your palace. Mora is no problem! (Because no one would dare charge mora for Their Grace) No matter, Kaveh is very good at what he does, do you have any preferences when it comes to the construction? Please tell him, he strives to make you happy and show off his skills to you.

The acting grand sage of the Akademiya, Alhaitham enjoys living a comfortable life and is not fond of being in the role of a leader. The second someone worthy comes around, he will resign as the acting grand sage and return to his previous position as the scribe who was never around during working hours. Despite his… unambitious tendencies (only doing what’s necessary), he’ll try when it comes to you. If there is something you desire or some type of knowledge you going through the Akademiya for, he’ll offer his help. Although he can be pretty nonchalant, he does enjoy being in your presence and if your favor towards the Akademiya began after he took on the role as acting grand sage, his ego may swell a bit.

———

As if the Fatui didn’t have enough power across Teyvat already and now you favor them. Her Majesty and the harbingers are extremely grateful of having your favor in their corner, but they are definitely going to exploit this. It’s so easy for them to obtain more and more power in the other nations with the simple use of your name.

However even thought the Fatui can all collectively agree that having your favorite benefits them all, they are still incredibly selfish with their own intentions. The second you enter the Zapolyarny Palace, the harbingers are quickly scheming on ways to get you to themselves.

Pantalone, by far the richest of all the harbingers, will always offer to take you shopping. You’re the Creator! You can have as much jewelry, clothing, and other accessories as you want. Just be sure to follow him before one of the others pull you away.

Arlecchino is fully aware just how… unsettling her true side might be to you. But worry not! If there is one person who can keep her sane, it’s you! Want to see a magic show? Or maybe even an opera? She’ll take you! Cracks of her true personality might show if the others try stealing you away though.

Capitano is truly a legend on the battlefield, no matter how the others feel about him. One thing none of them will never deny is his strength. He holds a sense of righteousness that some (one puppet in particular) criticize. But his righteousness shines through with you. If you show any interest in learning to fight, he would be honored to teach you. Or maybe you already have incredible abilities, you are the God of Gods, he would love to test his strength against yours. No matter who wins, he’s willing to go again and again… just don’t go to a certain ginger asking for a sparring match.

Pierro, the first to be betrayed by the Seven when they destroyed his home. Many would think he would hold some type of resentment towards you, but he doesn’t. He is the director of the harbingers and they listen to his orders (usually coming from the Tsaritsa) so when you visit Snezhnaya he is usually the one to assign one of the harbingers to look after you. However he’s not afraid to use his power so he can be the one to look after you. Much to the other’s dismay.

———

You favor… The Abyss? Sorry, I need to rub my eyes and read that again.

No one understands your favoritism towards the Abyss. “They hate humanity Your Grace… Perhaps you should stay away from them?” Is what you hear all the time. But no one can technically force you to stay away… not to mention no one really knows what the Abyss actually is.

Very few know of the leader of the Abyss, the Prince/Princess or rather the travelers sibling. They can’t see you as often as they’d like but on the rare occasions they can, they love speaking to you about their plan. Sometimes they’ll even ask you questions about the traveler, curious how their journey of meeting the Seven is going.

Although he is not apart of the Abyss, at least not anymore. Even Dainsleif wonders what about the Abyss is appealing to you. Even if you do not know it, he’ll be sure to keep an eye on you just in case anyone or anything tries to harm you.

Note: While I was writing this and reading about some of the harbingers personalities on the fandom wiki, I might have accidentally gave myself a crush on Capitano 💀 I just know he is fine under that mask.

© avocad1s 2024

[messymoonmad]

Hi, this is the first time I've sent an ask here on Tumblr so I'm a little (Very) nervous but anyway I just love your art, I love with all my strength your antinous and telemachus design. I recently saw on your blog about the Amphinomus x Telemachus ship and I thought well, it's been a while since I wrote it last time so I decided to make a mine oneshot.

(I'm Brazilian so maybe some things I write don't make sense, but I hope you can understand)

The great hall of Ithaca’s palace buzzed with noise. Goblets of wine clinked, laughter echoed too loudly, and the scent of roasted meat mixed with the fresh flowers Penelope insisted on replacing every day.

To Telemachus, it was hell.

He leaned against one of the marble columns, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room with barely concealed distaste. And yet, despite himself, his gaze kept drifting back to Antinous—the worst of his mother’s suitors.

And still, Telemachus couldn’t help it. The confidence, the way Antinous spoke, the sharp smirk on his lips… it was hypnotizing. Disgusting. And it made Telemachus feel sick.

—You really enjoy suffering, huh?

The voice was quiet, amused.Amphinomus had appeared beside him, leaning casually against the same column.

Telemachus flinched, tearing his eyes away from Antinous as if he’d been caught committing a crime.

—What do you mean?

—You look at him like you're under a spell, but also like you want to rip his head off. I can’t tell if I should feel sorry for you or laugh.

Amphinomus grinned, and Telemachus felt a strange warmth in his chest.

He was different from the others. Though he had grown up alongside Antinous and Eurymachus, he never seemed as cruel.

—I hate him. — Telemachus muttered.

—Then why do you keep looking at him like that?

Telemachus had no answer.

Later that night, Amphinomus sat beside Antinous and Eurymachus, half-listening to their drunken chatter—until something made his blood freeze.

—That brat is a nuisance,— Antinous sneered. Once he returns from his little voyage, we kill him. And the queen...

Eurymachus chuckled, raising his goblet.

—She won’t have a choice. She’ll be ours, whether she wants it or not.

Amphinomus felt his stomach turn.

He looked at his childhood friends and, for the first time, truly saw the darkness in them.

This wasn’t right.

Without thinking, he shot to his feet and strode out of the hall. No one seemed to notice his sudden departure, but he couldn’t care less. His steps carried him straight to Telemachus’s chambers, where he knocked frantically.

The door opened, revealing a drowsy and confused Telemachus.

—Amphinomus? What’s wrong?

Amphinomus swallowed hard.

—They’re going to kill you.

Telemachus’s confusion vanished, replaced by shock.

—What?

—They’re planning your murder. And… and something worse for your mother.

The color drained from Telemachus’s face.

—You… you’re joking, right?

— Do I look like I’m joking? — Amphinomus’s voice cracked.You have to leave, or prepare to fight. But you can’t let them catch you off guard.

Silence.

Then, to Amphinomus’s surprise, Telemachus stepped forward, resting a hand on his shoulder.

—Thank you.

Before Amphinomus could react, he felt something soft against his cheek.

A kiss.

His face immediately turned scarlet.

—Telemachus?

The prince only smiled—one of those rare, genuine smiles.

—You're the only one of them with honor.

Amphinomus opened his mouth, but no words came out. His heart pounded like a war drum, and he stood there, frozen, feeling the warmth of the kiss linger on his skin.

He was happy as hell.

OOOOH STOP WHY IS THIS SO GOOOD !!! the comic artist in me is SCREAMING for me to turn this into a comic but my schedule would not allow it. DAMN IT !! I LOVE THIS SM AAAAAH 5 stars 10/10 YES!!! the way you wrote telemachus ??? The way you wrote amphin omg it was SPOT ON.

[autumn-sweet-fae]

Jayvik + CaitVi Arranged Marriage Royalty au concept

But, Viktor isn’t the one Jayce is engaged to.

Piltover is ruled over by a council of family houses

While Zaun has One royal family that looks out for their people and keeps the Barons in line.

The council proposed arranged marriage, declaring it a wonderful way to reforge their once severed bond, as equals. And yet, the offer is for Jayce Talis, the 24 year old head of the lesser house Talis, to marry Violet, the newly 18 year old eldest princess and heir to the thrown of Zaun.

After the proposal King Vander has to talk his husband King Silco down from declaring war for the obvious fucking slight.

To offer such a minor house as the groom-to-be to their daughter and heir, as if the kingdom of Zaun is little more than a vassal state for them to exploit yet again. They did not fight and sacrifice so much for their sovereignty to be given such disrespect.

But there are trade relations to remember, and livelyhoods of their people to protect, so they begrudgingly accept the proposal after some serious haggling.

They demand for Jayce Talis to be who travels out to Zaun, instead of the suggested insulting idea of Violet going to Piltover, and for there to be an official courting period where princess Vi holds the right to cut off the engagement at the months end if she so chooses.

The council agrees and promptly ship Jayce Talis off to Zaun by the days end.

The expediency of his quick arrival does raises a few eyebrows as well as suspicion,

As it should… because had Zaun not agreed to the proposal, Jayce Talis would have instead been exiled for his crimes of attempting to create magic.

His trial had been a secret, as all house related trials are. His mothers pleas for mercy to not have her boy banished to some far off continent had been what had given the counselors the idea to use him instead as their political pawn.

But, if he fails to secure this engagement by the months end, then both he and his mother will be stripped of their house statues and banished.

So Jayce, force to surrender his life’s work in hextech (save for a single notebook he managed to hide), is escorted across the river to Zaun to woo a princess he has never met before. He doesn’t even get to say goodbye to his mother or his only friend Caitlyn.

Meanwhile, Viktor, respected inventor and tutor to the royal children of Zaun, (and the unofficial fifth adopted sibling if you asked those children) gets a front row seat to the explosive fallout from Vi learning about the engagement.

It’s obvious to everyone who knows her that she will absolutely be rejecting the proposal to this man the second she that can. But the fact that she has to court this Piltie pretty boy for entire month?? And he’s arriving TODAY???

How Viktor got roped into being the one to welcome Jayce to Zaun, he’ll never know.

Once Viktor believes his stalled long enough for Vi to agree to the charade, he brings the him to properly meet her. Jayce and Vi’s introduction and pre planned first date would be so fucking awkward and even hostile a first.

Jayce would be spiraling because he can tell how much she hates him and it’s becoming clearer and clearer the more he get to know her that there is NO CHANCE she’ll feel anything for him beyond friendship at best by the months end.

He’s set up for failure, there’s nothing he can do here to save his mother from His mistakes���

In a rush to excuse himself, his secreted notes gets left behind. Vi finds them and mistakes the scientific and mathematic notes to be something of Viktors so returns it to him.

Viktor is enthralled by the research he finds, surprised to discover this clearly belongs to Jayce (who signs every page of his notes). He simply must find Jayce to ask him about what this all means.

Viktor does not expect to find Jayce attempting to step over the railing of his fourth floor balcony.

Much like in Arcane, Viktor talks Jayce down off the ledge, inspiring him not give up and to continue his passion for science. Jayce opens up to Viktor, telling him the true reason he was chosen for the betrothal. How he was the expendable would-be exile with ideas too dangerous for Piltover.

“But not too dangerous for Zaun.” Viktor tells him

With those words the two dive into his research together, spending days in Viktors lab to recreate Jayce’s lost equipment before they’re finally able to test their theories.

Meanwhile, Vi cannot say she’s disappointed to be stood up for another of her and Jayce’s scheduled ‘dates’, but she is curious as to what the hell he’s up to. Not enough to investigate herself, no, she’s much happier running around Zaun with her siblings and checking in on her people.

Until she finds a young Piltie enforcer trying and failing to not draw attention to herself.

The enforcer, Caitlyn, informs Vi that she’s currently investigating a sensitive case regarding the relations between Piltover and Zaun and request Vi direct her to where she might fine a contact to the royal family house hold, if not Jayce Talis himself.

Vi, deeply amused by this topsider who clearly has no idea who she is, decides to spend the day giving her the run around for her own entertainment and to get more info from her.

Now, the truth of Jayce’s situation is incredibly dangerous for anyone to know. Offering a member of a lesser house for a princess heir’s hand in marriage is bad enough, but a criminal exile?? The uproar, the unrest, what were the counselors even thinking?? A sentiment that had been privately discussed between Caitlyn and the young counselor Mel Medarda. Mel had hoped talking with you younger Kiramman might give her insight on her mother’s ideals as well as Jayce’s character due to their friendship. Instead she inspired the young woman to take up the investigation personally.

Over the plot, Vi and Caitlyn grow closer to each other. The ladies both unaware of each others true statues as the Princess of Zaun and the High Counselors daughter of the Great House Kiramman.

Meanwhile Jayce and Viktor fully realize hextech and discuss the possibilities for it in Zaun, while also trying to figure out what to do about the engagement and how to save Jayce’s mother.

My plot ideas fizzle out here, however there is still the idea of Piltover still pushing for the engagement and throwing an ultra fancy ball to celebrate the desired couple’s official announcement once the courting period ends.

Everyone is invited, the councilors, heads of houses, the Zaun royalty and barons. All waiting in anticipation for Princess Vi’s arrival on the arm of her betrothed beau Jayce Talis.

Only for Vi to appear at her own engagement party with her betrothed beauty Caitlyn Kiramman on her arm. To Caitlyn’s mother’s horror and Vi’s fathers’ delight.

All this providing ample distraction for Jayce and Viktor to smuggle Ximena Talis out the back and into a carriage headed for Zaun. Viktor making sure to act as the perfect gentlemen to his future mother-in-law.

[humanpurposes]

Can I Be Yours? - Nightblooms II

Aemond returns to the pleasure house after the battle of Rook's Rest // Main Masterlist

Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, dub-con, angst, sex work, unresolved childhood trauma, implied underage and non-con (not explicitly depicted), mentions of war, violence and death, ambiguous ending

Words: 3k

Each day she arrives at the market shortly after sunrise. She has the coin to pay for the usual cheap cuts of meat, for fats and vegetables to make into something edible, but there is nothing to buy; most of the vendors have sold the last of their wares. Summer is at an end, there are less crops coming from the Reach and the sea is still cut off with no end in sight to the blockade. 

King’s Landing has never been a place where she feels at ease but as the season shifts and the war goes on, families are starving and people are getting desperate, fighting over what they can get their hands on. They’ve all been reduced to dogs, clawing at each other over scraps while carts of livestock and fresh produce trundle through the streets towards the Red Keep, guarded by men in Hightower green.

She manages to buy some crabs and vegetables she’ll have to cut the mould from. They have a store of grain in the kitchens to make flatbread, though they have to use less and less each day, anticipating when they’ll be able to find more.

She eats less of her share so the younger girls won’t have to go hungry. Besides, she hasn’t had much of an appetite for days.

She had spent hours trying to rinse herself clean of the King and his companions after they’d had their way with her– after Aemond had left her to their mercy. That night she scrubbed at her skin with salt, then a cloth, then a bristled brush. That feeling was still there, like sweat sticking to her skin, like her body was not her own. She heard their voices and their cold laughter with the rush of water past her ears. She scrubbed harder and harder until she tinted the water pink with her blood.

One morning, one of the girls returns to the pleasure house, unsuccessful in finding a cure for her babe’s fever, but startled by something else.

The Hightower army has returned from a battle, dragging the head of a dragon on a cart through the city.

“It’s monstrous,” the girl says, trying to measure the scale of the head with her arms. “It had black blood, and gods, the smell, like charred meat!”

Sylvi hovers over her shoulder. “Slain by your favourite, I wonder?”

Favourite? Clearly she was not so favoured by Prince Aemond.

Men are led by their desires. That’s why, even as the city is starving, they find the money to come here and seek their pleasure. They are fickle, easily satiated and have no loyalties but to themselves, to their own preservation.

Sylvi huffs when she does not react to her teasing. “Seven above, do try to look less miserable, girl.”

She’s been trying for days, but she can’t force a pleasant demeanour when she feels so hollow.

The returning soldiers come to the Street of Silk that night, newly paid and come to bask in their victory. Her gown is a deep shade of blue and Sylvi has given her some of her jewellery, sapphire earrings and a heavy gold necklace that feels like a collar, to cover the bruises on her neck left by the King.

She catches the eye of a soldier in the main chamber. He takes her by the waist and drags her onto his thigh.

He moves clumsily, trying to drag her core against his leg or the bulge in his breeches, she cannot tell and she does not care. 

Look less miserable, it’s only a motion of the body.

Look less miserable, men want a woman who is warm, who smiles.

Look less miserable, but has he noticed her fallen face and the empty look in her eyes? Likely not.

Her body feels numb again.

“Look at me,” the man demands.

She turns her head towards him but her eyes are down, elsewhere completely. She pictures candlelight, a veil around the edges of a bed so the bodies around her are like shadows. She feels a weight on her chest and stomach, limbs intertwined with hers, long, loose hair spilling over her bare skin. A voice is just out of reach.

Look at me, look at me, look at me–

“My Prince!”

Her senses come back to her as quickly as a match takes to flame. Her head darts to where the soldier is looking, to the man standing before them, dark leathers, silver hair, an eyepatch over his face and a sword hanging from his hip.

Aemond tilts his head, his one eye intent on her. 

“Apologies, Prince Regent,” the soldier says, and shoves her off his lap so he can stand.

She stumbles but holds her ground. Her eyes are on the floor but imagining his face frowning in displeasure, the sight of his scar, the lines of his muscles under his skin. She cannot bear to truly look upon him, but he’s watching her.

Why come now? Why her, when she has already proved worthless to him?

“Come,” Aemond says without reaching for her, without waiting for her to match his gaze. She follows, if only to escape the wanton soldier.

Aemond takes her to the same chamber, standing at the foot of the same bed where they used to lay together.

She stands before him with her eyes lowered.

He towers over her and lifts her chin to match his gaze with a gloved hand. The leather against her skin is unnatural, cold, disturbing her very being like ripples through a peaceful surface of water. The sight of him only brings her pain, as does the separation from him. Fear and admiration twist together and writhe in her gut.

He reaches to remove the necklace first, letting it fall to the floor. “An ugly thing,” he mutters, “do not wear this again, I find it distracting.” It bares her bruises. He traces his gloved fingers over the flushes of red and purple in her skin.

Next he undoes her dress, another gown designed to fall away from one clasp. She does not remove the rest to bare herself, so he tugs the gown away himself, pulling her forward by her wrists to make her step away from where it pools on the floor.

Without any further preamble he surges into her, cupping her jaw with his hands and kissing her passionately. He demands reception with his lips, tongue and teeth, but she will not give it to him. She remains as steadfast as she can.

He pauses, kissing her again, then again.

“What’s the matter?” His voice is subtle and as soft as the edge of a knife. Gently, he takes a hold of her neck. It is tender, but not quite a comfort. Her pulse beats furiously against his fingers. “You are angry with me, is that it?”

Has he thought of her these last few days? Does he blame himself for the bruises on her neck? 

She says nothing.

“I’ll not fuck an unwilling whore.”

“No,” it falls from her lips like a breath.

Aemond tuts and tilts his head. “No?”

She parts her lips but she cannot speak.

His one-eyed stare darkens. He will take her silence for defiance, and that is not what he pays for.

If all he seeks is carnal desire she will grant him this. She tears away the layers of him, his gloves, the buckles on his jerkin, her fingers fumbling in her determination.

Aemond grunts as she pushes the sleeves from his shoulders, the leather landing with a heavy thud on the floor. His face is perplexed but he does not resist.

She tugs at the strings of his undershirt and pulls it over his head. When his chest is bare she puts her hands on his shoulders and pulls herself in, crashing her lips into his. Everything becomes a single feeling, a fire in her chest, hurt and rage and— she’s not naive enough to call it love, but it’s an urge that spurns her to be close to him. Their teeth clash. She loses her focus and her lips graze over his cheek. She finds him again, drawing her tongue against his, dragging her teeth over his lip–

“Fuck!” Aemond hisses, snatching himself away from her. He dabs his fingertips to his lip, checking for blood that isn’t there. 

His eye is wide but gleaming, excited at the challenge. 

Her heart leaps when Aemond grasps her jaw. He drags her chin up, fingertips pressing into the bone. “I find your insolence tiresome,” he snarls.

The edge of his nose brushes against hers. She feels his breath, how his chest rises and falls against her body, how his heart beats as frantically as hers.

She shakes her head. “I am yours, my Prince.”

He lays her on the bed, pushing her thighs apart and holding them down as he kneels.

He sighs at the sight of her.

Each drag of his tongue is divine, circling and pressing at the places he has come to know will please her the most. She tries to chase the friction with her hips but he holds her firmly in place.

She reaches for his hair, slipping the eyepatch from his face so she can see all of him. He looks up at her as she does, his lips glistening with her arousal while his sapphire consumes the golden light of the candles. 

Between the movements of his mouth he mutters to himself, words she has heard before but does not know the meaning to. His voice is heavy and breathless and she adores it. 

Her peak comes suddenly, a wave of warmth and weightlessness that lingers after Aemond has drawn his mouth away from her.

He’s just out of her reach, standing over the bed and slowly pulling on the strings of his breeches. 

She brings herself to sit, only to be thrown down again and roughly turned onto her front.

“Aemond?”

His hands pull her up by her hips. His thumb glides in circles over her entrance and she stutters into compliance. There’s a ruffle of fabric before he replaces his digit with the head of his cock. He teases her as he rocks back and forth. The pleasure is sparse, a delicious kind of torture. She grips at the linens and sinks her teeth into her lip.

On one motion of his hips, Aemond slips inside of her. She sighs at the stretch of it. He stills for a moment to let her adjust, pushing himself to the hilt and slowly drawing back. She feels how his fingertips dig into her flesh, marks that will stay for days. She can picture the look in his eye, his resolve melting away.

She props herself up on her hands, turning over her shoulder. He meets her, pressing his nose against her cheek, teasing his lips over her skin.

“Do you still find me insolent?” she whispers.

Aemond hums. 

He draws back, only to snap his hips harshly into her rear. It knocks the breath from her lungs and he holds his arm around her to hold her close to him, his palm pressing into her stomach as he fucks her roughly and without reprieve.

This is the Prince she has only ever seen glimpses of. She’s heard the workings of his mind and his regrets, but she’s never seen him unleash himself, a dragonrider, a warrior, now a demanding lover.

Each kiss of his cock at her sweet spot aches and drives her towards bliss. She grasps at his hand, leaning her head into his. His sweat drips onto her brow. His moans fall upon the shell of her ear.

She feels another peak edging closer when Aemond pushes her torso down against the bed. He keeps his hands on her shoulders. Her own moans are muffled against the mattress and she cannot move. She can only take what she is given, fast fucking and brutal precision. 

He comes with a unrestrained groan, spilling himself deep within her cunt. His weight falls against her back and he nestles his face into her neck, whispering some appraisal in an ancient language, gently fucking his seed deeper.

She whines as she catches her breath, letting herself settle with him on top of her. They stay like this for a time. Before he finally moves, Aemond presses a delicate kiss to her brow.

They lay amongst linen and silk, his head on her chest, his arms wrapped around her ribs, moving with her as she breathes. 

He tells her of Rook’s Rest, of his plan to attack during the daylight and bait their enemy into sending a dragon, then he would lead Vhagar into an ambush. He had not expected Aegon to join the battle, and when the smoke cleared, only Aemond and Vhagar remained unscathed.

“Perhaps I should have been more forgiving, but he got in my way.”

What did you do? She wonders, but cannot bring herself to give a voice to her question. 

That soldier had named Aemond as Regent. Not the title he wants, but it is a brutal reminder that only one life stands between him and the throne he pursues. 

“And even when he is… incapacitated, my victory is named as his. It was meant to be mine.”

The dragon head was his doing after all. 

Tears run freely down her cheeks, not that he will see.

He takes a breath and waits. She’s done this enough times by now to know he’s waiting for her to say something. He needs her to say something.

What loyalty has your brother ever shown you? He knows you were better suited to war, at least now he will not overestimate himself.

She does not wish to think of Aegon. 

“You left me,” she utters.

Aemond tilts his head towards her. She meets his eye. When he sees the tears on her face his own expression softens.

“You left me to entertain those men. You didn’t even look back.”

Aemond swallows thickly, making a soft clicking sound with his tongue. “I had to.”

“Had to?”

“You would not understand.”

“I understand perfectly. You are a Prince. To you, I am nothing but a body to be used.”

“I’ve never said that.”

“You do not need to say it. It is the nature of the world we live in.” 

He shifts himself to lay beside her, face-to-face. His thumb strokes over her cheek and at the corner of her mouth. “I’ve only ever admired you,” he says. “You came to me when I felt alone.”

Back when they were children, when she was innocent enough to think the gods favoured those who were kind, merciful, good. 

“You looked lost. I was the same the first time…” the first time Sylvi brought her into a room with a strange man. When she sees girls of the same age, she wants to take them into her arms and shield them from strangers, from the people who promise to care for them and do not. “I knew how it felt to be used and then discarded, like none of it mattered. But it did. It mattered to me.” 

Aemond’s eye shimmers like glass.

“I needed you, do you understand that? I needed your protection,” she says.

He blinks and a tear falls from his eye. 

“You taunt me with this,” she says, wiping it away with her thumb.

He holds her hand against his jaw. “I’m not trying to taunt you,” he pleads. “You are the only one, the only one I can speak my mind to.”

She has seen his pride, his remorse, his shame, but she has never seen fear in Aemond. She does now. He clasps onto her hand like she’ll fade away.

“I try. I know my place in my family. I know what they need of me. I try, but I am not always strong enough.”

Jaehaerys, the little Prince who lost his head. He has a sister and a mother grieving his loss, what of them?

What of Aegon?

“I’ll protect you,” he says, kissing the heel of her palm, the inside of her wrist.

How will he do that? Before morning he will leave a purse of gold in her hand and return to his Keep. While he plots his war and demands taxes and tithes from the people of the Crownlands, she will endure in a city that is slowly starving to death.

And when the war of dragons comes to the skies over King’s Landing? Will he pick her out from the masses atop Vhagar? Will he find a way to spare her from the fire and the bloodshed?

It does not bear thinking about. She holds him and tries to forget anything other than this feeling, his weight and warmth, his hair between her fingertips, the points in his bones, his legs intertwined with hers. Everything about him that is cold and cruel. Everything about him that is quietly beautiful.

I've kinda given up on taglists <3

[disneyprincemuke]

wasted like all my potential * fem!driver

jury's out: everything officially fucking sucks

pairings: liam lawson x fem!driver, oscar piastri x fem!driver, logan sargeant x fem!driver

notes: again i apologise for this taking so long apparently now that I'm kinda mentally no longer struggling with a 12k assignment, I've lost all feels to hurt rocky but no woRRIES IT'S COMING TO AN END SOON

(series masterlist) | (📂 2025: fall from grace)

(prev)

just another day listening to her team explaining another change to the car and another day where she hopes that it all works out in her favour.

she glances out the window of the meeting room, finding the usual corner that’s typically occupied by matt, still empty. she sinks in her seat and folds her arms over her chest as she desperately tries to dial herself back into the meeting.

she catches liam’s eye across the table, the kiwi lifting his eyebrows with a small nod to acknowledge her. she smiles tiredly at him before sucking in a deep breath and returning her gaze to the empty table in front of her.

it’s just another weekend where she tries to save both her and the team’s faces. how long can she keep up the act of having things together in front of the media?

something’s gotta give.

when the meeting ends, she simply picks herself up and is the first one out of the room. sebastian, who’d been sitting next to her, simply sighed to himself as she walked out.

it’s been so difficult to get a grasp of her lately. it’s not just something only he’s noticed, it’s happening to everybody else in the team. since they’d touched down at the airport for the race weekend, it’s even a miracle to get her attention for 5 minutes.

she’s always reserved or simply preferred her own company.

it’s apparent with every single person she interacts with. the girl used to be able to uphold a conversation by her talking alone, but now everything’s minimal. conversations never last more than a minute and she’s always found in her driver’s room by herself.

at first, he concluded that she was unhappy with him. which, would be perfectly fine, seeing the current state of her race weekends. he’s more shocked that she hasn’t blown up in front of him yet.

not a single scream, an utter of frustration… not even a tear shed in half a year and truthfully, it’s almost worrying.

“you’ve got to tell her before she finds out from elsewhere,” sebastian mutters, patting liam on the back as they leave the room. “she’ll be even angrier if it doesn’t come from you.”

“have you spoken to her lately? i don’t think i’ll even get a reaction out of her,” liam whispers back, pointing at the girl walking up the stairs by herself with her head hung low. “do you have any idea how difficult it is to speak to her?”

“yes,” sebastian says with a scowl, “i literally talk to her every weekend.”

liam gives him a knowing stare. “then you should know how unreachable she is nowadays.” he pushes sebastian in the direction of the stairs. “maybe you should speak with her first before i go in there.”

sebastian scoffs, stumbling forward. he turns around and stands next to liam again. “no way. you’re not sending me in there to fight a war by myself.”

“do i really have to? can’t she just find out like everybody else if it goes through?” liam scowls with a sarcastic laugh when sebastian nods.

sebastian pushes him forward. “go and tell her before the media gets a hold of these things and leaks it before you get the chance to break the news yourself,” sebastian says. “let’s not cause a commotion where it’s not needed.”

“fine,” liam mutters, stomping a foot on the ground. he fixes his team shirt and sucks in a deep breath, trying to rehearse his lines in his head. it’s one thing to get the courage to speak to her nowadays, but being the bearer of somewhat bad news is an entirely different situation.

he takes a step forward and looks back at sebastian, throwing him a mean glare. meanwhile, the older man just flashes him a bright smile and an encouraging nod.

he runs up the stairs and calls out to her. the girl stops and turns around. her straight face almost makes liam jump back, not expecting to be greeted so suddenly.

“yes?”

“i uh,” liam huffs and straightens his shirt, “i need to talk to you.”

she tilts her head, “is everything okay?”

liam smiles. seems like he’s caught her at a great time, which should make this slightly easier. “of course. i just need to tell you something; it’s important.”

“oh,” she raises her eyebrows and points down the hallway, “do you want to sit down and talk about it? that serious?”

he shakes his head. he just doesn’t want her to burst out at him. especially that he’s not one to know how to handle her if she breaks. “i can just tell you now,” he shrugs, making his way up the steps to meet her at the top. “but i want you to know that it’s nothing personal.”

nothing personal. so it has something to do with her? she feels her heart start to race in her chest and the room starts to spin. she bites down on her lip and starts to pick at the skin around her nails. “did i do something?”

“no,” liam shakes his head. “what? no, you didn’t do anything. is everything okay?”

she blinks, “yeah, why?”

liam sucks in a deep breath and eventually decides to brush it off. “well, i wanted to let you know that i’m getting offers from other teams for next season.”

he watches her expression change, contorting into an expression he’s not quite sure how to decipher it. so he quickly tries to undo it. “i haven’t signed anything yet. but you know… with the year we’re having, i want to keep my options open. i’ll tell you if something catches my eye.”

he stumbles back, not even realising that she’d made her way down to him, throwing her arms around him. “i’m so happy for you, liam. you deserve to have options.”

he looks down at her body, tightly clinging onto him. “really?”

“of course.” she takes a step back and pats his chest. “you’re the best teammate ever. any team would be lucky to have you as their driver.”

she climbs out of her car with a grumble, half annoyed and half amused. amused that her luck has continued its plummet with every weekend she spends in on a track.

she snarls down at her car as she tears her helmet off her head. “you’re a stupid car,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “you’ll never be anything like last year’s car. you suck.”

she is fully aware of how crazy she sounds, and looks, telling an inanimate object off. but as of late, it seems those are the only things she can vent to that won’t turn its back on her. the only thing that won’t retaliate when she needs to scream at it.

“if i could kick you, i would,” she mutters with a scowl. “i’d break you apart like a fucking lego set if it wouldn’t get me fired.”

she feels a tap on her shoulder, whirling around to find sebastian smiling at her and her phone held in the air.

“matt’s calling you.” she nods and reaches out for her phone but he pulls it back at the last second. “are you okay? i know quali wasn’t as good as we hoped for, but they’re looking into it to make the car better for tomorrow.”

“seb,” she sighs, shaking her head with a disappointed frown, “you say that every weekend we’re in here. are you not sick of saying that?”

he drops his hand. “well, one of us needs to keep our head up with this season we’re having.” he smiles slightly and offers her the ringing phone. “you shouldn’t let it get to you — you’re still a great driver.”

“that’s not what it feels like lately,” she mutters, grabbing her phone from sebastian. “i should be able to make a car work. it shouldn’t matter if it’s good or bad.” she glances down at her buzzing phone, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. she presses the decline button. “i’ll be at the media pen if you need me.”

she watches from the window in her driver’s room, her friends all gathered up, walking towards the gantries to exit the paddocks. they’re leaving to head for dinner without her after she’d refused their offer again.

oscar had approached her in the media pen to invite her out for dinner with them but she’d just not been feeling it. which would make this the 5th invitation that she’s rejected in 11 race weekends. oscar didn’t force her anymore; just simply shrugged and took her ‘no’ as it is.

which somehow made her feel even worse. which is even funnier, considering that just 2 races ago, she’d been wishing for her friends to invite her out after days in the paddocks. but there was something about her best friend taking her answer point blank without another word.

it feels so… isolating.

what if they’ve finally gotten tired of her rejection? what if they’re tired of her?

she whirls around to face her room. it’s messier than she’d usually keep it, her team shirts are lazily hung on the back of her chair and the sofa, her makeup is sprawled messily all over the table with a half-empty coffee cup that she had silently with sebastian for a strategy meeting.

the framed picture of her and sebastian is up on the wall again, with some attempt from sebastian to help her put it up again. she wishes that he’d never offered to help her put it back up. every time she looks at it, she remembers all her former glory and how far she’s fallen now.

and by meeting, she means that he spoke the entire time while she sat there nodding and smiling politely while thinking about how bad the car would be once she got in it.

and liam is leaving. well, he’s not technically leaving yet but seeing how their year keeps going down, it’s likely that he would. and she’s got a contract for another 3 years — where the hell is she going to go? nowhere because she has to stay here.

but everyone seems to be leaving her after her behaviour. but it’s hard to stop feeling this way.

how can she not feel this way?

if liam’s finished in the top 5 in the race and she’s out of the points, what does that mean for her? she’s just half the driver she was, she thinks.

she finds herself in the bar after feeling the need to be here. liam now holds the record for the highest finish for her team this season, after all. and she’s not about to be labelled a sore loser by not being here at all.

though she could almost predict being the talk of the town with her tucking herself in the corner of the club half the time they spent in there. people always find a way to vilify her actions anyway.

but in a way, she shouldn’t have come out of her hotel room. she shouldn’t have gone anywhere knowing her state of mind. she hasn’t had a drop of liquor in her system for a hot minute, but the minute she was reminded of its glorious taste, she couldn’t hold herself back.

she’s on her knees in the back alley of the club they’d dragged her to, hands planted on the gravel as she struggles to hold herself over the drainage. she takes deep breaths to steady herself, blinking in desperation to steady herself.

“fuck.” she shuts her eyes momentarily, taking another deep breath as she feels a sob and another urge to vomit. moreover, her chest hurts. could it be from drinking too much too fast or is it something deeper than that? she can never tell.

“hey, you’ve been– rocky?”

“don’t,” she sobs, holding a hand up quickly to stop whatever else could have come out of the man’s mouth. she balls her hands against the gravel, the pain of dragging her skin against the rough material doesn’t register, but it does cut into her skin. “whatever you’re going to say, keep it to yourself.”

she feels a warm hand rubbing circles on her back and suddenly there’s someone kneeling on the ground next to her. she feels her hair getting brushed back, held into a makeshift ponytail. “i won’t,” liam mutters, slouching slightly. “what do you need? a glass of water? do you need me to take you back to the hotel?”

she shakes her head as another heavy sigh passes her lips. “i don’t know.”

“i’m going to get you a glass of water from the club, okay?” liam hums, squeezing her hand. “please don’t go anywhere. i’ll only be away for a second, stay conscious.”

she nods through staggered breaths. her hair falls past her shoulders to cover her face and the warm hand on her back is replaced by the cold wind.

she grabs liam’s arm just before he gets up. “don’t tell anyone about this.” she turns slightly. her red eyes and puffed cheeks almost made liam want to stay and cradle her until she felt better then and there. “please.”

there’s something about seeing someone — her, specifically — get wasted. she’s always prided herself as someone who can take her liquor, so this was a whole new look that, honestly, he didn’t want to get used to.

how exactly do you try and relight the spark in someone who seems to dwindle away with every weekend that passes?

he doesn’t ever speak up, but he spends the most time with her out of everyone at this point in their lives. he knows; he notices. it’s hard not to when the tension in the air always seems so heavy.

liam nods. “of course.”

“i’m going to miss you,” she says with a frown, resting on her knees. she unzips the pet carrier and she cups kidnapper’s cheeks and tenderly pets his head. “i just need some time but i can’t take care of you right now.”

the cat simply tilts his head and tenderly lifts its head to rub the top of his head on her cheek. she wraps her arms around kidnapper and sighs.

she knew the day would come, sooner or later, that she couldn’t really take care of kidnapper. sure, he makes her apartment feel less isolated but it’s slowly becoming harder to take care of herself and the cat alike.

there are hours when it feels like a task to get herself out of bed for herself. much less for a cat that depends on her to be taken care of.

so she zips up the carrier and wipes her tears off her face. she composes herself before she forces herself to her feet. she knocks on the door and waits for an answer.

“must be someone we know if you’re not barking!” she hears logan laugh, followed by footsteps and then stubby’s loud footsteps against the hardwood flooring of his apartment.

the door opens, revealing logan in his pyjamas with a small grin. right by his feet is stubby, wagging his tail happily at her with a large smile and hopping on the spot at her sight and scent. “rocky,” he says in surprise with a small grin.

he wouldn’t have been so surprised if she’d been easier to reach lately. but in the passing weeks, it seems that she’s started to pull away from him and oscar.

it’s always a nice surprise when she shows up to his apartment unannounced. but with the familiar carrier by her feet, it makes him wonder what really brings her here. especially considering that she’s practically gone off the grid every single time they’re not in the paddocks for a race weekend.

she completely ignores their messages.

“what are you doing here?”

she had a whole speech prepared the entire time she walked over to his apartment building. a lie about needing him to take care of kidnapper for her while she spent the next couple of weeks in the states with matt.

but she ends up with, “i need someone to take care of kidnapper.”

“of course,” logan grins, tilting his head. “is everything okay? have you been crying?”

“watched a sad movie before coming here,” she forces a laugh out of herself, pointing at the carrier. “you don’t mind, do you? just a couple of weeks — i’m going out of town.”

she wasn’t expecting to make conversation with logan. in fact, that’s the entire reason she’d planned a speech prior to coming here with her cat in tow.

“we don’t mind,” he smiles. “arkansas with matt’s family, i suppose?”

she nods, “yeah.”

how exactly do you talk to your best friend who feels like she’s always a thousand miles away? “well, um,” logan hums, “do you want to come in for a drink? maybe a snack?”

she should accept the offer. “i’m leaving tonight, actually. i still have a lot of packing to do,” she feigns a frown, “maybe after i get back?”

logan nods with a grin. “sure. take care, dude, and have fun.”

taglist: @wcnorris @treehouse-mouse @laura-naruto-fan1998 @mindless-rock @vellicora @ironmaiden1313 @angsthology @cherry-piee @christianpulisic10 @elliegrey2803 @33-81 @darleneslane @nikfigueiredo @happy-nico @namgification @localwhoore @c-losur3 @notawc @sadg3 @kazuha-pista-badam @mellowarcadefun @megatrilss1885 @peqch-pie @woozarts @meadhbhcavanagh @2bormaybenot @a-disturbing-self-reflection @mclarengf @xoscar03 @nomie-11 @green-thots @tinyhrry @inejismywife @love4lando @louvrepool

[sfznyxio]

-ˋˏ THROUGH THICK AND THIN ˎˊ

SYNOPSIS. with your kin swept away by the cataclysm, you have no one to rely on other than your wits. the curse of being immortal has you start fresh in the modern world as a citizen of inazuma, living alongside humans and yokai. throughout your life in the moral realm, you’ve met many interesting people. out of all of them, one becomes your rock and a shoulder to cry on. out of the blue, you say whatever is in your heart. they’ll reach out for your hand to let you know they're listening.

CHARACTERS. arataki itto, gorou, yoimiya

CONTENT. gn!reader. canon-compliant. immortal au. hurt/comfort. 0.5k wc. rewrite of phase six at my old main blog @/verxsyon. itto is half- immortal due to his oni blood. gorou is fully immortal due to him being some sort of yokai. yoimiya stays mortal. references to voicelines when you ascend characters to phase six, or in other words, from level 80 to 90. they’re part of the dialogue, which will be italicized.

VERA. you can tell from the old title that i’m terrible with titles. what even is phase six? good thing rewrites exist, amirite?

𝄞༉‧₊˚. ARATAKI ITTO

once an oni, always an oni. that’s a farewell from the villagers when they drove him out of his home for an incident he wasn’t involved in, just because of his half-immortal heritage. the streets ridiculed him; he spent so long fending off for himself until he met granny oni. you remind him of his younger self, even the strongest people need support the most.

“this is the cliff that me and the boys go to sing our hearts out to, you know, loosen up,” he says. “if you want, make sure you’re loud and clear so the ocean can hear you. i gotta warn you though, my voice is so amazing that it’ll blow you away.”

“but in all seriousness…” he helps you up on your feet, and you’re able to see the beauty of the world down below — the ocean that is waiting to hear you sing and the unknown ahead. “just because i made it to the top doesn't mean i’m gonna forget all the things you've done for me, okay? i’ve still got your back, anytime, anywhere.”

𝄞༉‧₊˚. GOROU

top dog. the ever-victorious pointy-eared general. those nicknames are what he believed he didn’t deserve. an immortal like yourself, he has lived through and fought in countless wars for centuries to be acquainted with loneliness. most of his best soldiers are gone. that kid teppei, one of his brightest, is gone. he’s never been so afraid.

“out of all the wars i fought in, this war against the shogun scared me the most,” he confesses, squeezing your hand tightly. “i wasn’t ready to face any more casualties after teppei. i wasn’t ready to lose both kazuha and the traveler after almost getting executed by her judgment. and when i thought all hope was lost…”

“… you were there beside me to assure me that it’s not. i should be the one thanking you. to return the favor, i’m always here to listen if you need me.” his face lights up and his tail starts to wag. “with momentum on our side and close camaraderie, we are unstoppable. thank you for your guidance. this is a victory that belongs to the both of us.”

𝄞༉‧₊˚. YOIMIYA

despite being a mortal, she understands the perspective of an immortal through fireworks. mortal lives are fleeting, she had said to the traveler. once launched into the sky, they disappear. whereas for immortal lives, they can keep watching them disappear forever and ever. she knows that she’ll be gone while you continue to live on, but it doesn’t explain her rather cheerful demeanor.

“oh, why am i happy?” she tilts her head to the side. “well, it’s not because i’m about to leave eventually. it’s because you’re here with me. i’m glad to be able to spend this moment with you. whenever i look at my creations, i don’t think of them being a representation of every mortal living here.”

“i think about the enjoyment i had watching them with my pops, my friends, and my special someone. even when i’m gone, you still believe i’m here.” she stands firm and proud, flashing a peace at you. “never fear, yoimiya is here! evil begone! justice prevails! think this is a good way to introduce the powers you've taught me to the children? isn’t it cool? hehe! hey, tell me if anyone picks on you, too. i’ll stick up for you!”

[skywalkr-nberrie]

I just love how in the SW novels or any other extended content it’s more clearer that Anakin and Padmé specifically choose missions they know the other will be on to join. Whether it be Anakin as her guard, or Padmé as his ally.

We see in Forces of Destiny that Anakin tries to get missions as Padmé’s bodyguard.

So we can assume that this becomes a thing between the two of them 🤣 trying to hack missions they’re both on to be together more. I mean, if it was up to them? They’d be attached at the hip 24/7.

Even in TCW, we see Padmé making moves to get Anakin on the same missions she’s on, asking Yoda and Mace to send OW and “Skywalker” because she’ll be needing Jedi aid for her excursion 😏 and we see the same thing take place in Brotherhood, when Anakin and Padmé go out on a date. Though in the BH novel, she knows it’d be easier for her to secretly go on a date with her husband than spend time with him on duty where they’re still trying to hide from the gaze of others.

Well, you guessed it! This unspoken deal between them extends to even the other novels too! Like here in Secrets of the Jedi. Palps tells Anakin that Padmé personally chose to go on the mission that Anakin was sent on, despite that Anakin was afraid and didn’t want Padmé to come, we see how his mind later changes after talking it out with Padmé. He tells her that he won’t leave her side and she responds in kind by saying that this was exactly what she wanted. (For him to never leave her side.)

And later on in the same novel, now on the mission, Anakin decides he’s gonna do some exploring on the ship they ended up on. Right after Padmé not so discreetly says she’ll “join him” masking her reasoning with “mission investigation.”

Further into the novel now, Anakin advises Padmé to return to Coruscant for her own safety, requesting her, and silently begging with his eyes for her to listen to him. Triggering the topic between them of how they hate to be apart from one another and that it’s so hard to live this life, despite that they’ve already decided long ago that it was worth it to belong to each other.

Padmé wanted to stay on the mission and be alongside Anakin, but she inevitably listens to his plea and goes back.

However, the reasoning behind Padmé wanting to stay on missions with Anakin isn’t just to spend time with him, but also it’s also parallel to Anakin’s reason for wanting her to stay back and away from the danger. She can’t bare to be with him go away, and she can’t follow. She has to see him or else she’ll go “crazy” worrying over him. This is also one of the reasons why she drowns herself in work whenever she can’t join him. (Excerpt from Star Wars, Clone Wars Gambit: stealth.)

And this is why Padmé encourages Anakin to take her with him when he’s on missions, as shown here in Queen’s Hope.

They just never want to be separated from one another, and I just love a clingy and madly in love cute couple, okay! They’re made for each other!

[datgameguy]

God do I love how Ame and Suvi’s conflict is representative of the wider conflict between Witches and Wizards. (Long ass post incoming)

First lets look at the conflict in Chapter 2 about trusting Sly’s predictions of the conclave compared to other Citadel diviners. Witches are about community and connection. Ame trusted Sly because he had a connection to Wren, no other diviners in the Citadel had Wren’s trust that we know of just Sly. Wizards on the other hand put their faith in institutions and hierarchies. If Sly’s predictions are contradicted by those of several other diviners with more influence in the system, then his predictions should be discarded. (Also keep in mind that Sly was relegated to obscurity because his predictions were largely about things that didn’t line up with the Citadel’s priorities)

So we get tension at the end of Chapter 2 because Ame (through Wren) has a connection to and trusts more in Sly as an individual than the Citadel’s diviners as an institution. Suvi on the other hand hears Steel say that a group of diviners might have contrary evidence to what Sly predicted and instinctively puts her trust in the institution over the individual.

As a result Suvi and Steel dismiss Ame’s concerns about Sly’s predictions until Ame gets so worked up about the issue that she takes drastic action to return to Toma and prepare. Of course Suvi is right to be upset with the manor in which Ame leaves, it’s incredibly reckless and could have lead to several civilians (and Eursalon!!) getting injured or killed. However she fails to see her and Steel’s roles in pushing Ame into immediate action. Steel never took Ame seriously, and Suvi largely agreed with her.

And now we get to Episode 25 and Suvi’s scathing tirade against Ame.

A big theme of this arc seems to be how both Witches and Wizards look down on one another. Steel has her line about Witches seeing Wizards as “devious, paranoid, and buffoonish,” while Suvi blows up on Ame for “that smart ass tone about Wizards.”

And you know what they’re right. Witches do look down on Wizards.

I find myself wondering how Ame, Witch of the World’s Heart and the steward of humanity, could NOT look down on Wizards. The Wizards of the Citadel may be the brightest minds humanity has to offer, but they use those gifts to fuel a seemingly endless war with Ruve and Gouthmai (a war that threatens the lives and homes of Eursalon’s family). The Citadel seems to glorify violence (remember in Chapter 1 when Suvi proudly displayed that she spilled blood on behalf of the Citadel?). We also know from Kalaya that over time the Citadel went from what was essentially a huge university, to a homogeneous and militarized society.

Thats without even mentioning how Steel herself proves the Witches assessment of Wizards correct! Steel concocts a plan for Suvi that is devious in its intentions, paranoid in its secrecy, and buffoonish in how it could undermind the meeting of the Coven and cost both Ame and Suvi their lives if discovered. While Suvi is lecturing Ame on judging Wizards she has unknowingly agreed to a plan that proves all of her assumptions correct.

Suvi is probably my favorite character in this campaign. Aabria absolutely BRINGS IT every session. I’ve no doubt that many of the things listed in this post crossed her mind and were intentional. After all, the Citadel is a defining part of Suvi’s identity.

Wizards exist in a world that does not take them seriously. We’re 25 episodes in and spirits and witches alike have constantly referred to Wizards in pejorative terms. It’s not hard to see how someone like Suvi, born in the thick of the world of Wizards would cling to the Citadel as the lone institution of the world that advocates for Wizards. Because Suvi is a wizard she is preemptively judged by nearly every witch and spirit in the story. So of course she’ll judge them too.

After all, wouldn’t you?

[cherryite]

overthrown - part 2. the sword

summary. in your grief, mark offers a shoulder to lean on and a visit from the oracle provides a way to even the odds against the dark gods army (word count. 5.8k)

content. princess!reader x prince!mark, fem!reader, strangers to lovers, slow burn, angst, yearning, hurt/comfort, fantasy au, saving the world, war time activities, found family

warnings. MDNI!!, depictions of violence, blood and injuries, loss of family, grief, rex being a dickhead lowk, survivors guilt, eventual smut (not this part)

author's note. omg it's finally here!! it only took me 5 million years lol. but we're getting into the thick of it now and i'm SO excited heheh! as always, i live for comments and stuff so feel free to discuss with me!! enjoy!

taglist. @pickledsoda @heartfully10

previous/next

plot/ world info character index

It’s been a week since you’d last truly talked to anyone other than High Queen Debbie and Pippin (though you aren’t sure that counts, since Pippin is a cat). You attend meetings with the rest of the heirs. You sit there, quiet, distant. Cecil drones on about battle formations, supply lines, magical contingencies, anything, any strategy that might buy more time until they know what to do. Everything goes in one ear and out the other. You nod when you’re expected to, speak only when you absolutely have to, and leave before anyone can even attempt to talk to you.

You always return to your quarters as soon as you can. Sometimes you cry, sometimes you just stare up at the ceiling. Debbie, in all her loveliness, visits on and off. She typically doesn’t knock anymore, just slips inside like she belongs there, providing you silent companionship. She never asks you to talk. She just sits, quiet and calm, and brings you small things she thinks will do you some good. A fresh set of paints to get smeared on the many canvases that litter the room. Clay you haven’t used yet sits in the corner, mocking you.

Once, she left a note folded beneath a box of pastels. It read: “Make something.”

Art has always been your way out. When you were younger, it helped you pretend. You drew dragons in the margins of your scrolls, painted your dreams across the walls of your room until the maids started complaining. Aaric had incantations. You had brushstrokes and your mind.

Now, painting is all that keeps your hands from shaking. You paint your brother, over and over, chasing the way his eyes gleamed when he smiled. You can’t get his eyes right and it devistates you. You paint your mother, her eyes, her hands, the way her hair used to fall in soft waves when she wore it loose. 

Debbie doesn’t say much. She’ll sit beside you, close but not crowding, her presence solid and unshakable. She’s grieving too. You know that. You forget, sometimes. But she lost someone as well, her husband, the father of her children. You can’t imagine how hard it must be to carry all of that. To lose so much and still wear a crown, still represent the crown. Debbie never falters. She still holds court. Still attends council. Still rises with the sun. Doesn’t wander the halls like a ghost.

And you can barely leave your room.

Pippin curls at your feet as you press your forehead against the crook of your arm. His purring fills the air, calming you, pulling you to sleep. You tell yourself you’re just tired. That you’ll get up tomorrow. That you just need time. Perhaps you’ll just fall asleep here, on the small desk of your quarters, amongst the paintings of your family.

~

“Mark!”

Hearing his name, Mark turns, his eyes landing on his younger brother, Oliver, who’s bounding down the stone corridor to him. Considering how young he is, he’s stayed fairly positive in his father’s absence. He’s young, only seven, and endlessly curious. Most days he’s too caught up in practicing his magic to notice the tension in the air. Or at least that’s what Mark tells himself. The small boy bounces towards him, he’s clutching a lopsided bouquet of flowers in his hands, which are covered in dirt. His smile is so wide and warm that Mark can’t help but grin in return.

“What’ve you got there, Oliver?” he asks, voice soft and warm as he ruffles his brother’s already messy black hair. Oliver beams up at Mark, obviously unphased by the fact that his white tunic is soiled with earth. 

“I went to the gardens,” he explains proudly, his little hands wrapped around the stems of the flowers, “Mama said the Princess is sad. So I made her this!”

Mark tenses and bites his lip. 

You.

He hasn’t seen you, really seen you, since the day you arrived in Viltrum, over a week ago. Aside from small council meetings, you’ve been absent from the training sessions the rest of the heirs partake in. Mark can hardly blame you though. Rex drives him up a wall half the time, Rae and Eve are both nice, but because of his duties he doesn’t know either of them well yet. He’s not sure they would understand the turmoil you're going through, the magnitude of your grief. You walk the halls like a ghost. Always quiet. Always distant.

Your dresses always flow around you as you walk, always dressed in blue, the deep, stormy hues of your homeland, like the sea had followed you here, curling around your ankles and pulling you under. Mark thought you were floating once when he caught you wandering the halls, before he remembered you possessed no magic, only a captivating loneliness.

“That’s very kind of you, Oliver,” Mark murmurs, though something in his chest pinches as the boy tugs insistently at his hand. “I’m sure she’ll like them.” 

Oliver pulls him along before Mark can think to protest. Mark’s eyes widened as his younger brother pulled him towards the grand staircase that led to the living quarters. At first Mark thinks Oliver is taking him to his room to play, he veers right instead of left down the hall, down to where your quarters were. Mark feels his heart stutter in his chest.

“You’ll go with me right Mark?” Oliver says, peering up at him with wide, expectant eyes. “Mom said you would!”

Mark just nods and his throat has suddenly gone dry. Nervousness prickles over his skin as he finds himself and Oliver right in front of the room you’ve all but holed yourself up in. Oliver peers into your room, the door is ajar, that alone is surprising to see.

Oliver knocks his little fist softly against the door. There's no response for a second and Mark almost leans down to tell Oliver that they can give the flowers he picked to you another time, when a soft voice calls out.

“Come in.”

Mark feels his heart pound in his chest, his heart leaping against his ribs.

Oliver drags him across the threshold of your quarters, directly into your safe space. They’re much like his own, beautiful bay windows, a large bed, ancient stone lining the walls. But there's one thing in the room that Mark doesn’t have; nearly a dozen canvases littering the floor, propped up on furniture. Swaths of color crawl across canvas and wood. There’s a pulse here, steady and quiet and aching. His dark eyes finally land on you, Oliver lets go of his hand, bounding over to you cheerfully. 

You’re sitting at a desk near the window, a large lump of clay resting on what looks to be canvas to protect the wood underneath it. The lump of wet earth roughly looks like a bust, much like one of the sculptures that lined the walls of the castle. It doesn’t have a face yet, but there’s care in the shape of the brow, the line of the jaw. Your hair is tied up, away from your face, a few flyaways framing your face. You’re wearing a simple dress, light blue like the ocean in the early morning. The sleeves are pulled up, revealing your clay covered hands, grey reminisce coating your nimble fingers as they slide over the brow bone of the sculpture.

Mark stays in the doorway. He feels awkward, out of place, because this is your safe haven. Because he feels like an intruder. He nearly winces at the thought of him possibly invading your privacy. 

Oliver reaches you, and you turn to look at the young boy as he holds out the flowers he massacred the palace garden over. Mark can see the weariness in your eyes, the way you don't seem fully there. And yet, a soft smile quirks at the edges of  your lips at the sight of the young prince in front of you.

“Hi Princess,” Oliver starts, his voice is boyish and excited as he speaks, “I picked these for you! All by myself too!” His tiny hands shove the flowers out to you, an array of sunset yellows, blues, and soft purples, much like a sunset in Ephia. Mark watches as your tired expression softens, dipping your hands in a basin of water to rid your skin of the clay.

“All by yourself huh?” you question gently as the young boy nods, rising from your chair. “Why don’t we put them over here, by the window?” 

You retrieve the empty vase from the corner of the desk, lifting it carefully with one hand, your other still wrapped around Oliver’s small fingers. His grip is warm and sticky with garden dirt, the flowers crumpled slightly from his excitement. Clay dust streaks your arms, smudges your pretty dress, accompanying some of the dirt from Oliver’s hands. Mark watches from the doorway, struck by how little you seem to notice, or just how little you care. After the flowers find their home in the vase, sitting prettily in the bay window, Mark watches as Oliver looks up at you. 

“Do they make you feel better?

You don’t answer right away. And then, gently, you crouch down to his level. The soft fabric of your skirt pools around you like ocean foam. You rest your hands on your knees, fingers still streaked with clay and ash, and you nod. 

“They help.”

It’s quiet again, though it’s not uncomfortable. Oliver breaks it.

“I’m sorry about Aaric.”

The name hits the air like a stone dropped into still water. You tense, just barely, but Mark sees it. Of course he sees it. Your brother's name sounds strange when spoken aloud, stranger still coming from a child who never knew him.

“I’m sure you miss him. It’s hard not to miss brothers.”

Mark watches the interaction, the air of his lungs caught in his throat. You continue to look at the young boy, your expression seemingly unchanging. But Mark sees the way your lashes lower, the way your breath catches, the way your hand twitches slightly, like you're restraining yourself from reaching for something that isn’t there.

“Thank you Oliver,” you respond, “Nothing is as special as a brother.”

There’s a pause again. You’re still crouched there, on the balls of your feet. And then Oliver, full of innocence and something akin to wisdom, tilts his head.

“I could be your brother too, if you want,” Oliver says, innocently, like he doesn’t know the weight it holds, “I’ve never had a sister before.” 

You stare at him, your mouth parted slightly. Even from his place at the doorway, Mark can see how your eyes water ever so slightly, as they glisten in the light from the sun. The silence hangs in the air again, before you break it.

“Okay,” you respond, your voice quiet and soft. “You can be my brother.”

Oliver makes a quiet but pleased voice in this throat, a mix of a giggle and a hum of agreement. The boy turns to look at Mark, seeking his older brother's approval with a smile. Mark can only manage a nod and a soft smile, trying to bury the thick ache that’s rising in his chest. You’ve looked so unreachable since you arrived in Viltrum, a drifting, distant presence in the castle walls. This is the first time he’s seen you here, truly here. 

“I should go tell Mama,” Oliver says brightly, already turning to the door. “She said it would cheer you up and I knew she was right!”

You stand, watching his tiny form as he exits your orbit, brushing your palms against the fabric of your skirts. “Thank you again, Oliver. I’ll take good care of them.”

The boy just nods, like it wasn’t the single brightest movement of your week so far. And with that, he’s out the door, brushing against Mark as he leaves. His small feet patter down the hallway, little clicks of his shoes, as he leaves a lingering warmth in his absence.

The quiet that settles after his departure is different than before. Not empty, just still, natural. A kind of hush that makes you aware of your heartbeat, the soft creak of the castle stone, the way Mark is still standing in your doorway like he’s unsure if he should step further in or leave you to your solitude.

You don’t meet his gaze right away. Instead, you busy yourself with the water in the basin, dipping your hands into the water again, swirling your fingers to rid them of the remaining clay that may have lingered. 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want company,” Mark says, finally finding his voice; it’s low, a bit awkward, but careful, “I, um… I hope that was okay,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “He wanted to bring them himself, and… he thought it might help.”

You turn your head, flicking your hands to rid them of water, your eyes meet. “It did”

Mark can’t help the shy smile that curls at his mouth, “That’s good then.”

There's a beat of silence again

“He’s sweet,” you murmur, glancing at the vase in the window, “You’ve done well as a brother.”

Mark tentatively breaches the entrance to the room, a few steps inside your sanctuary. His dark brown eyes skim over the canvases that litter the room, the sculpture by the desk, finally landing on you.

“That’s all my Mom for the most part,” he replies, pausing a second before speaking again, “but thank you.”

You nod softly, like your thinking to yourself as Mark slowly steps further into the room, his boots tapping against the floor. He leans, almost nervously, against the frame of your large bed, his eyes still on you.

“I-uh- I see him in your art,” he says gently, gesturing towards one of the many paintings that rests by your feet. “Your brother. Aaric.”

Mark can see the way your breath hitches as he says your twin’s name, but you don’t turn. You don’t hide like you’ve been doing since you’ve arrived. You’re quiet again before speaking.

“Everyone keeps saying how sorry they are,” you whisper. “But no one says his name.”

Mark’s voice is soft as he responds. “Names are heavy. But they deserve to be carried.”

You finally meet his eyes again, and for a long moment, you don’t say anything. He doesn’t rush you. He just waits.

“I feel useless,” you admit, the words like glass in your throat. “All I can do is sculpt. Paint. I don’t have magic. I can't fight like the rest of you. I can’t protect anyone. Not even him.”

Mark steps forward, closer this time. “You’re not useless.” His heart is racing, beating heavily in his chest, because he can barely believe you’re confiding in someone. Confiding in him.

“Then what am I, Mark?” you question, your voice is quiet and hollow.

“You’re someone who’s grieving. And still breathing. Still trying.” 

The silent part goes unsaid, the part where he says, ‘just like me’. Your spiraling and he can tell, just by how your head tilts to the side slightly, how your hands grip at the fabric of your dress. You blink hard at him, as he continues to speak.

“I could help you,” he says carefully. “If you wanted.”

He watches as your brows furrow slightly, pinching together on your face. “Help me?”

“With your swordsmanship,” he offers, his fingers twitching from nerves. “I mean. If you want. I’m not saying you need it. I just thought, it might make you feel safer, or more prepared, then I’d be happy to help.” He clears his throat as he finishes, watching you to see what reaction you’ll have.

Your lips part slightly in surprise, the emotion flickering across your expression. He can feel you studying him, his face, his body language, like you’re trying to decipher the sincerity behind his offer. He wonders if you see it how he meant it. If you see no pity. No expectation or pressure. Just something solid, something for you to lean on.

You nod slowly, “Okay.” Mark barely sees it, but he notices the dash of light in your eyes. It’s fragile, but very real. He can feel the tension roll off his shoulders, the weight not so heavy anymore. 

“Okay,” he repeats, and there’s something sweet and boyish in the way he speaks. Almost like it's a relief you didn’t push him away, extending your loneliness. The light of the sun tickles the vase in the window, full of flowers, shining around the room. Neither of you moves, basking in the scent of clay and the fresh smell of flowers.

“Meet me down in the training yard tomorrow morning?” he offers you, treading carefully as to not overstep. “Cecil said we could have the day off from council meetings.”

“Okay.” Your words are quiet, hesitant, but not in a bad way. He nods and Mark takes this as a cue to leave you to your thoughts, backing slowly to the door. He places a hand on the frame, glancing at you again.

“Rest well tonight,” he says gently. “It’s… good to see you out of bed.”

You give him the barest, tired smile. “Don’t get used to it.” He nearly feels his heart stop, because you haven’t smiled like that since you’ve got here. His eyes linger on your face for a second, trying to chase the smile on your lips, remembering the moment you joked and smiled, despite your grief. Mark inhales sharply, and then he’s gone, the door clicking softly behind him. He leaves and you’re left with your sculpture, your clay covered hands, and the faintest flicker of something warmer than grief. Hope.

~

The sky is still caked in a pale haze of the morning when you make your way down to the training, the soft glow of the rising sun creeping through the windows. The birds chirp sweetly and mist rolls over the cool castle walls. You walk onto the grounds, hesitant, but as soon as your boots hit the dirt, you steady yourself. This isn’t the first time you’ve wielded a sword, certainly not the first time you’ve been in a training yard either. You used to watch Aaric train with your father in the training grounds back at home, magic heavy in the air. This feels different though. It doesn’t take you long to realize Mark is already here. 

He stands near the far corner of the yard, his own sword held comfortably in one hand. You can feel the crackle of magic emanating from him, drifting through the air. It almost makes you stop, because you can just tell it’s strong, powerful; much stronger than any magic user you’ve ever met. You push the thought aside despite the shiver that runs down your spine, taking in his appearance. He’s in simple clothing, navy tunic, dark trousers tucked into worn boots, and the sight of him, so unassuming despite the weight of what he carries, makes something shift quietly in your chest. He’s a prince, an heir, and even in simple clothes he looks it.

You had half expected him to have not shown, had second thoughts on training a princess who’s been wandering the halls like she’s half dead when she should be helping with a prophecy to save the realm. But as you look up, Mark has already spotted you and straightens instantly, eyes slightly wide. His lips curl into a small, uncertain smile when you meet his gaze. He lifts a hand in greeting.

“Hey,” he says, voice laced with something between relief and anxiety, “you came.”

You nod, “You said tomorrow morning. Would be rude to not come” A tiny smile quirks at your lips.

His smile is a little sheepish, but bright, “Right. I did.” He walks over to you, his sword still clutched in his hand by his side. He raises his arm, holding out an extra sword to you. You observe the sword he’s extended to you; it's a bit dull and not flashy, perfect for practicing. You reach for the hilt, something about the way his fingers brush against yours sends a shot of warmth up your arm. It’s nothing, nothing at all, but your heart skips a beat anyway. He silently observes your stance, your grip on the blade, your demeanor. He looks like his hands are twitching, his fingers itching to correct.

“Here,” he murmurs, adjusting your feet gently with his boot, then your shoulders with the lightest touch of his hand. “There. That’s good. You’re holding it a little tight, though. Try to loosen your grip. You’ll tire out faster if you’re too tense.”

You glance down at your hands, feeling the tightness in your fingers. You breathe deeply, trying to take his advice. Mark watches, his gaze softening as he waits. The air between you shifts, he’s giving you space, but it’s a space that feels kind. You adjust your stance based on his instructions, and you feel lighter, more confident.

You attempt to swing, like you were taught as a young girl, a small twinge of confidence in your movements. But the sword feels heavy again, and the movements feel awkward. You mess up your first few swings and the blade doesn’t connect properly during a few basic strikes. Your breath catches in your throat, frustration creeping in like a shadow. You feel embarrassed, because Mark is watching you struggle. And because you caught sight of the other heirs watching from above, leaning on the guardrails of the hallway above that's exposed to the training yard. You puff out a heavy breath of air.

“Maybe I’m not cut out for this,” you mutter under your breath, sword drooping slightly in your hands. You try to hide the frustration creeping into your voice, but it’s there. You want to be good. You want to prove that you don’t need magic to stand on your own, to prove you do belong in this prophecy, but everything feels foreign, awkward. 

Mark takes a step toward you, shooting a glare up to the balcony when he hears Rex laughing, followed by a shriek because Eve elbowed him in the side. Mark opens his mouth to speak and you prepare for him to be upset but his voice is gentle, like he’s unsure of how to approach. “You’re doing great,” he says softly, low enough so only the two of you hear. “You really are. And… I know it’s frustrating. But the thing about learning is that it’s okay to struggle with something at first. You don’t have to be perfect.” You glance at him, a small breath catching in your throat. You look down at the sword in your hands, trying to breathe through the knot in your chest.

“Really?” you ask, not quite believing him, but you deeply want to. To take his words as law, provide yourself some comfort. “You think I’m doing well?”

Mark nods, his gaze is soft, in the morning sun his eyes are like the chocolates your mother would make for your birthday; dark brown with wisps of caramel throughout. “Yeah. Definitely. You’re not giving up, and that’s what counts.”

You stare at him for a second longer than you should, gripping the hilt of the sword so tightly your knuckles burn white. His words, simple as they are, fill something empty inside you, a little more than you expected. Something tight eases in your chest.

“Thanks, Mark,” you say quietly.

He flushes, averting his eyes away quickly, his hands shifting nervously. “Of course,” he says quickly, clearing his throat. “You just need to keep going, alright? Keep practicing. You’re doing fine”

You nod, your feet now planted in a steady stance. It’s not perfect, but it feels solid. His words provide reassurance, any anxieties or fears you had melted a bit. You square your shoulders, lifting the sword back into position, the cool metal shines in the sunlight. “Okay. Let’s try again.”

Mark smiles, his eyes flickering back toward you, warm and reassuring. He steps back into his own stance, sword raised, and waits for you to move, only nodding his head slightly.

You swing and you find that the next few strikes come more easily. You’re still clumsy, still unsure, but with Mark beside you, guiding you without being overbearing, helping you without pushing too hard, it feels more like something you can manage. You even hear a few quiet cheers from above, Rae and Eve calling down to you in encouragement.

“That was a good hit!”

“Nice one!”

After a while, you pause, lowering the sword. Your muscles ache from swinging the heavy weapon around. You’re breathing heavily now, but there’s a sense of accomplishment that’s starting to creep up your spine. You wipe at your forehead with the sleeve of your tunic, brushing fallen strands from your eyes. Mark watches you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he steps forward again, his voice quieter than before. You can tell he’s barely even winded by the way he speaks, his chest rising and falling steadily.

“You’re getting it,” he says, his words like a balm to the anxiety swirling in your chest. “You’re really getting it.”

You exhale deeply, the smallest of smiles curving your lips. “Thanks. I don’t think I could have done it without you.”

Mark’s face flushes again, you would just chalked it up to exertion but there’s something deeper in his gaze now. You see something soft, maybe even vulnerable. You’re unsure what to do with that, so you fiddle with the hem of your sleeve. He looks like he wants to say something more, but then the moment passes and he clears his throat, awkwardly running a hand through his black hair.

“Want to keep going?” he asks, his voice almost sheepish now.

You nod, already feeling the faintest spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, you might be able to do this after all.

~

You stir from the kind of sleep that’s so heavy it swallows you whole. The kind that only comes after exhaustion has settled deep into your bones. A day of training with Mark had left your muscles aching in a strangely satisfying way, a reminder that you are slowly becoming someone else. Someone capable. After weeks of training, most of your days are spent sparring with Mark under the realm’s pale sun, you’ve grown stronger. Eve often joins when she can, striking precise, pink colored magic curling around her like a second skin. Rae pops in now and then, when she feels like it. Rex mostly watches, leaning on the stone walls of the courtyard, eyes lingering just a little too long when it’s Rae beside you. But you try not to think about that part though.

You sit in council meetings now. You speak, often of plans, possibilities, ideas. Debbie nods when you talk. Sometimes she even smiles, in that quiet way she does when she’s thinking of something long ago. You wonder if she sees your mother in you. You walk the gardens with her and Oliver, whose tiny hands are always full of flowers by the time you return to your chambers. He insists you need more color in your room. You don’t argue. Not when he calls you ‘Sis’ and begs.

Mark visits more often too. At first, it was just to ask if you wanted to train more with him. Then it was to bring you an extra ration of sweets from the kitchens to cheer you up on bad days. Then, as your friendship progressed, it turned into sitting on the balcony with you at night, your cat curled in your lap, the stars blinking sleepily above. He listens when you talk about Aaric. About your parents. About Ephia and the salt in the air back home. About how you miss it. And he speaks too, about his mother, about the weight in his chest when he sees her trying not to cry. About his father, the ache of not knowing where he went wrong, not knowing how to cope with him dying. His voice is soft when he talks. Kind. A little unsure, sometimes, like he’s afraid you’ll think less of him. You never do.

Though hope shines amongst the darkness you had found yourself in since arriving at the Viltrum Empire, you still struggle, grief is still a heavy weight around your neck. Aaric’s face is still painted on canvas, sleep still evades you like a deer avoids open fields in hunting season. You still wake up crying some nights. You still feel painfully, cruelly plain in a castle full of magic. 

You still question your place in the prophecy, especially when you witnessed Mark and Eve training a few days ago. Watching from afar, you couldn’t help but feel out of place again. Their magic had crackled like lightning, sparking against the sky with such ferocity it had made you shudder. Eve floated above the ground, runes circling her hands. Mark had burned with power, casting light and shadow with every breath he heaved. And you… you had just stood there. You, with your sword and your aching muscles. A girl with no magic. Just grief and cool steel and paint stained fingers.

As you lay in bed, contemplating the past month, sleep has come easily to you after what feels like a lifetime. After stripping off your clothes, releasing your hair from its constraints, the plush of your pillow brought you to a deep slumber. You think you get a few hours in, but you aren’t sure, because when you open your eyes it’s dark.

Your training sword leans beside the bed, its blade glinting faintly. Something feels wrong. Off. There’s a prickle on your skin, a shift in the air. 

Rubbing your eyes, you peer out into your room. Your eyes widen instantly, snapping open at the sight of… you aren’t even fully sure looming at the foot of your bed. It glows faintly, its form shifting and vast, made of deep, swirling blues and purples. It looks like a figure sculpted from the stars themselves. The air leaves your lungs in a single, sharp breath. A scream tears free before you can stop it, echoing through the stone halls.

You grab your sword without thinking, adrenaline coursing through your veins. In one swift motion, you swing the blade up, trembling, pointing it at the figure before you. Your breaths come quick, panic gripping you like a vice. 

“Who are you?” you demand, your voice shaky and your hand that's grasping the hilt of the blade trembles. Even though you shake, you hold your ground.

It’s voice speaks, but it makes your head hurt with how it sounds; it sounds like billions of voices, all kinds, mixed together, speaking at the same time. Ancient and childlike, feminine and deep and strange. The sound scrapes against the inside of your skull.

“I am the Oracle,” it says, it’s tone neutral, flat. “And you are the princess of Ephia.” You can faintly hear a commotion down the hallway, you wonder if you’ve woken people up with your scream.

“I am,” you say, voice quivering, “what do you want?” Your throat feels impossibly dry.

“I want to assist,” the Oracle says and the air feels thick, “I have information for you. That will ensure your victory against the Dark God and his army.”

You’re quiet, eyes trained on the Oracle, your sword still pointed directly at it.” Footsteps grow louder in the fall, you can fairly hear Mark, Rae, and Debbie’s voices. You must have woken them. 

“I thought you only aided House Grayson,” you say cautiously, choosing your words carefully, “I’m not one of them.”

The form is quiet, almost like it’s assessing you before it speaks again.

“I may speak to whomever I please,” its voice is despondent, causing a shiver to run up your spine. You stay quiet, your heart racing in your chest.

“Thala’s Blade,” it whispers, like it’s a secret, “will be  the key to your success.”

You almost falter. Thala’s Blade is a fairytale. For those who believe the story about the Gods’ sacrifice, how magic came about the realm, Thala’s Blade is well known. It's said it once belonged to Thala, the Goddess of Hope. The legend says she hid the blade, one that could resist magic, crumble even the strongest spells, right before the Gods’ gave their magic to the realm; a safeguard in case someone became too powerful for their own good. A blade from the last breath of a God. Your head spins, because the Blade is fiction, a legend, a fairytale mother’s told their children when they were young. But the Oracle stares at you like it's the truth. Your fingers tighten over the hilt of your sword. 

“How do we find it?” you say slowly, testing the waters. The Oracle is quiet for a second.

“Where the Gods’ once rested their heads,” it says, cryptically. “That is where you will find it. Hope must wield the Blade, or the realm will fall.”

With a crash the door to your room bursts open, Mark and Rae stand in the doorway, magic crackling at their fingertips. Mark freezes when he sees the Oracle, who simply shifts to look at him.

“Hello Gods’ Born,” it says, barely audible before it disappears, the space it occupied empty. The room is still. 

Your sword lowers, your knees give way, and you collapse onto the bed in a daze. Adrenaline still courses through your veins, your skin still tingles. Mark rushes to you, falling to one knee at your side. His hair is messy, black strands fall over his forehead.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice thick with concern. You see Debbie enter out of the corner of your eye, lingering by the door. You can tell she’s unnerved. “You screamed. We… I thought-are you hurt?”

You shake your head, still trying to catch your breath. “It was the Oracle,” you whisper. “It was here. It spoke to me.”

Rae exhales sharply, stepping forward. But Mark is still kneeling beside you, his warm hand hovering near yours, uncertain, afraid to overstep.

“I’m okay,” you breathe. “I think.”

Mark doesn’t say anything for a moment. His brows furrow. He’s thinking, he appears far away for a moment.

“What did it say?” Rae questions, her voice is soft with sleep as she adjusts her glasses on her face. You swallow, your eyes flitting between everyone in the room.

“Thala’s Blade, it’s real,” you swallow thickly. Mark’s dark eyes search your face, an unreadable expression on his face. “We have to find it. The Blade is how we win.”

[valaenatargaryensdragon]

In the fic where the reader won’t give Maegor their son, I can see him being similar to Aemond, in the sense of knowing that his father doesn’t love his mother and doing what he can to protect her.

I envision Maegor insisting to name their son Baelon in honor of his beloved dragon Balerion, hoping his son would one day claim him. He still placed a dragon egg in his cradle but when it did not hatch he grew more hopeful that Balerion was meant for his son.

Maegor was too busy killing people who rebelled against him and fighting wars and attempting to claim Dorne to be much of an important figure in his son’s life. Baelon was fully raised by his mother and occasionally his grandmother Visenya before she passed.

Baelon could see the toll of being married to his father is taking on his mother. When she visits she always returns with low spirits and some bruises. He then noticed the same thing happening with his father’s other wives. Baelon wanted nothing but to protect his mother.

He found moving to Dragonstone as the only solution and suggested he resumes his training there to his father who agreed without a second thought busy planning another ambush on Dorne and didn’t care that he was loosing one of his wives, she’ll be a dragon ride away anyways.

Baelon noticed his mother’s spirits rising on Dragonstone except when Maegor visits but she always reassures him that he had done what he could. Baelon never forgets what his mother has done for him, from the stories of how hard it was giving birth to him due to his size and her young age, then to the infamous story of the mother dragon as people called it when she refused to let his father touch him when he was born and Maegor having to literally sneak in to see him. He never forgets the times she stayed up for days by his side when he falls sick or the worry that etched on her face when he gets injured or how she always cleans his cuts, wipe his tears and encourages him to resume.

He never forgets how she always declines the betrothals his father tries to throw at him. And when he asks why she always respond with “ I want you to love and be loved, duty may be damned” Baelon never forgets what his mother did for him and he will repay her some day, he swears.

[shimmerandink]

hii I littreally LOVE your work omg!! Would it be possible for you to write headcanons or a one shot about ballerina reader x silco? 💗💗

Thank you for your request and your support! I love this idea, I hope you will enjoy it!!!

My ballerina

Silco x Ballerina! Reader Headcanons

Feat Jinx

Fluff

Tags: Silco x reader, ballerina reader, sfw, softness

~Silco first sees you while attending a meeting with your boss, someone who owns or funds the performance venue as a front for shady deals. It’s just business for him… until he hears music echoing from the rehearsal hall.

~At first, he doesn’t care. But when he catches a glimpse of you mid-practice, your body moving like liquid light, the way your focus doesn’t break even when you know you’re being watched, something shifts. You’re unlike anything he’s used to in the undercity. So precise. So untouchable.

~He doesn’t say a word. Just watches silently, the glint in his visible eye unreadable, then leaves without making his presence known.

~Silco makes an excuse to return under the pretense of more business with your boss, but really, it’s to see if you’re there again. This time he makes himself known.

~“You’re disciplined,” he says after watching you finish a routine. “Almost militant.”

~It’s not quite a compliment, but not criticism either. It’s fascination, disguised in his typical cool tone.

~You raise an eyebrow, not intimidated, which intrigues him more. “It’s an art, not a war.”

~“Only difference,” he replies, “is who bleeds.”

~From that moment on, he keeps coming back. At first he tells himself it’s about curiosity. But it’s more than that. You’re soft where he’s sharp. Elegant where he’s jagged. He doesn’t belong in your world, but he can’t stay out of it either.

~He listens more than he talks at first. Watches the way you stretch your legs before a performance, the way your hands tremble when you’re nervous. He learns the shape of your silence.

~You ask questions that catch him off guard, “What was your favorite song as a child?” or “Do you ever wish you’d done something… gentler?”

~He doesn’t lie, but he doesn’t tell the full truth either. Not until he trusts you.

~ The first time he sees you perform on stage, something clenches deep in his chest. You’re so radiant, so free. It almost hurts. Because he’s never known freedom that didn’t cost something.

~Silco isn’t used to softness. Not in himself. But with you, he starts to crave it.

~He never tells you to stop dancing, not even when it’s dangerous to be associated with him. In fact, he protects your space like it’s sacred. Anyone who even thinks about dragging you into his world without permission… doesn’t get to think again.

~When you’re hurt, even slightly, his rage is cold, deadly, and quiet. But when you cry out of frustration because your foot won’t cooperate or your balance is off, he’s gentle. “You’re allowed to fall,” he murmurs. “Even perfection stumbles.”

~He won’t say “I love you” often, but he’ll sit through an entire performance in the shadows, arms crossed, eyes never leaving you. He’ll bring you water, fix your ribbons when they fray, and touch your back like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

~You make him feel human. Not in a way that weakens him, but in a way that reminds him he’s still capable of beauty, and of being loved without fear.

~Jinx thinks you’re too “perfect,” too clean, too graceful to really get Silco or the world he’s in.

~She might test you with weird questions or throw chaotic comments just to see how you react.

~“So… how many pirouettes before you snap someone’s neck?”

~If you laugh or answer with something clever, she’ll smirk and say, “Okay, you’re fun.”

~Over time, she warms up, especially when she realizes that you don’t treat her like she’s “crazy” or a burden. You’re calm around her, and that earns deep respect from Jinx.

~ She once asked if you could show her some dance moves. She tried to do a spin and almost knocked over a lamp. You both laughed hysterically. Now she brings you broken music boxes to fix “for inspiration.”

~He doesn’t ask for private performances, but the first time you do it on your own, he’s visibly shaken. Silco doesn’t show softness easily, but in that moment, he forgets how to breathe.

~ The way your body moves, controlled, delicate, defiant, it reminds him of what discipline looks like when it’s born from passion, not war.

~ Afterward, he always sits in silence for a few moments, as if absorbing you. Like beauty is something he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

~ He starts making excuses to visit your rehearsal space after hours, pretending to check in on “business.” But you catch the slight curl of his lips every time you spin just for him.

~Sometimes, you dance while he’s working, and he won’t even look up from his papers, but his hand still moves in time with the music, fingers tapping your rhythm.