#skirmish (composer)

[dailyenglishvoca]

Today’s song is Carbon Monoxide by Katachi P and Skirmish featuring the Vocaloid Gum

Content warning: flashing lights/images

[rockingbytheseaside]

Hey! Gosh I love your fics, you are so talented! <3 I have a request after your latest fic haha. The sentences 'It's only a matter of time before he accidentally slips and calls you his spouse in front of people.' would be the perfect plot, actually. When and how would the Harbingers calls their s/o 'their wife' in front of others first time? If you don't like it, you don't have to do it! i hope you have an awesome day!

(hehe, yes, accidentally… mmm. Enjoy!)

✦ They accidentally call you their spouse 

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Pantalone, Tartaglia

It was a complete and utter accident; just a harmless slip of the tongue. One moment, your beloved was politely introducing you to some of his Fatui subordinates, the other he inadvertently referred to you as “my spouse” in front of others. It would've been a sweet moment of shared laughter, were it not spoken in front of so many people of the Fatui. It’s not like your beloved’s subordinates would start correcting him, he's a Harbinger after all… now how would you navigate this awkward situation? 

✧ The ever-cold and calculating Pierro prevents any mistakes from slipping past him. Yet here he is, standing composed next to you as he gently gestures to you and claims:

“From here on out, my spouse shall reside in the Zapolyarny Palace and I expect all obedience to be directed towards them.” 

You went silent. The servants went silent. Even he went silent. You carefully murmured to him:

“... Pierro, dear. We are not married.” 

Somehow the Jester remained blank, as if the error of his brain eluded him. Or perhaps, he realized it was too late to reprimand his mistake, especially in front of the royal servants of the palace. He simply cleared his throat and nodded woefully: “Indeed, we aren't. My apologies.” 

The hushed murmurs of The Director’s “innocent mistake” spread soundlessly like an inside secret within the Palace's walls. It wasn't news that the Jester adored you, but to witness the typically collected Pierro clear his throat bashfully, while you stood there timidly after correcting his mistake was endearing. 

These rumors, of course, reached the ears of the 3rd of the Fatui Harbingers’ ears, Columbina. Such tales were her delight, a personal pastime, relishing the timid nature of your private relationship with Pierro. She just had to tease you two by reminding him of the incident. Thus, one day, she approached The Jester in his office on an inconspicuous day and asked:

“Oh, cheer up, Director. It's been months since your last mishap. Surely you wouldn't let your composure shatter in front of the one you call beloved so easily?”

“You are correct,” - Pierro replied to the Dove calmly. “It was a mistake. Hence, I amended it and made sure it's no longer an issue.”

That’s when Columbina’s gaze drifted to his hands, where he was not leisurely adjusting his cuffs but subtly displaying an ornament on his ring finger. His engagement ring. If the 3rd Harbinger could open her enigmatic eyes, she would stare absolutely wide-eyed and dumbfounded through her white ribbons. When the hell did he get engaged-?!

“Pierro, dear,” - you suddenly stepped in, that same embarrassed interjection escaping you “Please stop boasting about our engagement. We haven't made it official yet.” 

✧ The poor Fatui soldier under Il Capitano's recruit stood stiffly looking at their Harbinger. Was it dread or the web of discomfort one feels when seeing a couple argue over something entirely beyond their input? Because that's certainly what the current Fatui skirmisher felt when standing between you and Il Capitano. 

“I can't allow this, Capitano,” – you huffed, your head shaking in dismay. “You over-dedicate yourself in battles.” 

“We went over this, my cherished. I have to, it is my duty as the Captain. Not just for the Fatui’s sake, but for your own safety as well!” 

“No, no,” – you clicked your tongue. “Don’t give me that. You know that's not the issue… the issue is that you overwork yourself by beating everyone in a duel and not leaving me anything else to defeat! What am I supposed to do?!”

“But my beloved-!” 

That's how your lover's quarrel underwent, and the Fatui Skirmishers that kept blinking in disbelief, stood helpless as the argument ping-ponged between ‘who gets to defeat more enemies on the battlefield’. Finally, your beloved spoke with an irritated huff at your scolding:

“Well, did you perhaps consider that I do not wish for my spouse to overextend themselves and get recklessly injured over some personal records?”

“Oh, so now you-... What did you just call me?” 

The sudden realization caused a deafening silence between you and Capitano like a blade poised to strike. His pitch-black visage did not help to decipher whether he was grappling with his mistake or masking his shock. You insisted: “Capitano, what did you just call-”

“I did not say anything.” 

“You did, you…Hey-! Don't turn your back on me, come back here!” 

Perhaps The 1st of the Fatui Harbingers does not flee from a challenge like a pathetic coward. However, today was a great chance to use a tactful retreat, to put it softly, all in the hopes of escaping your wrath. How else would he explain his mishaps of calling you his ‘spouse’ so casually? If he confessed that he thought “it sounds so befitting for my one and only” he might as well just reveal every tender plan of a quiet life with you. And he can't have you teasing his affection for a domestic life alongside you. 

For now, fleeing was a wise and honorable choice, especially when you are ready to duel him any moment now.

✧ It was another one of those days in Il Dottore's lab. His fingers tap the surface of the table, chin resting on his palm, while a pen balanced precariously behind his ear. Delegating his final tasks for today, he supervised some final organizational matters in the lab while addressing some lab assistants with his usual air of nonchalant authority.

“Ensure all the surgical sets are properly sanitized and checked in the ultrasonic cleaner. I expect them neatly arranged by day’s end. My spouse prefers the equipment organized this way.”

One of the lab assistants stopped in their tracks, staring at him. 

“And don't inform them how some glassware shattered today. It would be irrelevant for them to worry…”

Mumbling to himself, Dottore only now realized that his lab assistants fell eerily silent, staying motionless as they blinked at him. Humming in confusion, he turned his attention at last, only to realize these unfortunate listeners were not gawing at him, but rather someone behind him.

Lo and behold, you stood there, behind him.

With a hand on your hip, you inquired with deceptive simplicity: “Oh? You have a spouse, dear?”

He pretends he wasn't aware of the conundrum and the absurdity of his slip-up. But even with his eyes covered behind that smooth black mask covering his eyes, you can see the haughty expression on his lips. Thus, he crossed his arms.

“Hm, Perhaps. You could say I do.”

“Then my condolences to your spouse. They must have the patience of a saint.”

The Doctor’s assistant had to repress their little chuckles. The tense atmosphere of the laboratory would always be dismissed with your ease, as you’d knowingly nod to Dottore’s colleagues and allow them to leave you two alone. Not even Dottore’s stern attitude would interfere otherwise, even if he tried to conceal his flustered composure at your mere words: “Well perhaps they are a saint, but also a handful for me to deal with.”

“Well, your hypothetical spouse is telling you it's late already and you should take a break for today.”

Conceding to your playful banter, The harbinger’s shoulders loosened up, a rare smile gracing him as he followed you with a wrapped arm around your shoulder. Your victory is marked by your knowing smile and Dottore would not object or conceal his infatuation by referring to you as his spouse. Even if he denies the marital titles as nothing but superficial formalities, he’d walk with you back to your shared personal quarters mumbling:

“Spouse’s orders it is, then.”

✧ It happened during a busy moment when Pantalone and you were at a tailor shop. After much persuasion that lasted weeks, your beloved succeeded at finally dragging you to a luxurious tailoring workshop, where store attendants welcomed you both and helped take your measurements with utter refinement and class.

You stood still with your arms extended, while the attendants did their swift duty with a measuring tape. In the mirror’s reflection before you, you caught sight of Pantalone standing a few steps away, his hand resting thoughtfully against his chin.

“Perhaps an elegant new blazer, white with golden accents?”

You remained still, looking absent-mindedly at the array of fabrics on display. “Dear, there is no need for every piece of clothing to look like it was made for a soirée. I am perfectly fine with a casual cotton blazer.”

The shop attendant closest to you stepped close with some swatches of fabrics to choose from, offering a polite smile. However, Pantalone had to shake his head and charmingly declare – “Oh, nonsense, my spouse deserves only the highest quality and looks when it comes to tailor-made pieces. Excuse me, may I inspect the catalogs for fabrics?”

With a polite nod, the shop assistant did not question the Harbinger or your baffled expression at the sudden choice of words. She was already moving around: “Most certainly, sir. I am sure you and your partner would love our available options. In fact, we also offer discounts for matching tailored ensembles for betrothed pairs if it's for a wedding or a honeymoon special.”

"Wait, wait… we are not-”

“Ah, wonderful,” Pantalone kept the same polite persona without missing a beat. However, the slight knowing smile did not go unnoticed as he glanced at you. “That will be excellent to keep in mind for the future."

What was promised as a quick visit to the tailor shop turned into Pantalone victoriously dragging you through multiple high-end workshops and analyzing the myriads of ‘honeymoon and wedding’ offers when it came to tailor-made clothes. And you, of course, could only gape at him while he kept that ever-charming grin.

“Pantalone, honey, we are not looking into engagement accessories. We are not married.”

“Oh? We are not?” - He feigned innocence and tilted his head. “Hehe, oops.”

✧ When Tartaglia made his way back with his men to Snezhnaya, the fuzzy white snow provided a stark white contrast to the shedding blood on the ground. Clear ruby red droplets stained the cool white terrain after the Harbinger’s successful expedition. 

“Lord Harbinger Tartaglia,” – a Pyro Agent approached, bowing in recognition. “Our reports are in. The site is clear; all abyssal monstrosities have been eliminated.”

Yet Childe was far from tranquil. The rush of battle was still hot in his blood, his hydro dual blades clutched tightly in his hands. Another mission dispelling any filth at the outskirts of Snezhnaya may be mundane for some Fatui skirmishers, yet for a man like Childe, this was his warm-up. 

“Ha… not bad. We finished much earlier today. And here I suspected this would take a whole day.” 

The Pyro Agent nodded – “Yes, sir, indeed. Judging by estimation, our troop would be back to the city by nightfall.”

“...Hold on, nightfall?” 

Suddenly, Tartaglia froze as if a deep culmination dawned on him. The confirmation from his subordinates did not quell his sudden shock. In mere seconds, all his battle rush and thrill of danger vanished before Tartaglia whipped around and exclaimed loudly to his men: 

“Teucer’s theater performance at school is today! My spouse is gonna kill me!” 

Without further words or thought, the Harbinger literally turned and sprinted as far as the horizon could see, leaving his subordinates baffled. Teucer? Spouse? This young Harbinger was married? 

“What… is he on about? I didn't know our lord Harbinger was married,” - the Pyro Agent mumbled, looking into the distance where the figure of a sprinting young man vanished off comically. An Anemoboxer Vanguard stepped nearby, adjusting his gauntlets. “I am pretty sure he isn't. It could be a family member.”

“Then who is the spouse…?” 

The Fatui colleagues exchanged shrugs before the other remembered – “Ah, could be his partner. Remember, they sometimes come to visit when he's training?”

“Oh, then definitely them.” – the two men stared off in the direction Tartaglia had gone, the bizarre image of their superior, so consumed by his bloodlust moments ago, suddenly halting everything to rush home for some kid’s theater performance. And accidentally calling his sweetheart his spouse would be hard to forget.

“Wanna bet he won't make it in time and his ‘spouse’ would teach him a lesson?” 

[moonselune]

You're dark bg3 stuff is amazing, what do you think about the reader getting sick and them ever over reacting or not reacting

Separate idea: Them dressing up with reader like a doll not a person showing how they think about them.

Okay okay, so I did a mix of injured reader and ill reader, feel free to send in the separate idea as an additional request !

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Dark!BG3 | Help (Please don't) !

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For: Conqueror!Minthara, MotherSuperior!Shadowheart, God!Gale, Ascended!Astarion, Naturist!Halsin

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CW: Controlling, manipulation, murder, arson, coercion, forced memory loss, illness, injury,

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Whether out of defiance or out of poor luck, you are in need of healing, how do they react to this?

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Conqueror Minthara:

The injury happened quickly, too quickly for you to react. In the chaos of the skirmish, a blade had sliced across your side, leaving a deep, ragged gash. You had snuck out of the House and landed yourself in some trouble. You knew Minthara would be furious if she found out, so you did the only thing you could think of: you hid it.

Back in your quarters, you bandaged the wound as best as you could, gritting your teeth against the searing pain. You knew it wasn't enough, but you hoped it would hold until the bleeding stopped. You went about your restricted duties, ignoring the throbbing pain in your side. As the day went on, however, the wound worsened, the edges growing inflamed and hot to the touch. You moved stiffly, every step a reminder of the injury you were concealing.

Minthara was perceptive, always watching, always aware. So it was only a matter of time before she noticed.

As you were preparing for bed, she entered your shared room. Her eyes immediately zeroed in on the blood seeping through your bandages and staining your clothes. Her expression turned from curiosity to fury in an instant.

“What is this?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “Why did you not tell me?”

You tried to straighten up, to look composed, but the pain was too much. “It’s nothing. I can handle it.”

Minthara crossed the room in a flash, her eyes blazing with anger and something else—something that looked dangerously like panic. She grabbed your arm, forcing you to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Clearly, you cannot,” she hissed, tearing the bandage away with a swift, angry motion. The sight of the infected wound made her pale. “Why did you hide this from me?”

“I didn’t want your help,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Minthara’s eyes softened for a brief moment, a flicker of something almost tender passing through them. She barked orders to the servants to bring hot water and clean cloths, her hands never leaving your arm.

“Minthara, I’m fine,” you tried again, but she silenced you with a glare that could have melted stone.

“Do not speak,” she commanded, her voice cold and unyielding. “You will only make it worse.”

The servants arrived quickly, setting down the supplies before hastily retreating from the room. Minthara’s fingers were surprisingly gentle as she cleaned the wound, her touch precise despite the anger simmering in her eyes. She applied a healing salve, the warmth of the magic easing the pain slightly.

“Y/N, really, why did you not tell me?” she asked again, her voice quieter now but no less insistent.

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” you repeated, your voice trembling slightly. “I didn’t want you to see me as weak.”

“You are mine,” she said quietly, her eyes locking onto yours. “Your pain, your wounds—they are my concern. Do not hide anything from me again.”

“I can take care of myself,” you insisted, a weak attempt at retaining some form of independence. “I don’t need you to—”

“Enough,” she interrupted, her voice brooking no argument. “You are not in a position to argue.”

She helped you lie down, her hands lingering on your skin as she pulled the covers over you. You tried to resist, to show that you were still strong, still independent, but the pain and exhaustion were too much. You sank back into the pillows, your body trembling with the effort.

“Rest now,” she murmured, her fingers brushing against your cheek. “You need to heal, and I will ensure that you do.”

She sat by your side, her hand resting lightly on your arm. Her presence was both a comfort and a reminder of the power she held over you. You couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of safety in her presence. Minthara’s fierce protectiveness was a double-edged sword, but for now, it was a comfort you were willing to accept.

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Mother Superior Shadowheart:

Falling ill in the shadowy sanctum of Shadowheart's temple was an unexpected and grueling ordeal. The illness had come on suddenly, a vicious fever that left you weak and disoriented. Shadowheart, usually composed and stoic, transformed into a flurry of anxious care and vigilant oversight, treating you as if you were a fragile, precious doll.

Her concern was overwhelming. She scarcely left your side, tending to your every need with meticulous care, administering potions and checking your temperature frequently. Her eyes, usually cold and calculating, were filled with a mixture of fear and determination.

One evening, feeling a fleeting burst of strength, you decided to leave your bed. The air in the room felt stifling, and you yearned for the cool breeze of the temple gardens. You managed to slip out of bed, your legs trembling with the effort, and slowly made your way towards the door.

You had barely reached the threshold when you heard Shadowheart's voice, sharp and filled with a mixture of relief and anger. "What do you think you are doing out of bed?"

Before you could respond, she was at your side, her grip firm but not painful as she took your arm and began to guide you back to your quarters.

"You need to rest," she scolded, her voice low and intense. "You are far too weak to be wandering around."

As she practically dragged you back to your bed, she continued her lecture. "Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? You could have collapsed, or worse! The fever could have spiked again, and I might not have been there in time to help you."

You tried to protest, to explain that you just needed a bit of fresh air, but she cut you off, her eyes blazing with a fierce protectiveness. "No. You are to stay in bed until you are fully recovered. I cannot lose you. Do you understand?"

Her words were both a command and a plea. You nodded, feeling the weight of her worry and care pressing down on you. As she helped you back into bed, her touch was gentle, but her eyes were filled with a steely resolve. Shadowheart sat beside you, her hand resting on your forehead to check for any signs of fever.

"I am doing this for your own good," she said softly, her voice a mixture of exasperation and tenderness. "You mean too much to me to take any risks with your health."

You sighed, realizing that any resistance would be futile. "I understand," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Satisfied, she nodded, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead. "Good. Now rest. I'll be right here if you need anything."

As you lay back, exhaustion overtaking you once more, you couldn't help but feel a strange mix of emotions. Shadowheart's protectiveness was suffocating, yet her care was undeniable. Despite her strictness, there was a deep affection in her actions, a need to keep you safe at all costs.

Closing your eyes, you allowed yourself to relax, the comfort of her presence soothing the lingering anxiety. Shadowheart remained by your side, her vigilant watch never faltering, determined to see you through this illness and ensure your recovery.

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God of Ambition Gale:

Gale's realm, an ethereal expanse of arcane wonders and mystical beauty, had become a gilded cage. After days of being chained to his godly throne, you were finally released, left to wander the opulent halls while he attended to some mortal matters. Boredom gnawed at you as you meandered through the labyrinthine corridors, the silence broken only by the distant hum of magical energies.

Your exploration led you to a dimly lit chamber filled with ancient artifacts and relics. Curious, you began to examine them, marveling at the power and history they held. One object, in particular, caught your eye—a small, intricately designed amulet pulsating with a faint, eerie glow. Drawn to its strange allure, you picked it up, feeling a sudden jolt of energy course through you.

Almost immediately, you knew something was wrong. The amulet's energy began to leech into you, draining your power and leaving you feeling weak and disoriented. Panic set in as your vision blurred, your legs giving way beneath you. You collapsed to the floor, the amulet still clutched in your hand, its malevolent power sapping your strength.

As darkness closed in, you heard Gale’s voice, a mixture of shock and fury, echoing through the chamber. You tried to call out to him, but the words died in your throat as unconsciousness claimed you.

When you finally woke, you found yourself in your ethereal bed, the soft, shimmering sheets cool against your skin. Gale was beside you, his expression one of intense concentration and worry as he tended to you with meticulous care. His hands moved with practiced precision, channeling restorative magic into your weakened body.

"You scared me," Gale admitted, his voice a low murmur. "Although you couldn't die, you would have been imprisoned in that cursed object. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

You managed a weak smile, the familiar tenderness in his eyes reminding you of the mortal Gale you had once known. It made him more bearable, a fleeting glimpse of the man he used to be.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice still shaky. "It’s good to see you care."

He looked at you, a faint smile playing on his lips. "You are precious to me, more than you know. Losing you would have been unbearable."

For a moment, the godly arrogance faded, replaced by genuine concern and affection. But then, as if a switch had been flipped, his expression hardened once more.

"I never should have let you out of the chains," he said, his tone now cold and commanding. "Clearly, you cannot be trusted on your own."

The warmth you had seen in his eyes vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating gaze of a god. The fleeting moment of vulnerability was gone, and you realized that the Gale you had once known was buried deep beneath layers of power and control.

You nodded, feeling a pang of sadness. These glimpses of the man he used to be were all you had left, and you would have to savor them whenever they appeared.

As he continued to tend to you, you closed your eyes, letting the warmth of his magic wash over you. For now, you would accept his care, knowing that the moments of tenderness, however rare, were a precious reminder of the love that had once existed between you.

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Ascended Astarion:

Finding yourself alone for the first time in weeks, you eagerly seized the opportunity to venture into the city. The palace, with its grandiose rooms and oppressive atmosphere, had begun to feel like a gilded cage. You longed for a taste of freedom, a moment to reconnect with the world outside Astarion's watchful gaze. Disguised in a cloak and moving through the busy streets, you enjoyed the anonymity that the city offered, if only for a short while.

However, the city held dangers you hadn't anticipated. You had barely turned down a quiet alley when a figure emerged from the shadows. A member of the Gur, a survivor of the massacre Astarion had orchestrated, stood before you. His eyes were filled with a burning hatred, and before you could react, he lunged, driving a wooden stake towards you. It was intended for your heart but in your surprise you had managed to twist away, but the stake drove into your leg instead. The pain was immediate and excruciating, and you collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.

"You'll pay for what he did," the Gur spat, his voice trembling with rage. "All of you will."

Summoning every ounce of strength, you managed to fend him off just enough to escape. Bleeding and limping, you made your way back to the palace, each step a searing agony. When you finally stumbled through the grand doors, you were barely conscious, the loss of blood and pain clouding your vision.

Astarion was immediately at your side, his usual composed demeanor shattered by the sight of you.

"What happened?" he demanded, his voice a mix of fury and panic.

You could barely speak, each breath a struggle. "Gur… attacked me," you managed to gasp.

Astarion face contorted in fury and quickly scooped you up in his arms and carried you to a nearby chaise. He crouched and inspected the wooden stake.

" Y'know...this wouldn't… be a problem if… if you made me a true vampire… like you promised." You managed to get out, your leg throbbing in agony. Astarion's eyes flashed with anger, and he let out a low, frustrated growl.

"Not this again," he snapped. "I don't have time for your petty complaints."

Before you could argue further, Astarion raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Instantly, darkness engulfed you as you lost consciousness.

When you awoke, you were back in the opulent bedroom you shared with Astarion, lying on the soft bed. The stake was gone, and the wound in your leg had been meticulously cleaned and bandaged. Astarion sat beside you, his expression unreadable as he watched you stir.

"You're awake," he said quietly, his tone lacking its usual sharpness. "Good. I was beginning to worry."

You tried to sit up, but Astarion gently pushed you back down. "Don't move. The wound is still healing."

"You knocked me out," you said, the accusation clear in your voice.

Astarion sighed, a flicker of regret crossing his features. "I had to. You were manic, and I needed to get the stake out without causing more damage."

"Maybe I wouldn't be so 'manic' if you kept your promises," you retorted, your voice weak but defiant.

Astarion's eyes darkened, and he looked away. "I will make you a true vampire, but you must trust me. Everything in its time."

You wanted to argue, to demand more, but the exhaustion and pain were overwhelming. Instead, you closed your eyes, letting out a frustrated sigh. Astarion's hand rested on yours, a rare gesture of genuine comfort.

"Rest now," he said softly. "You're safe here. I'll ensure nothing like this happens again."

Despite your anger and frustration, you couldn't deny the relief of being back in the palace, away from the dangers of the city. As you drifted back into a fitful sleep, you wondered if you would ever truly be free of Astarion's control or if you were forever destined to be his dark consort, caught in a web of promises and power.

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Naturist Halsin:

The allure of the forbidden part of the forest was too strong to resist. Despite Halsin’s stern warnings about the dangers lurking within, you couldn't help but venture into its depths, driven by curiosity and a need to prove your independence. The trees grew denser, their branches interwoven like a living labyrinth, and an eerie silence pervaded the air.

You were careful at first, stepping lightly and avoiding any obvious dangers. But your caution wasn't enough. As you pushed past a particularly dense thicket, you felt a sharp sting on your hand. Looking down, you saw a deep scratch from a thorn-covered vine, the flesh around the wound already starting to swell and turn an angry red. Panic set in as the pain intensified, and you knew immediately that the thorn was poisonous.

Reluctant to face Halsin's inevitable scolding, you stumbled back to the grove, clutching your throbbing hand. Desperation drove you to his work area, where you began to tear through his meticulously organized supplies, searching for an antidote or anti-toxin. Herbs and vials clattered to the ground, your movements growing more frantic with each passing second.

"What do you think you're doing?" Halsin's voice, calm but laced with amusement, startled you. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised in a mixture of curiosity and mild irritation.

You quickly hid your injured hand behind your back, trying to compose yourself. "Nothing, just… looking for something."

Halsin's eyes narrowed as he took in the mess you'd made. "Is that so? Show me your hand."

You shook your head, backing away slightly. "It's nothing, really."

He sighed, his patience clearly wearing thin. "You can't fool me. Show me your hand, now."

You tried to make a break for it, but Halsin was quicker. With a firm grip, he pulled your hand from behind your back, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the inflamed wound.

"I warned you about that part of the forest," he scolded, his tone a blend of frustration and concern. "Why must you always ignore my advice?"

You winced, both from the pain and his reprimand. "I just… I wanted to see for myself."

Halsin shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he examined the wound. "You're fortunate it wasn't something more deadly."

With practiced ease, he began to mix herbs and apply a salve to your hand, his touch gentle despite his stern expression. The relief was almost immediate, the burning pain subsiding as the antidote took effect.

"You need to be more careful," Halsin lectured, his voice softer now. "I may be able to heal you, but there are some things even I can't fix if you continue to be reckless."

You nodded, feeling a mix of embarrassment and gratitude. "I'm sorry. I should have listened to you."

He finished bandaging your hand and looked at you, his eyes softening. "Just promise me you'll be more cautious in the future. I don't want to see you hurt."

"I promise," you said, genuinely contrite.

Halsin gave a small nod, satisfied for the moment, he brought up your injured hand to hiss lips and pressed a kiss to them. "Good. Now, return to our bed, you need rest."

"But I- Halsin!" Halsin, fed up of your combatance carried you over his shoulder, leaving the mess of his work area behind him as he carried you to your bed.

You tried to protest, to wriggle out of his grip but his hold on you was strong. He placed you down on the array of furs and pillows and before you could realise what he was doing he had already wildshaped into his bear form. He pinned your chest with a large paw and quickly settled, not excactly on top of you, but there was no way you would be able to leave. Sleep soon took you ,and you didn't put it past Halsin to have put something in the salve he used to treat your wound to have caused it.

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This series has been going so well and thank you so much everyone for your continued support! - Seluney xox

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (5)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!targ/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: For all previous chapters, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. The Faith of the Seven works a little differently here, and they never fully accepted brother-sister marriages. Trust the process.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 4

- Next part: 6

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the Red Keep, as Rhaenyra walked the familiar corridors, her steps light and purposeful. The castle was already bustling with the day’s activities, courtiers and servants moving through the halls, each engaged in their own tasks. But despite the steady hum of the Keep, Rhaenyra felt a sense of calm as she made her way toward the Great Hall, her newly appointed protector, Ser Criston Cole, trailing a few steps behind her.

Ser Criston’s presence was still new, but it was a welcome one. There was a quiet confidence about him, a sense of reliability that Rhaenyra appreciated. She had chosen him herself, after all, and she felt a certain pride in that decision. The Kingsguard had always been composed of men of noble birth, but Ser Criston was different—he was a man who had proven himself in battle, a man who understood the realities of war and loyalty.

As they walked, Rhaenyra was lost in thought, her mind occupied with the matters she was expected to attend to that day. But her thoughts were interrupted when she caught sight of a familiar figure coming down the hall toward her, his presence instantly commanding attention. It was you, her brother, and the sight of you brought an immediate smile to her face.

"Brother!" Rhaenyra called out, her voice bright with warmth as she quickened her pace to meet you.

You smiled as you approached, your demeanor relaxed but with that ever-present air of responsibility that seemed to follow you everywhere. You were on your way to the training yard, where your presence was often required, but the sight of your sister brought a welcome distraction.

"Rhaenyra," you greeted her warmly, stopping in your tracks as she came to stand before you. "I see you’re off to attend to courtly matters. Hopefully nothing too tedious?"

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, shaking her head. "I hope not, though you know how these things can be. What about you? Off to the training yard to beat sense into some poor squire?"

"Something like that," you replied with a grin. "But I couldn’t pass by without saying hello."

As you exchanged pleasantries, your gaze shifted to the man standing just behind your sister. Ser Criston Cole stood at attention, his armor polished and gleaming, the white cloak of the Kingsguard draped over his shoulders. Your expression brightened with recognition.

"Ser Criston," you greeted, nodding in acknowledgment. "I see you’ve traded your old armor for the white cloak of the Kingsguard. It suits you."

Ser Criston inclined his head respectfully. "Your Grace," he said, his voice steady. "Thank you. It is an honor to serve."

You nodded, clearly pleased. "You served well under my command, Ser Criston. I haven’t forgotten the skirmish we had on the border near Yronwood. You fought with courage that day, held the line when others might have faltered."

A flicker of surprise crossed Ser Criston’s face, quickly replaced by a look of quiet pride. "Thank you, Your Grace. I’m honored that you remember."

With a final nod, you turned your attention back to your sister, your smile warm and genuine. "Take care, Rhaenyra. I’ll see you at the council later?"

Rhaenyra nodded, her smile lingering. "Of course, Brother. I’ll be there."

With that, you continued down the hall, your guards falling in step behind you. Rhaenyra watched you go, a small smile still playing on her lips. There was something comforting about your presence, a sense of stability that she had always relied on.

As you disappeared around the corner, Ser Criston spoke, his tone thoughtful. "I must admit, Princess, I’m surprised the prince remembered me at all. I was just a foot soldier in that battle, after all."

Rhaenyra turned to face him, her expression soft with understanding. "My brother remembers everyone who served under him, Ser Criston. Whether they’re lords or common soldiers, it doesn’t matter. He values loyalty and bravery above all else."

Ser Criston nodded, though his expression remained contemplative. "It’s just that… it’s one thing to remember the sons of important lords or famous commanders. But for him to recall a mere foot soldier like myself… it means a great deal."

Rhaenyra smiled, her admiration for you evident in her eyes. "That’s who my brother is, Ser Criston. He doesn’t see people as just titles or ranks. To him, every man who fights for his family and his realm is worthy of respect."

Ser Criston’s gaze shifted downward, his thoughts clearly turning inward. He had seen many lords and commanders throughout his years of service, but few had ever treated him with the kind of respect and recognition that you had just shown. It was a humbling experience, and it only solidified his resolve to serve the Targaryen family with all the honor he could muster.

Rhaenyra noticed the introspective look on Ser Criston’s face and decided to lighten the mood. "Come now, Ser Criston," she said, her tone playful. "Let’s not dwell on the past too much. We have matters to attend to, and I’m sure there will be plenty of time for reflection later."

Ser Criston looked up, a faint smile crossing his lips. "Of course, Princess. Lead the way."

The training yard of the Red Keep was alive with the sounds of clashing swords and the grunts of exertion as new recruits tested their mettle against seasoned trainers. You stood at the edge of the yard, your arms crossed over your chest as you observed the proceedings with a critical eye. The morning sun was climbing higher in the sky, but you were focused on the work at hand.

The recruits were a mix of eager young men and more experienced soldiers looking to hone their skills further. As the prince, you had taken it upon yourself to oversee their training whenever you could, ensuring that the men who served your house were of the highest caliber. You had been through enough battles to know that preparation was everything, and you took your responsibility seriously.

You watched as one of the trainers—a burly man with a weathered face and a scar running down his cheek—barked orders at a pair of recruits who were sparring with wooden swords. The younger of the two was struggling to keep up, his movements clumsy and unsure. You frowned slightly, making a mental note to spend some time with him later, to help him refine his technique.

As you continued to observe, your thoughts briefly drifted to the conversation you’d had with Daemon the night before. His words about taking control of your own fate had resonated with you, and though you had pushed them to the back of your mind to focus on the day’s duties, they lingered like a shadow, waiting to be addressed.

Meanwhile, not far from the training yard, Alicent Hightower walked alongside her brother Gwayne, the two of them making their way toward the gates of the Red Keep. Gwayne was set to return to Oldtown, and Alicent had insisted on seeing him off, a quiet farewell before he departed.

As they walked, Alicent’s eyes kept drifting to the side, stealing quick glances at you as you oversaw the training. The distance between you and her was enough that you likely didn’t notice, but Gwayne certainly did. He had always been protective of his sister, and he was keenly aware of the pressure their father placed on her to secure the favor of the Targaryen prince.

Gwayne’s gaze flicked between his sister and you, his expression growing thoughtful. After a moment, he cleared his throat, drawing Alicent’s attention back to him. "Alicent," he began, his tone carefully neutral, "is this something Father wants… or something you want?"

Alicent felt a flush of warmth rise to her cheeks, the question catching her off guard. She had known Gwayne would notice, but she hadn’t expected him to be so direct. She hesitated, searching for the right words, but the truth was more complicated than she wanted to admit.

"It’s… both," she finally admitted, her voice soft. "Father has his plans, and I understand what’s expected of me. But it’s also something I feel I have to do. For our family."

Gwayne sighed, his expression tightening with concern. "Alicent, you know how these things can go. Court life is dangerous, and playing with the affections of a prince—especially one like Y/N—is no small matter. You need to be careful."

Alicent looked down, her hands clasped in front of her as they walked. "I know, Gwayne. But what choice do I have? Father has made it clear what he expects, and if I don’t at least try…"

Gwayne stopped, turning to face her fully. "You’re more than just a pawn in Father’s game, Alicent. Don’t lose sight of that. The prince may be noble, but he’s also burdened by his own duties and expectations. If you get too close… if things don’t go as Father hopes…"

Alicent met her brother’s gaze, her eyes filled with uncertainty. "I understand the risks, Gwayne. But I have to do what I can for our family. It’s what’s expected of me."

Gwayne’s expression softened, and he reached out to gently squeeze her shoulder. "Just promise me you’ll be careful, Alicent. Don’t let Father’s ambitions blind you to your own happiness."

Alicent nodded, offering him a small, strained smile. "I promise."

With that, they continued their walk to the gates, Gwayne’s concern lingering in the air between them. Alicent’s thoughts were a jumble of uncertainty and duty as she glanced back toward the training yard one last time before they reached the gates. You were still there, focused on your responsibilities, seemingly unaware of the silent turmoil playing out in the hearts of those around you.

As Gwayne mounted his horse and prepared to depart, he looked down at his sister with a final, reassuring smile. "Take care of yourself, Alicent. I’ll see you soon."

Alicent nodded, watching as he rode away, the weight of his words and the pressure of her father’s expectations heavy on her shoulders.

The air in your chambers was stifling, despite the late afternoon breeze drifting in through the open window. You had been pacing for what felt like hours, your mind restless and unsettled. The allure of flight was strong, and the thought of taking to the skies on Silverwing, leaving behind the heavy stone walls of the Red Keep, was becoming harder to resist. You longed for the freedom that only a dragon’s wings could bring, the vast expanse of the sky where no courtly intrigue or whispered plots could reach you.

As you stood by the window, your gaze drifting out toward the horizon, the quiet knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts. A moment later, Ser Harrold’s voice came through the heavy wooden door.

"Your Grace, Lady Alicent Hightower seeks an audience with you."

You turned, surprised by the announcement. Alicent had rarely sought you out on her own, and while you had nothing against her, you couldn’t shake the suspicion that her presence here was likely on her father’s orders rather than of her own accord.

"Let her in," you said, your voice calm but tinged with curiosity.

The door opened, and Alicent entered the room, her steps measured and graceful as always. She was dressed impeccably, as befitted a lady of her station, her hands clasped in front of her as she approached. Her expression was polite, though there was a flicker of something uncertain in her eyes as she met your gaze.

"Your Grace," she greeted you with a slight curtsy. "I hope I am not disturbing you."

You shook your head, though the truth was you had been yearning for solitude. Still, you motioned for her to come further into the room. "No disturbance at all, Lady Alicent," you replied, keeping your tone neutral. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

Alicent hesitated for a moment, as if choosing her words carefully. "I’ve come to relay a message on behalf of my father, the Hand of the King." Her voice was steady, though you detected the underlying sense of duty that drove her. "He wished to discuss the upcoming negotiations with the Free Cities and thought it would be prudent if you were present at the council. He believes your insight would be invaluable."

You nodded, unsurprised. Otto Hightower had always been a man of strategy, constantly maneuvering the pieces of the court to his advantage. It made sense that he would want you involved in such discussions, especially with the growing tensions beyond the Narrow Sea. But still, the thought of another meeting in the council chambers filled you with a sense of unease. The court had never felt like your place, not the way it did for your father or for men like Otto.

"I’ll attend," you said simply, your voice betraying little emotion. "Tell your father he needn’t worry."

Alicent inclined her head in acknowledgment, though she lingered for a moment longer, her eyes scanning your face before settling on your expression. You felt her gaze, and after a brief pause, she spoke again, this time more softly.

"You look… tired, Your Grace."

The comment caught you off guard, and for a moment, you weren’t sure how to respond. You studied her, trying to gauge her intentions. There was nothing malicious in her words, no hidden barbs. If anything, she seemed genuinely concerned.

You exhaled softly, the weight of the Red Keep’s walls pressing in on you once more. "The Red Keep has that effect on me," you admitted, your voice quieter now. "I’ve never been one for court life. My father thrives in it, but I… I feel trapped here. Agitated. Like I’m not meant for this."

Alicent listened intently, her hands still folded in front of her as she took a step closer. "I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Your Grace," she said gently. "The courtiers speak highly of you. They respect you, and many admire the way you carry yourself."

You smiled faintly, though there was a touch of weariness in the gesture. "Perhaps. But I feel more at ease with a sword in my hand than I ever do in the council chambers. Politics, alliances, all of it—it’s like fighting a battle without ever knowing who the real enemy is."

Alicent seemed to ponder your words for a moment before speaking again, her tone still measured. "That’s exactly why your presence is so important, Your Grace. You bring a sense of stability, a strength that many in the court lack. Your uncle Daemon, as skilled as he is, doesn’t have the same restraint. Your father relies on you more than you may realize."

You considered her words, but even as she spoke, you could feel the gulf between the two of you. Alicent was polite, always diplomatic in her conversations, but there was something distant about it. Her attempts to engage you, to compliment you, felt more like duty than genuine interest, much like this visit itself.

You nodded, acknowledging her point. "I understand the necessity of my role, Lady Alicent. But that doesn’t mean I enjoy it."

The conversation drifted into a more comfortable silence, though Alicent still seemed to linger, her eyes searching your face as if trying to find some way to connect. But despite her efforts, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all part of her father’s plan, that she was here not because she wanted to be, but because it was expected of her.

Finally, sensing that her attempts were making little headway, Alicent straightened her posture slightly, preparing to take her leave. "Well, I won’t keep you any longer, Your Grace," she said, her tone still courteous but tinged with a hint of disappointment. "Thank you for your time."

You offered her a polite nod. "Thank you for relaying your father’s message, Lady Alicent. And for your… kind words."

Alicent gave you one last curtsy before turning to leave, her expression unreadable as she made her way toward the door. As she stepped out of the chamber, you found yourself alone once more, the brief interaction already fading from your mind.

For a moment, you stood there, gazing out of the window once again. The Red Keep felt more suffocating than ever, its walls closing in around you. The thought of escaping to the skies on Silverwing grew stronger, the urge to leave the court behind for a time nearly overwhelming.

You sighed, shaking your head slightly. Alicent had been polite, even complimentary, but there was no spark of connection, no real interest that went beyond the surface of courtly duty. She, like so many others, was part of the world that you struggled to navigate—a world where words were often more dangerous than swords, and where alliances were forged not in battle, but in whispered conversations behind closed doors.

As the door closed behind her, you felt a sense of relief but also a lingering sense of frustration. Whatever her intentions had been, the conversation had left you feeling more disconnected than before, a reminder that the court was not a place where you could truly be yourself.

The decision to leave for the Dragonpit was made the moment you closed the door behind Alicent. The walls of the Red Keep felt too close, the weight of your duty pressing down on your shoulders. The pull of Silverwing, the freedom of the skies, was irresistible. You were halfway to the door, ready to escape the stifling atmosphere of your chambers, when the sound of the door opening again stopped you in your tracks.

Rhaenyra entered, her eyes immediately locking onto you. She seemed amused, a mischievous smile playing on her lips as she observed your state of readiness to flee.

"Planning a great escape, brother?" she asked, arching an eyebrow as she sauntered into the room and took a seat with casual grace.

You chuckled, leaning back against the edge of the table. "Maybe," you teased. "The Red Keep is starting to feel more like a cage with every passing day. I was just thinking about flying—Silverwing and I, far away from all this."

Rhaenyra smirked. "Always running off to your dragon. What would Father say?"

You shrugged, a grin tugging at your lips. "Father would say what he always does—something about duty, responsibility, and how I should learn to enjoy the trappings of court life."

Rhaenyra laughed softly but then noticed the contemplative look in your eyes. She leaned forward, curious. "What’s really bothering you? It’s not just court."

You hesitated for a moment before deciding to mention it. "Your friend Alicent was here, a few moments ago."

At that, Rhaenyra’s amusement vanished. Her head snapped up, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Alicent? What did she want?"

You raised an eyebrow at her sudden change in demeanor. "She came to deliver a message from her father, about a matter in the council. Something to do with the Free Cities."

Rhaenyra’s annoyance deepened, and she crossed her arms, clearly irritated. Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Of course she did. She’s always doing her father’s bidding," she muttered, more to herself than to you. She shifted in her seat, a flicker of frustration crossing her features. "I’ll need to speak to her about this later."

You sensed that her frustration with Alicent ran deeper than just the message. It was something about the way she had reacted—how quickly her mood had soured at the mention of Alicent’s name. Still, you decided to change the subject.

"Speaking of Father," you began, leaning back slightly, "he’s been pushing me lately. Urging me to find a wife."

Rhaenyra’s expression changed in an instant. Where there had been annoyance moments ago, now there was something much sharper, more intense. Her lips parted slightly, and a flicker of unexpected anger flashed in her violet eyes.

"Father’s pressuring you to marry?" she asked, her voice low, almost as if the idea itself was a threat.

You noticed the shift in her tone, and you sighed inwardly, knowing this conversation was heading into dangerous waters. "Yes, he thinks it’s time I consider it. He’s worried about securing alliances through marriage, the usual concerns of the crown."

Rhaenyra stood up abruptly, her annoyance boiling over into outright protest. "But you can’t marry just anyone!" she exclaimed, her voice tinged with something deeper than frustration.

You raised your hands in a placating gesture. "I know, Rhaenyra. But it’s not just me. Father is also feeling the pressure himself to remarry, and…" You paused, watching her closely. "He’s also being pushed to marry you off as well."

Her expression darkened further, and she took a step toward you, her fists clenched at her sides. "I don’t want to marry, Y/N. I have no desire to be some tool in a game of alliances. I belong to myself, not to some lord looking to secure power."

You could see the fire in her eyes, the fierce independence that had always defined her. But you also knew that your father’s worries weren’t so easily dismissed. "Rhaenyra, I understand. Believe me, I do. But Father fears what might happen if we don’t secure ourselves soon. The council’s already pressuring him, and he’s dreading having this conversation with you."

Her eyes flashed with defiance as she stepped closer, her voice rising slightly. "Then I’ll tell him myself. I don’t want to marry anyone, and I refuse to be forced into it."

You sighed, running a hand through your hair, knowing this would not be an easy conversation. "Rhaenyra, I’m not calm about this either. But we both have duties—"

"How can you be so calm about it?" she interrupted, her voice sharp as she moved even closer, her face now only inches from yours. "I know you, Y/N. I know this isn’t what you want. But you’re letting them control you, push you toward something neither of us wants."

You hesitated, unsure how to respond, when her eyes locked onto yours, and her expression shifted. There was something there—something intense and unspoken, lingering between you both since that day in front of the Dragonpit. Rhaenyra’s voice lowered, becoming more intimate, more insistent.

"I know you felt something too, that day," she whispered, her breath warm against your skin. "After our flight, when we nearly…"

She trailed off, but the memory was crystal clear in both your minds. The closeness, the shared moment when the lines between you had blurred. Her words sent a jolt of emotion through you, something you had been trying to suppress for days.

"Rhaenyra," you said softly, trying to steer the conversation away from dangerous territory, "it’s complicated."

But she didn’t relent. Her eyes never left yours as she pressed closer, her voice low and determined. "No, it isn’t. You felt it, just like I did."

Before you could respond, she leaned in, her lips brushing against yours with a boldness that sent your heart racing. You felt her hesitation, but also the certainty behind her actions. When the kiss deepened, you didn’t pull away. The moment lingered, the connection between you undeniable, until finally, you both pulled back, breathless.

Rhaenyra’s eyes were filled with a mixture of relief and longing, and she spoke with quiet conviction. "You can tell Father to wed me to you. In the traditions of our house. It’s what we both want, isn’t it?"

You stared at her, torn between what you felt and what you knew was expected of you. "Rhaenyra," you began, your voice heavy with the weight of duty, "it’s not that simple."

She shook her head, determined. "It is simple. King Jaehaerys married his sister Alysanne, didn’t he? It’s in our blood, in our history."

You sighed again, stepping back slightly to clear your head. "Jaehaerys and Alysanne married in secret, and even then, it was a different time. The Faith might approve now, but Father—and the court—they’ll want to use us for alliances to strengthen the crown."

Rhaenyra’s expression hardened, her defiance unbroken. "Then let them think what they will. I don’t care what they want. I care about what we want."

You could feel the pull of her words, the temptation of a future free from the court’s manipulations, but you knew that your path, and hers, was far more complicated than either of you could admit in that moment.

For now, the decision hung in the air between you, unresolved, as the reality of your positions slowly settled back in.

Rhaenyra sat in her brother's chambers long after he had left for his flight on Silverwing. The tension between them still lingered in the air, and her heart raced in her chest as her mind replayed the kiss over and over. It had been so brief, so unexpected, yet it had ignited something deep inside her—a yearning that felt both familiar and foreign. She had always loved her brother, Y/N, admired him, and looked up to him as a strong, dependable force in her life. He had been her protector, her confidant, the one person she could always trust.

But now, something had shifted. The love she felt for him, once innocent and pure, had taken on a new, more dangerous form. She couldn't deny the physical attraction that had bloomed between them, the pull she felt whenever they were close. It scared her, and yet she couldn't resist it. The kiss they had shared wasn't just a fleeting moment of weakness—it had been something inevitable, something that had been building between them for years.

Rhaenyra stood from her seat, pacing the room as her thoughts tumbled over one another. She could still feel the warmth of his lips on hers, the way his breath had mingled with her own. She had always known she was possessive of him, but now, that possessiveness had taken on a sharper edge. The idea of him marrying anyone else filled her with a jealousy so fierce it was almost painful.

And then there was Alicent.

Rhaenyra's jaw tightened as her thoughts shifted to her so-called friend. Alicent had come to her brother’s chambers—of course, under the guise of delivering her father’s message, but Rhaenyra had seen through it immediately. Alicent had been trying to get close to him, no doubt hoping to secure his attention for herself. The thought made Rhaenyra’s blood boil. How dare Alicent, who had always claimed to be her friend, make such a blatant move behind her back? And her brother, so polite, so unaware of what was happening, had entertained her.

Rhaenyra couldn’t sit still any longer. She needed to confront Alicent, to make her understand that whatever she thought she was doing, it had to stop. Without another thought, she swept out of her brother’s chambers and made her way through the winding halls of the Red Keep, her anger simmering just beneath the surface.

As she walked, her thoughts returned to Y/N. She had felt the way his body had tensed when she kissed him, the hesitation in his response, but he hadn’t pulled away. He had kissed her back, and that gave her all the reason to believe that he felt the same—whether or not he was willing to admit it. They were Targaryens, after all. Their blood was different, their traditions different. She had heard the stories of their ancestors—Jaehaerys and Alysanne, the greatest king and queen Westeros had ever known—who had married each other in secret and ruled side by side. Why couldn’t she and her brother do the same?

But the idea of anyone else—anyone else—trying to steal him away from her was unbearable. And she knew that Alicent, for all her demure politeness, was playing her own game. Rhaenyra would not stand by and let it happen.

She found Alicent in the gardens, sitting quietly beneath a tree, her hands folded neatly in her lap. There was a peacefulness to the scene, but Rhaenyra was anything but calm. Her anger boiled over as she strode toward Alicent, her footsteps loud enough to announce her approach.

Alicent looked up, startled by the sudden appearance of her friend, and immediately sensed the storm brewing in Rhaenyra’s eyes.

"Rhaenyra," Alicent greeted cautiously, standing to meet her. "Is everything all right?"

Rhaenyra didn’t bother with pleasantries as she stormed forward, her eyes blazing with barely contained fury. “Don’t act as if you don’t know,” she snapped, her voice low but laced with venom.

Alicent blinked, genuinely taken aback by the sudden hostility. “I… I don’t understand. What’s wrong?”

Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes, closing the distance between them, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “You went to my brother’s chambers.”

Alicent’s face paled slightly, but she tried to hold her ground. “Yes, to deliver my father’s message,” she said, though her tone wavered with uncertainty.

Rhaenyra scoffed, her anger flaring. “Your father’s message?” she echoed mockingly. “That’s what you’re calling it?”

Alicent’s hands tightened in front of her, her composure faltering under the weight of Rhaenyra’s accusations. “I… I was only doing what my father asked of me. I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to what? Go behind my back? Try to gain my brother’s favor?” Rhaenyra’s voice rose as she stepped closer, her emotions swirling in a chaotic mix of betrayal and possessiveness. “I thought you were my friend, Alicent. But friends don’t do what you did.”

Alicent’s eyes widened, and she took a step back, her voice faltering. “I am your friend, Rhaenyra. You know that. I would never do anything to hurt you.”

Rhaenyra’s fists clenched at her sides as she fought to keep control of the emotions surging within her. The kiss with her brother was still fresh in her mind, but she couldn’t say it, couldn’t let the truth slip out—not yet. “A friend wouldn’t try to worm her way into my brother’s life like this,” Rhaenyra hissed, her anger spilling over. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’ve been doing. The way you look at him. The way you linger when you speak to him.”

Alicent’s expression hardened slightly as she realized where this was coming from. “And what if I do look at him?” she countered, her voice steadying. “He’s a prince, Rhaenyra. You know as well as I do that if he doesn’t choose me, he will choose someone else. He’s the heir to the Iron Throne. It’s his duty to marry, to strengthen his house.”

Rhaenyra felt a flash of unexpected jealousy burn through her chest. She stepped even closer, her voice a dangerous whisper. “I know his duty,” she spat. “I know better than anyone.”

Alicent met her gaze, searching her face for answers, for some understanding of why Rhaenyra was so deeply affected by this. “Then why are you so angry?” Alicent asked, her voice tinged with frustration. “There’s nothing wrong in what I’ve done. Your brother has a responsibility to marry, to secure alliances for the crown. You can’t stop that.”

Rhaenyra’s chest tightened at Alicent’s words, and she nearly let slip the secret she had been holding onto—the kiss, the feelings that had stirred between her and her brother. But she stopped herself just in time, swallowing the confession before it could escape her lips. “You don’t understand,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Alicent’s brow furrowed in confusion, her tone softening. “Then help me understand, Rhaenyra. Why are you so angry? Is it because of me?”

Rhaenyra’s hands trembled at her sides, her emotions spiraling out of control. She couldn’t explain what she was feeling without revealing too much—without revealing the truth about her and her brother. But the thought of Alicent trying to take him from her, trying to gain his favor, made her sick with jealousy.

“You have no idea,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “You don’t know him like I do.”

Alicent, still perplexed, tried to reach out to her friend. “Rhaenyra, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just doing what’s expected of me, the same as you. Your brother is—”

Rhaenyra cut her off, her voice hard again. “My brother will make his own choices. And I’ll make sure he knows what you’ve been doing.”

Alicent’s eyes widened in shock at the veiled threat, her voice trembling. “I’m not trying to steal him from you, Rhaenyra. I—”

Rhaenyra shook her head, her voice cold and final. “Just stay away from him.”

With that, Rhaenyra turned sharply on her heel and stormed away, her heart racing and her mind spinning with a tangle of emotions she couldn’t quite control. The kiss, her jealousy, her anger at Alicent—it was all too much. But what hurt the most was the uncertainty of it all. Her brother hadn’t rejected her kiss, but he hadn’t embraced it fully either. And the thought of him being forced to marry someone else—whether it be Alicent or another noble lady—made her stomach churn.

As she walked through the gardens, her thoughts returned to the moment in front of the Dragonpit, when she and Y/N had been so close to crossing a line that neither of them could come back from. That kiss had awakened something in her—something she had been trying to ignore for so long. She loved him, she had always loved him, but now it was different. Now it was a love that burned with a dangerous intensity, a love that she wasn’t sure she could keep hidden for much longer.

One thing was certain—she would not let anyone, not even Alicent, come between her and her brother.

The sky stretched endlessly above you as Silverwing’s wings beat in steady rhythm, carrying you high above the Red Keep. The wind rushed past, cool against your skin, and the sound of it drowned out everything—every voice, every demand, every burden you carried. Up here, there was no court, no intrigue, no weight of duty pressing down on your shoulders. It was just you and Silverwing, soaring over the vast expanse of Westeros, far from the tangled mess of emotions and expectations below.

But no matter how far you flew, no matter how high you soared, your thoughts couldn’t escape the turmoil inside you.

Rhaenyra.

Her name alone was enough to stir something deep within you, something you had been trying to suppress ever since the moment you left her chambers. The kiss you had shared had ignited a fire between you, one that you had feared for some time. In that fleeting moment, it was as if all the walls you had built, all the careful distance you had maintained, had come crashing down. You had always loved your sister, always admired her strength and spirit, but over the years, that love had grown into something else, something dangerous.

And now… now you couldn’t deny it any longer.

Your grip tightened on the reins as Silverwing dipped lower, gliding gracefully over the hills that stretched beyond King’s Landing. The dragon’s power beneath you was a comforting presence, but it did little to calm the storm of emotions swirling in your chest. The memory of Rhaenyra’s lips against yours haunted you, the way her body had pressed close, her words a whisper between you: "You can wed me. We are Targaryens."

She had said it so easily, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And perhaps for her, it was. You had grown up hearing the stories of Jaehaerys and Alysanne, the dragon-riding king and queen who had been siblings and lovers, ruling together in harmony. But that had been a different time, and even their union had sparked controversy. The Faith had never fully accepted the Targaryen tradition of sibling marriage, and the realm was no longer the same as it had been under Jaehaerys’s rule.

Could you truly wed Rhaenyra? The thought was daunting, and not just because of the moral or political implications. She was your sister, your blood. Yet, when you looked at her, it wasn’t just as a brother looks at his sister. In those three years you had been gone, she had grown into a woman—beautiful, fierce, and full of life. Her presence had always been a comfort to you, but now, it stirred something far more complicated. Something you feared you couldn’t control.

You exhaled sharply, trying to clear your mind as Silverwing carried you higher, the city of King’s Landing growing smaller beneath you. Your father, Viserys, would never approve. That much was certain. Even if the Faith were to tolerate a union between you and Rhaenyra, the realm would demand alliances. Viserys had always been a king who sought peace, and he would never risk alienating the great houses or the Faith for such a marriage. The political consequences could be dire. The Targaryens were powerful, but they could not afford to make enemies of the Faith, not now.

And then there was the court, always whispering, always plotting. Otto Hightower, your father’s Hand, was no fool. He would see through any plans you and Rhaenyra might try to make. Otto’s mind was sharp, always calculating the next move for House Hightower, and you knew he had ambitions of his own. The idea of him maneuvering behind your back only made your head ache more.

You grimaced, your thoughts turning to the meeting you would have with Otto soon—another matter that weighed heavily on your mind. The council was preparing for trade negotiations with the Free Cities, and Otto had insisted you be part of the discussions. It wasn’t something you particularly relished; your strengths lay on the battlefield, not in politics. But duty was duty, and as the heir to the Iron Throne, you had no choice but to be involved. The coming talks would be critical for the realm’s economy, and your presence was expected, even if the court’s intrigues made your skin crawl.

Still, it was the matter with Rhaenyra that gnawed at you the most. How could you face the council, the court, even your own father, with this secret between you and your sister? The kiss had opened floodgates you feared you couldn’t close again. Rhaenyra had made her feelings clear, but you… you were torn between what you wanted and what your duty demanded of you.

Silverwing let out a low rumble beneath you, sensing your unease. You patted the dragon’s neck absentmindedly, grateful for the connection you shared. Up here, with Silverwing, there were no expectations, no demands. But you couldn’t stay in the sky forever. Eventually, you would have to return to the Red Keep, to face the reality waiting for you below.

As you flew further, your thoughts kept returning to Rhaenyra’s suggestion that you wed her. The logic behind it wasn’t without merit. You were both Targaryens, and such marriages had been part of your family’s legacy for generations. Rhaenyra had even pointed out that King Jaehaerys had wed his sister Alysanne, and they had been beloved rulers. But it wasn’t that simple anymore. The court, the Faith, the realm—all of them would expect you to marry for alliances, not love. Certainly not for a bond that many would see as an abomination.

You felt a knot of frustration tightening in your chest. Rhaenyra was right about one thing: you did feel something for her. That kiss had stirred something primal, something you had tried to bury, but it was undeniable now. But no matter how much you desired her, how much you wanted to throw caution to the wind and claim her as yours, the responsibilities that came with your title loomed larger than your desires.

If you were to marry Rhaenyra, the realm would demand answers. Otto Hightower, in particular, would be the first to protest. He had his own designs for Rhaenyra, no doubt aiming to secure her hand for a lord that could strengthen House Hightower’s position. And then there was the matter of the Faith—if you wed your sister, you risked reigniting old tensions with the Faith of the Seven, tensions that could spill into conflict. The crown couldn’t afford another war, especially not one fought over such a personal matter.

The irony of it all stung. For all the power and privilege you held as a prince, you were just as bound by duty and expectation as anyone else. The thought of being used as a political pawn infuriated you, but that was the price of being the heir. Your desires were secondary to the needs of the realm.

And yet… what if you could make it work? What if there was a way to marry Rhaenyra and still keep the peace? The idea seemed impossible, but you couldn’t shake it. You were a Targaryen, after all. The rules had always bent for your family before. Perhaps, if handled delicately enough, you could find a way to navigate the court’s demands and still claim the one person you truly wanted by your side.

But as you flew over the sea, the waves crashing against the cliffs below, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the decision that loomed before you. The kiss had changed everything, and now you were faced with choices that could shape not just your future, but the future of the realm.

Silverwing let out another low rumble, and you took a deep breath, trying to steady your thoughts. For now, you would enjoy the freedom of the skies, the cool wind against your skin. But soon enough, you would have to return to the Red Keep, to face Rhaenyra, your father, and the court that watched your every move.

The small council meeting had drawn to a close, with the lords and advisors filing out of the chamber one by one, their voices still murmuring about the matters of trade, security, and the upcoming negotiations with Essos. You remained seated at the table, your thoughts drifting far from the council’s discussions, far from the politics that had dominated the room. Though you had offered your insight where needed, your mind had frequently wandered—to the skies, to Silverwing, and, most of all, to your sister, Rhaenyra.

As the last of the council members left, Otto Hightower lingered. He rose slowly from his seat, his sharp gaze fixed on you, watching as the room emptied. There was always something calculating about Otto, a keen intelligence behind his measured words, and you could feel his eyes on you even before he spoke.

"Your Grace," Otto began, his voice smooth and polite, "if I might ask for a moment of your time. There are a few matters I wish to discuss privately."

You nodded, already suspecting where this conversation might lead. The chamber doors closed softly, leaving just the two of you, the dim light of the candles casting long shadows on the stone walls. You leaned back in your chair, your fingers drumming lightly on the wooden table, waiting for Otto to make his move.

Otto took his time, folding his hands behind his back as he approached. "I must say," he began carefully, "the court feels more… grounded with your return, Your Grace. The king has been much more content now that his heir is safely home. Your presence has brought a sense of stability to the capital that was sorely missed."

You inclined your head slightly in acknowledgment. "I’m glad to hear it, Lord Hand. It is my duty to be here for the realm and for my father. Though I admit, I sometimes find the weight of court affairs to be a heavy burden."

Otto’s lips curved into a slight, knowing smile. "A burden, yes, but one that you carry with admirable grace. It is no small thing to be the heir to the Iron Throne. Your father, the king, relies on you more than you may realize."

You knew where this was going, the subtle flattery, the careful words meant to soften what was coming next. Otto Hightower never spoke without intention, and you could feel the shift in the conversation as he guided it toward more personal matters.

"I imagine," Otto continued, his tone still polite, "that your time in Dorne was… challenging. A different kind of duty, certainly, but one that suited your skills well. But now, being back at court, you must find it… refreshing to be surrounded by family again."

You nodded, though your mind was already elsewhere. "It is good to be home. My family means a great deal to me."

"Indeed," Otto said, his voice taking on a slightly more casual tone. "And speaking of family… I believe my daughter, Alicent, had the pleasure of delivering a message to you today. I trust she was able to assist you adequately?"

There it was. The real reason for this conversation. You could see the way Otto’s gaze flicked over your face, gauging your reaction, trying to read you. He was probing, testing the waters, to see if his daughter’s attempts to gain your attention had borne any fruit.

You kept your expression carefully neutral, offering a polite but noncommittal smile. "Lady Alicent was very kind. She delivered her father’s message with grace and professionalism. I appreciate her assistance."

Otto’s smile widened slightly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was a man used to maneuvering through the intricacies of court politics, and he wasn’t easily dissuaded. "I am glad to hear that, Your Grace. Alicent speaks highly of you, as does the rest of the court. It is clear that your presence here brings a sense of calm and strength, particularly to those close to the king."

His words were deliberate, carefully chosen to steer the conversation toward Alicent without being too direct. But you could see through it easily enough. Otto was testing your interest, trying to discern whether you saw his daughter as anything more than a messenger or a polite face in court.

You nodded again, keeping your tone courteous but distant. "Lady Alicent is a fine lady, and I value her friendship with my sister."

Otto tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just a fraction, but he didn’t press. "Yes, she and Princess Rhaenyra have grown quite close over the years. It is a friendship that has been a great comfort to my daughter, and I believe it has been mutually beneficial for both of them. Strong friendships are important, especially in court, wouldn’t you agree?"

You could feel the shift in Otto’s approach, the way he was trying to guide the conversation toward more personal matters. It was a delicate dance, one you had seen countless times in court. You knew what he wanted—you knew he was hoping to plant the seed of a potential match between you and Alicent. But your thoughts were far from the Hand’s daughter. Every time he mentioned her, your mind drifted back to Rhaenyra. Her kiss, her words, the fire that had sparked between you both.

"I agree," you said after a pause, choosing your words carefully. "Court can be a lonely place without strong bonds."

Otto’s gaze sharpened, his tone growing just a touch more pointed. "And bonds of marriage, of course, are among the strongest of all. They unite houses, strengthen alliances, and secure the future of the realm."

You nodded, though your thoughts remained distant, swirling around Rhaenyra and the tangled mess of emotions she stirred in you. Otto continued to speak, but his words began to fade into the background as your mind wandered to the possibility that Rhaenyra had raised. Marriage. It wasn’t just a political tool for you anymore—it was something personal, something tied to the fierce and complicated love you felt for your sister.

"Of course," Otto was saying, "there will come a time when certain decisions must be made about the future of the realm—decisions about alliances, about securing the throne through marriage. It is a delicate matter, but one that I trust you will handle with wisdom and care."

You blinked, refocusing on the conversation at hand, though you had heard enough to understand his meaning. "I am aware of the responsibility I bear, Lord Hand," you replied, your tone still courteous but distant. "But some matters require careful thought, not haste."

Otto studied you for a moment, his expression thoughtful. He could tell that you weren’t fully engaged in the conversation, but he chose not to push further. Instead, he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Of course, Your Grace. There is always time to consider these matters carefully. But know that you have the support of those who wish to see you succeed—myself included."

You nodded, offering a polite smile. "Thank you, Lord Hightower. I appreciate your counsel."

With that, Otto seemed to understand that there was little more to be gained from this conversation. He bowed his head respectfully. "If there is anything else you require, Your Grace, you know where to find me."

As Otto took his leave, you let out a quiet breath, the tension of the conversation still lingering in the air. You had played your part well, keeping your responses polite but noncommittal, careful not to give Otto any more insight than was necessary. But beneath the surface, your thoughts continued to churn.

It wasn’t that you didn’t understand the importance of what Otto had said—alliances, marriage, duty. These were all things that had been drilled into you since you were a child. But every time you considered the prospect of marriage, it wasn’t Alicent, or any other noble lady, who came to mind.

It was Rhaenyra.

Her kiss still haunted you, the memory of it sharp and electric. You had always admired her, always loved her, but now… now that love had grown into something you weren’t sure you could control. And the thought of her being married off to someone else, of her being taken from you, was enough to make your chest tighten.

You sighed, pushing yourself up from your chair and walking toward the window. The view of King’s Landing stretched out before you, but your gaze drifted to the horizon, where the sea met the sky. Somewhere out there, Silverwing was always waiting, the promise of freedom calling to you. But freedom wasn’t something you could easily claim—not with the weight of the realm on your shoulders.

And not with the tangled mess of emotions that now bound you to your sister.

[memories-of-ancients]

The Forgotten Mongol Heavy Cavalry,

When it comes to legends of the vicious Mongol conquests horse archers seem to be the celebrity rock stars of the Mongol Army who get all the fame and admiration. Depictions of Mongol battles in modern times usually show wild barbarian Mongol horse archers riding circles around enemy formations while showering them with volley after volley of arrows. Missing are the less glorified Mongol heavy cavalry, an absence which I’m sure would make the Great Khan sad because the Mongols had fine heavy cavalry. Not to put down horse archers, but horse archers alone don’t always win battles. While horse archers have their advantages, they also have several weakness and limitations, especially against opposing heavy infantry and cavalry equipped with shields and armor while in a defensive battle formation. What made the Mongols effective was not the mere fact they had horse archers, but because they had better tactics, among them combined arms tactics where they were able to coordinate the abilities of different units to accomplish a goal on the battlefield. This isn’t just a principle of Mongol warfare, but a principle of warfare in general. Whether we're talking ancient times or modern warfare, the side that has better combined arms tactics typically wins.  

The early Mongol Army consisted of 60% horse archers and 40% heavy cavalry. Later the Mongols would adopt new units such as heavy infantry, light infantry, siege units, and artillery conscripted from the peoples they conquered. However for this post I’m only referring to the early Mongol Army commanded by Genghis Khan and his general Subutai.  The purpose of the horse archers were as skirmishing units; to harass, sow chaos and confusion, and weaken the discipline of enemy ranks. The purpose of the heavy cavalry was to directly engage enemy units in close combat. To do their job, Mongol heavy cavalry were heavily armed and armored, much more so than their horse archer counterparts. They were armored head to toe in lamellar armor composed of metal plates sewn together into a suit. Often this armor also covered the horse as well. 

Their primary arm was a lance used to conduct charges. For melee fighting they would carry swords or axes, and also maces for armored opponents. They would also probably carry a shield. Along with their horse archer counterparts, Mongol heavy cavalry also carried a bow in order to engage the enemy at a distance. In essence Mongol heavy cavalry were similar to Middle Eastern or Byzantine cataphracts and European mounted knights. 

On the battlefield, Mongol units typically fought in five ranks, the first three ranks composed of horse archers, the last two composed of heavy cavalry.  During a Mongol charge, the horse archers would close to around 50 - 100 yards and fire arrows while the heavy cavalry would protect them from counterattack by enemy cavalry. It should be noted that Mongol heavy cavalry were also armed with bows, so likewise would be firing on the enemy as well. After firing, the formation would turn around, resupply with arrows, and remount with fresh horses. They would then repeat the charge again and again until eventually the enemy would weaken, begin to panic, lose discipline, and perhaps break ranks.  At that point the heavy cavalry would swoop in and smash the enemy formation. The Mongols also used deceptive tactics which the heavy cavalry would be an essential part. One common tactic was the feigned retreat, where a Mongol unit would pretend to retreat in panic as if defeated. The enemy would in turn charge expecting to chase down and massacre a terrified enemy. To their horror, the Mongols would reform and counterattack, the heavy cavalry at the front to smash the disorganized enemy and the horse archers firing from the rear. Another tactic would be to use the horse archers to draw the enemy into an ambush, where the heavy cavalry would appear from a hidden position and conduct a surprise attack on the enemy flanks or rear.

[akutasoda]

my mind always circles to you

synopsis - simple everyday things that remind them if you

includes - kaeya, albedo, shenhe, yelan, thoma, cyno, dehya, navia, columbina

warnings - gn!reader, fluff, down bad characters, reader wears jewelry in yelan's, wc - 533

kaeya alberich ★��

kaeya, when not on duty can be found strolling around mondstadt, if he's not with you or at the tavern. sometimes strolling down the bust yet somswhat peaceful streets, he stops by some well known stalls or shops as something would catch his eye. something that immediately reminded him of you and he can't wait to buy a matching pair.

albedo ★↷

albedo often struggles when he wants to draw or paint to distract himself from other things when alone in dragonspine, as he can't think of much inspiration as his head is drawn back to his latest experiment that keeps going wrong. that is until he thinks of you, and suddenly his motivation is at an all time high. upon his return he often gifts you his art of you.

shenhe ★↷

shenhe, when she's helping protect liyue often finds herself on the outskirts and more in nature. and with that sometimes when she's finished would spot a batch of flowers that you like or she thinks you'll like, her mind already consumed with images of your smile. and makes a bouquet of them to replace the old bouquet that is displayed proudly in the centre of your home.

yelan ★↷

yelan has quite a bit of fun when dealing with insignificant skirmishers. who sometimes will catch a glance at a bit of jewellery that looks quite nice. immediately thinking of giving you some, so on her way back to you will find a piece that thinks would compliment your looks perfectly.

thoma ★↷

thoma when finishing up at the kamisato estate and walking home, would catch a glimpse of some typical vendors selling food and immediately thinking of what he could make you. would you like your favourite? or would you want to try something new? he can't wait to get back to you and maybe you could help him prepare dinner.

cyno ★↷

cyno who, when not on duty would be found with you or at the akadeymia and most times would catch himself staring at a book or books that either remind him of you or think you would like. or perhaps when he is on duty, quite far away would often let his mind drift to you and things you could do when he gets back.

dehya ★↷

dehya often goes on missions, and as a mercenary often spends some nights away in the vast desert. but that often leads to her missing you. so she developed the habit of watching the moon as it rises and falls, thinking straight back to you with the silent promise of coming home as soon as possible.

navia ★↷

navia finds comfort in baking simple fontaine delicacys and goving them to companions. but more often nowadays she gifts them to you. and sometimes, if you chose too, you join her in making them or return her gifts by making her some of her own. a personal favourite is macaroons.

columbina ★↷

columbina when visiting a theatre of simply singing a melody she learnt recently or have recited for years, would always think about your intrests. which one would you like the most? or maybe she could compose a melody for you ears only, a song dedicated to you.

[cosmichorrorsarestillnicerthanme]

Fatal Illusion

Part of this request

The world melted and twisted as you approached, your gray, smokey aura radiating off of you like a fog of war.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, you drew your revolver and the crack of gunfire echoed throughout the room, the bullet finding its target in the leg of Weiss Schnee, sending her tumbling to the ground and allowing Cinder to break free.

Quickly, Blake acted to stop her but was met by the butt of a handgun slamming into her skull, sending her careening into the wall.

Ruby’s scythe cut through the air, trying to stop Cinder from escaping, however your revolver blocked her strike and its twin was raised to her face and spit out a bullet.

Luckily for the red clad girl, she disappeared in a storm of flower petals before the bullet gave the walls a fresh coat of paint.

Yang tried to strike you but you and Cinder were already gone in a cloud of smoke before her fist had even come close.

When the haze cleared and she realized she hadn’t managed to hit you, she turned to her friends and her sister.

However, instead she saw three of you, one holding Weiss’s Rapier, another holding Blake’s sword, and the final one holding Ruby’s scythe.

Yang was confused for a moment but pushed it to the side, she had to beat you up and find out where you took the others after all.

Now, if only she knew that the others were right in front of her.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

You and Cinder rushed away from the scene of the skirmish, Cinder ensuring that she kept a safe distance from your Semblance as you brought it back under control.

Fatal Illusion.

The power to turn allies into enemies and enemies into allies.

It was a powerful Semblance, but it was indiscriminate.

Cinder knew well that if anyone else had this power, she would more than likely kill them on the spot upon finding out about it.

However, you were a different case.

Someone she had known for many, many years.

Someone who took great care in everything they do, especially when it involves their Aura.

Once upon a time, someone had called you the “Ice” to her “Fire”.

Cinder had to admit, it wasn’t exactly wrong.

You were a much calmer individual than her, much more stealthy, much more composed.

You had to be if you didn’t want your Semblance to run wild.

Much in the same way it was doing so now.

“Were you truly that worried about me?” Cinder teased as the two of you ran.

“Of course I was. You are important to me after all.” you answered honestly.

Cinder ignored the warmth in her chest she felt at what you said.

Every time she got into trouble, every time she found herself with her back to the wall, you would drop from the sky, Semblance turning life long friends into people who would kill each other at the drop of a hat.

And every time, when the two of you had escaped, you always said something like that.

[weird0o0]

A cursed life

~Summary~:

in a cursed world like ours..only you are my light in those vast emptiness, so I shall ask you to join this view I have that with you only I will ever want to share with, cause you, my kind muse, are the rarest gem in a world of liars

reader uses she/her🫶🏻

In the clandestine world of Jujutsu sorcery, where curses and malevolent spirits lurked in the shadows, Suguru Geto was a haunted figure. His encounters with the darkness had tainted the view of the world he still didn’t want to believe was truly like that.a lie... Amidst this desolation, yn with her earnest and compassionate soul, stumbled into his world.

At first, your paths crossed sporadically during skirmishes with cursed spirits. Suguru, always composed and distant, couldn't help but notice the unwavering kindness that seemed to emanate from you, it was like a light too pure he couldn’t dare to touch..he believed that he could only ruin that pure warm soul. He tried to keep his distance, knowing his own soul was contorted by the horrors he had witnessed and the choices he had made cause of the cruel reality that all of his world was..but yours seemed different from his..he often wanted to know the answer you would give.

Fate wove a relentless thread between you both. In a moment of profound vulnerability, Suguru found himself at his lowest and it all seemed so dark, empty, without a purpose..surrounded by the suffocating grip of despair. It was then that you appeared, drawn by an innate desire to help that heart that you only saw as a warm and gentle one.

"You shouldn't waste your time on someone like me," Suguru muttered, his voice laced with a mixture of self-loathing and resignation, as you attempted to reach out to him, confort the one that truly felt close to you in jujitsu high.

Yn’s kind-hearted persistence knew no bounds. she refused to be deterred by Suguru's attempts to push her kind hand away, seeing beyond the shadows that clouded his spirit. She truly witnessed the fragments of goodness that still resided within him, even as he distanced himself from her unwavering attempts to help.

"You're not alone in this, you will never be” you insisted softly, your voice a soothing balm in the midst of his inner turmoil. "Let me in, Suguru. I know that you mean to harm no one, even if you can't see it yourself."

“You are only hurting yourself for the sake of others that don’t deserve such”

Her silk voice, while saying this, had opened a scar in geto’s heart, a scar so deep that let out a tear that he immediately tried to hide with his hand, covering his face, a face that yn found so beautiful but when there once she saw a warm smile she now sees a broken suguru.

Haunted by his past, Suguru's internal battles raged on. The fear of tainting your purity with his own darkness made him push you further away, a self-imposed isolation meant to protect you from the cursed existence trough he led.

Despite his efforts, your resolve remained unshaken. You refused to let his self-imposed walls hinder your intentions. You persisted in your attempts to break through the barriers he had erected, determined to show him that his past did not define his future.

However, Suguru, fearing the repercussions of allowing someone as kind-hearted as you to become entangled in his cursed existence, withdrew further, his actions speaking louder than words as he distanced himself from the warmth and light you offered simply be going out of that room that was so dark with him in, but so bright when you entered, He knew he was running away from one that truly cares..but does he deserve such a heart?..

And so, amidst the chaos of battling curses and confronting the shadows of his own soul, you found yourself going to reach his hand…

“why are you pushing me back”

You said while asking with a steady tone that left him with wide open eyes that had never saw you with that look of anger that when was seen by his sad eyes only left his speechless and accidentally made his say out loud his thoughts..

“those broken expressions that are the only thing I bring to you don’t truly frame your beauty and caring soul that will only corrupt by being close to mine”

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

a/n: this is my time writing a fic so I hope everyone enjoys it and will look out to a second part or have any request.

English isn’t my first language so I’m truly sorry for any grammar mistakes cause this wasn’t proof readed.🫶🏻🫶🏻

[small-z24]

One-Shot: A Prophecy

Summary: 

In "Shadows of Destiny," Y/N, a warrior from the Spring Court, and Azriel, the Night Court's spymaster, find themselves irresistibly drawn to each other despite an ancient prophecy that fates them to kill one another. As their love grows amidst political turmoil and war, they defy fate's cruel design. When Y/N's sacrifice breaks the cycle, her soul finds refuge in Azriel's shadows, allowing their love to transcend even death

Word Count: 1709

Warnings: This story includes themes of prophecy and destiny, character death, intense emotional scenes, and battle violence. Readers should be aware of these elements as they navigate the narrative.

The ancient prophecy had haunted Y/N for as long as she could remember. It spoke of soulmates destined to find each other, only to be torn apart by fate. The twist was that these soulmates were fated to kill each other, their love doomed to end in bloodshed. As a warrior of the Spring Court, Y/N had always dismissed such tales as myth, until she met Azriel.

Their paths first crossed on a battlefield, amidst the chaos of a skirmish between the Spring and Night Courts. Y/N had fought fiercely, her skills unmatched, until she found herself face-to-face with Azriel. His shadows swirled around him, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. Their eyes locked, and she felt a jolt of recognition, a pull that went beyond the physical.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice steady despite the turmoil around them.

Azriel's gaze was intense, his voice low and compelling. "Azriel of the Night Court. And you?"

"Y/N of the Spring Court," she replied, her grip tightening on her weapon.

They circled each other warily, the sounds of battle fading into the background. It was as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them. Despite the tension, there was an undeniable connection, a strange familiarity that neither could ignore.

"You're strong," Azriel observed, his tone almost admiring.

"So are you," Y/N countered, her heart pounding.

Before they could engage, a sudden surge of reinforcements from both sides forced them apart. Y/N lost sight of Azriel in the chaos, but the memory of their encounter lingered, haunting her thoughts.

Months passed, and Y/N couldn't shake the feeling that fate had more in store for her and Azriel. She found herself thinking of him often, wondering if he felt the same pull, the same inexplicable bond.

Their next encounter came during a diplomatic mission to Velaris. Y/N had been chosen to accompany Tamlin, a rare gesture of goodwill between the courts. As they arrived at the House of Wind, her heart raced with anticipation. She knew Azriel would be there, and she was both excited and terrified to see him again.

Sure enough, Azriel was there to greet them, his expression neutral but his eyes betraying a flicker of recognition. Y/N felt the same jolt as before, the same undeniable pull.

"Welcome to Velaris," Azriel said, his voice calm but his gaze intense.

"Thank you," Y/N replied, forcing herself to remain composed.

The days that followed were filled with tense negotiations and formal gatherings. Yet, despite the political tension, Y/N and Azriel found themselves drawn to each other. They exchanged glances across crowded rooms, their connection growing stronger with each passing day.

One night, unable to sleep, Y/N wandered through the gardens of the House of Wind. She wasn't surprised to find Azriel there, his shadows a dark contrast to the moonlit flowers.

"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked, his voice soft.

"No," she admitted, joining him. "Too much on my mind."

They stood in silence for a while, the night air cool and soothing. Finally, Y/N spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "Do you ever think about the prophecy?"

Azriel's gaze darkened. "Every day. It's a curse, knowing you're destined to destroy the one you love."

Y/N's heart ached at his words. "What if we could change it? Defy fate?"

He looked at her, his expression a mix of hope and sorrow. "I've thought about it. But fate is a powerful force."

She reached out, taking his hand in hers. "So is love."

Their eyes met, and in that moment, Y/N felt a surge of determination. She refused to accept that they were doomed to kill each other. They had to find another way.

As the days turned into weeks, Y/N and Azriel grew closer, their bond deepening despite the looming shadow of the prophecy. They trained together, fought side by side, and shared their hopes and fears. Their love grew, a beacon of light amidst the darkness.

But fate was relentless.

During a crucial battle against Hybern, Y/N found herself facing Azriel once again. This time, it wasn't a skirmish but a full-blown war. As they fought their enemies, the prophecy's shadow loomed over them, a cruel reminder of their destiny.

Amidst the chaos, they were forced to fight each other, the prophecy driving them apart even as their love tried to hold them together. Y/N's heart shattered with every clash of their weapons, every strike that brought them closer to the inevitable.

"Y/N, stop!" Azriel pleaded, his voice raw with emotion. "We don't have to do this!"

Tears streamed down her face as she fought back. "I don't want to, Azriel! But the prophecy..."

"To hell with the prophecy!" he shouted, his shadows swirling around him in a frenzy. "We can fight it, together!"

In that moment, Y/N made a choice. She dropped her weapon, stepping back and lowering her defenses. "I won't fight you, Azriel. I love you too much."

Azriel's eyes filled with anguish as he lowered his own weapon. "Y/N..."

But fate was cruel. A stray arrow, aimed at Azriel, found its mark in Y/N instead. She gasped, pain searing through her as she collapsed to the ground.

"NO!" Azriel cried, rushing to her side. He cradled her in his arms, his shadows desperately trying to heal her.

Y/N looked up at him, her vision blurring. "We... we defied fate, Azriel. We proved... that love is stronger."

Tears streamed down his face as he held her close. "Stay with me, Y/N. Please, stay with me."

With her last breath, she smiled. "I'll always be with you... in the shadows."

As her life faded, Azriel felt a piece of his soul die with her. The prophecy had been fulfilled, but in a way he had never expected. Y/N's sacrifice had broken the cycle, proving that love could indeed defy fate, even if it came at the ultimate cost.

In the days that followed, Velaris mourned the loss of a hero. Y/N's bravery and sacrifice were honored, her name spoken with reverence. Azriel, however, was inconsolable. He withdrew into himself, his shadows dark and restless, a constant reminder of the love he had lost.

Rhysand, Feyre, and the rest of the Inner Circle did their best to support him, but they knew there was no comfort for the kind of pain he was enduring. Rhysand found him one night on a rooftop, staring out over the city.

"Azriel," Rhysand began, his voice gentle. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

Azriel didn't look at him, his gaze fixed on the stars. "She was my mate, Rhys. My soulmate. And I lost her because of a damn prophecy."

Rhysand placed a hand on his shoulder. "She loved you, Azriel. And she sacrificed herself to save you. That's a testament to her strength and her love for you."

Azriel's voice broke. "I didn't even get to tell her... how much I loved her. How much she meant to me."

"You showed her," Rhysand said softly. "Every day, you showed her. And she knew."

Azriel finally looked at him, his eyes filled with anguish. "What do I do now, Rhys? How do I go on without her?"

Rhysand's eyes were filled with empathy. "You honor her memory. You live the life she wanted for you. And you remember that her love is still with you, even in the shadows."

Azriel nodded, tears streaming down his face. "I'll try. For her."

As the weeks turned into months, Azriel tried to find solace in his duties, but the pain of losing Y/N never truly faded. One evening, as he sat alone in his room, his shadows swirling around him restlessly, he felt a strange sensation. It was as if one of his shadows was speaking to him, whispering words he couldn't quite make out.

He focused, trying to understand the message. And then, clear as day, he heard her voice.

"Azriel."

His heart stopped. "Y/N?"

The shadow seemed to shimmer, taking on a more defined shape. "I'm here, Azriel. I've always been here."

Tears filled his eyes as he reached out, his hand trembling. "How is this possible?"

Her voice was soft and soothing. "When I died, my soul didn't move on. It found a new home, in your shadows. I couldn't leave you."

Azriel's tears flowed freely. "I've missed you so much."

"I know," she whispered. "I've missed you too. But I'm still with you, Azriel. Always."

He took a deep breath, feeling a sense of peace he hadn't known since her death. "I don't know how to go on without you."

"You don't have to," she replied. "We'll face this together. Just like we always have."

From that day forward, Azriel found strength in knowing that Y/N was still with him, her presence a constant comfort. He could hear her voice in the quiet moments, feel her guidance in the darkest of times.

When he needed advice, she was there. When he felt lost, she helped him find his way. And in the moments of deepest sorrow, she reminded him of the love they shared, a love that could never be broken.

One night, as Azriel stood on a rooftop, looking out over Velaris, he felt her presence stronger than ever.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, her voice like a gentle caress.

"About us," he replied. "About the future."

"And what do you see?" she asked.

He smiled, feeling her warmth. "I see a world where our love shines brighter than any prophecy. Where we defy fate, together."

Y/N's laughter filled the air, a beautiful sound that made his heart soar. "I like that vision."

"So do I," he said softly. "And we'll make it a reality. No matter what."

As the stars sparkled above, Azriel knew that their love would guide him through the shadows, a beacon of hope and strength. And with Y/N by his side, he was ready to face whatever the future held.

Together, they would defy fate, proving that love was the most powerful force of all.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Unfamiliar Grounds

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

Kirigan’s walls may be down for now, but Ivan and Fedyor know they must guard more than just his recovery—they must guard his trust.

Notes:

This story is an AU. It takes place long before Alina turns up. Kirigan is not the villain he will be later in the series. Please note that English is not my first language, but I did my best to find most mistakes. (Feel free to point them out to me!). I took certain creative liberties, particularly with the characterization of the main characters but I hope, you will just roll with it. And now have fun! And thank you for reading.

Work Text:

The early morning light cast long shadows through the forest as the company rode on, tired but quietly relieved. The skirmish had been brief and unexpected, but by some twist of fate, they’d suffered no fatalities—just bruises, scrapes, and the bitter taste of yet another delay on the road back to the Little Palace. Though everyone was weary and eager to be home, they travelled with the calm confidence of survivors, their minds already drifting to the promise of rest and familiar comforts.

Kirigan rode at the head of the group, his figure as straight and composed as ever. But nevertheless, something seemed off.  

Ivan’s brow furrowed as he observed the General more closely. He had been summoned more and more often by him in recent months, each mission bringing him closer to the man who, until then, had been more myth than reality.  But despite these latest, quite frequent missions, Ivan still didn’t know him well enough to understand every nuance in Kirigan’s demeanor. Yet now, for the first time, he felt a gnawing certainty that something was not as it should be.

Ivan’s eyes stayed fixed on him, searching, studying every slight shift of Kirigan’s posture, every minute tightening of his hands on the reins. Beside him, Fedyor was watching as well, his gaze troubled, his senses attuned to the subtle signs of strain his leader couldn’t quite conceal.

It was when Kirigan’s hand slipped from the reins to clutch briefly at his side that Ivan felt his stomach twist. Never before had the General let pain show, and Ivan was suddenly sure that right now, things were more serious than Kirigan let on.

A quick glance at Fedyor confirmed his suspicions. They had both seen it; the way Kirigan’s breaths came a fraction shorter, the tension that radiated through his usually controlled frame.

Enough was enough.

“Stop,” Ivan’s voice rang out, sharp and unmistakable, pulling the group to an abrupt halt. The Grisha responded instantly, horses stamped and snorted, shifting restlessly as the troupe exchanged puzzled glances.

Kirigan’s head snapped to face him, his jaw clenched, irritation flashing briefly in his dark eyes. “What are you doing? We’re wasting time,” he ground out.  His words were tight with fatigue and something more—a hidden tension, one that everyone who looked closer could feel.

“General,” Ivan responded undeterred, his tone unyielding. “With all due respect, we’re not going another step until you’re seen to.”

Some Grisha at the back of the group, unable to catch the exchange, furrowed their brows in confusion. But most understood immediately; he must have noticed something critical.

They trusted Ivan’s observations without question, and their eyes darted between him and Kirigan, watching the General with a deepening worry, their expressions reflecting their desire to ensure his well-being.

Kirigan’s lips pressed into a thin line, his silence enough to convey his displeasure, when Fedyor moved in, calmer but just as resolute. “We’re not moving ahead until you let us help.”

For a heartbeat, Kirigan remained motionless, defiant even. But as his eyes swept over his soldiers, the alarm reflected in some of the faces reached through his defences. He caught sight of a young Grisha, one he’d protected during the skirmish, now watching him with such raw concern that it almost touched him; a feeling he was not accustomed to.

He recognized, too, the look in Ivan’s and Fedyor’s eyes—the unwavering determination that would not yield, the loyalty that insisted he allow them to care for him.

Slowly, he nodded once in acknowledgment and reluctantly, he slid down from his horse. His legs trembled slightly as they met the ground; he masked it, straightening his shoulders, but there was a fragility in the gesture that sent a quiet ripple of alarm through those watching. The last Grisha around him quickly dismounted as well, realization dawning on their faces. Even those who had remained in their saddles until now hurriedly slid to the ground, concern etched in their expressions as they saw that their General was not just weary; he was struggling.

“Let’s get you settled and check this out,” Ivan insisted, already scanning for a place to lay Kirigan down.

With haste, some Grisha began spreading their cloaks and blankets on the ground, creating a makeshift resting place.

As they lowered Kirigan onto it, his body instinctively tensed as if trying to escape a wave of pain that seemed to surge within him.

“Relax,” Ivan instructed gently, kneeling beside him. Kirigan’s usual composure was beginning to crack, and he closed his eyes for a moment, taking a steadying breath.

As Ivan peeled back Kirigan’s Kefta, a collective gasp escaped from the surrounding Grisha. A huge, dark stain spread across his tunic, the ominous wet hue saturating the black fabric underneath.

Fedyor sucked in a sharp breath, his voice rising with shock and frustration. “Saints, you’ve been bleeding like this for—how long?”

Kirigan gave a faint, deflective huff, as though he’d been caught in some minor offense. “It’s nothing. Everyone’s tired; they don’t need me slowing them down.”

But Ivan was having none of this. “Stop that,” he ordered gruffly. “We’re taking care of this now.”

Carefully he pulled the tunic up, revealing a long, jagged wound that stretched across Kirigan’s chest and abdomen, still seeping blood. The flesh was swollen and bruised, and there were clear signs of at least two broken ribs beneath, maybe even internal injuries; each breath was a shallow, painful effort.

The Grisha who had gathered around murmured in shock, a few of the younger ones paling visibly at the sight.

“General…” one Squaller whispered strained. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Kirigan merely shook his head, his gaze set forward, a hint of defiance in his eyes. “It wasn’t necessary,” he replied. “I could hold on until we returned.”

“Of course you could!” Ivan’s tone was sharp with exasperation. He knew that if anyone could endure such wounds, it was Kirigan—his resilience unmatched by any other. Yet, that wasn’t the point. “But you simply shouldn’t. Look at yourself—you can barely stand…” He broke off incredulously, but Fedyor also had his part to say.

“Why would you hide this? You would never demand this silence from any of us. Why do you force it on yourself?”

Kirigan’s gaze flicked away, his jaw tight, his eyes hardened, unreadable. Compared to the weight of everything he’d faced, this pain was a small thing—no reason to burden them with it. He could have endured it, as he had endured countless wounds before, and to reveal it now felt like crossing a line he’d drawn long ago. They looked to him for steadiness, for strength that would not bend. Admitting to being injured, to any weakness, meant inviting them closer, meant leaning on a support he had taught himself never to need again.

And yet, here he was, lying on the ground and allowing them to tend to him because for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he experienced a flicker of trust, a sense that he didn’t have to bear this burden alone.

So he didn’t argue as Ivan began directing the troupe to bring what supplies they had, anything they could use to treat their injured General.

They sprang into action, a flurry of activity as they gathered clean cloths and materials. An Inferni quickly ignited a small fire nearby, its flames licking at the cool air, while water was heated for the task ahead, and Yuri, a Squaller who had some knowledge of field medicine, knelt beside Kirigan, his hands steady as he reached for the medical kit.

A Durast stepped forward too, a small pouch clutched in her hands. “I got this from the healers.” She opened it to reveal packets of potent remedies—herbs and fine powders. “Pain relief and more. It’ll help.”

“Good thinking.” Ivan’s gratitude was evident. “Get him some of that.”

Immediately, the Durast began preparing a tea, her movements precise when she measured the constituents, though her hands trembled ever so slightly.

“Hold still, General,” Yuri pleaded calmly. He crouched beside Kirigan, each touch careful, his fingers gentle yet firm, starting to clean the wound with warm water.

Kirigan didn’t respond, his face expressionless, though the tautness around his eyes betrayed the pain he held at bay.

Fedyor, kneeling on his other side, fixated his leader’s face with a rare intensity.

“You’re always thinking you have to endure everything alone, aren’t you?” He couldn’t quite hide his frustration. “You know, we’re all capable of waiting an extra hour if it means making sure you don’t end up worse off.”

His voice softened, though his gaze remained unwavering. “We’ve seen you lead, inspire, and protect us all, General. And maybe… it wouldn’t hurt for you to let others take care of you, too, once in a while.” His tone held the hint of a plea, but there was no expectation—just a quiet offering.

For a moment, Kirigan’s stoic mask slipped. There was a flicker of something close to reluctant acceptance appearing in his eyes. His jaw clenched as he allowed them to continue, perhaps surrendering to the moment, or maybe, for once, to the unfamiliar feeling of not having to hold himself so tightly.

Blood clung thickly to Kirigan’s skin, congealed in patches where it had begun to dry, while fresh rivulets seeped slowly from the jagged edges. Yuri’s hands moved with precision, his touch steady and unhurried despite the urgency of the task.

The other Grisha held their breath as they watched the crimson smears gradually give way to clean, raw flesh beneath.

Finally, Yuri reached for a soft cloth, folding it meticulously. Carefully, he pressed the thick layers against the gash, ensuring it adhered to the contours of Kirigan’s body. Once satisfied with the placement, he wrapped some bandages around it, securing the dressing in place, before he rightened himself up.

“That should hold till we get back to the Little Palace.” He glanced at Ivan, wiping his brow. “But we have to bind his ribs—tight enough so he can breathe easier without aggravating the fractures.”

Seeing the necessity, the others immediately began cutting long strips of fabric. As they worked, the Durast approached, her eyes lingering on Kirigan’s face with quiet concern. She held a small cup of tea, the scent of herbs and remedies wafting up. She offered it to him, her tone tentative yet firm. “Please, General. Drink this.”

Kirigan caught the scent of the mixture and immediately recognized its strength. “No,” he protested instantly, trying to push himself up, a rare show of reluctance. “It’s too potent; I’ll black out… “

Ivan placed a firm hand on his shoulder, gently but with authority. “We don’t care, General. You’re hurting, and you’ve lost blood. This isn’t just about you anymore. We’ll take the time, even if it costs us the journey home.”

Kirigan’s eyes narrowed slightly, a stubborn glint flashing as he eyed the cup. “I’m perfectly able to move on without this,” he muttered, irritation clear. “There’s no need for— “

“There’s no need for you to endure any more of this,” Fedyor interjected, soft but resolute. “None of us want to watch you suffer another minute. We’ll get home when we get home.”

With a resigned look, Kirigan allowed himself to lean back against the makeshift bedding. Slowly, he took the cup, a tired sigh escaping as he drank. The brew was bitter, the taste strong enough to make him grimace, but he drained it, his eyes fluttering as the warm, soothing effect of the ingredients began to seep in.

Ivan watched him with a faint shake of his head, his usual stoicism edged with concern. “Next time, General,” he repeated, “you say something. Just because you can endure it, doesn’t mean you should.”

Fedyor nodded in agreement, his gaze unwavering. “We’d rather lose a little time than risk your health.”

There was a beat of silence, then Kirigan inclined his head, the faintest trace of acceptance and contrition in his expression. “Noted,” he murmured.

After they took the empty cup from Kirigan, Ivan and Fedyor positioned themselves on either side of him, lifting him gently from where he lay. He grimaced, a faint crease forming between his brows, but made no sound as they helped him up, each movement deliberate, cautious.

Once he was upright, it became clear he had neither the strength nor stability to hold himself steady. His breath came in shallow, strained bursts, every subtle shift making his pain flare.

Seeing this, Ivan slipped an arm firmly around Kirigan’s back, supporting his weight and taking on as much of the burden as he could. Fedyor, on his other side, did the same, gripping his shoulder to keep him secure.

Kirigan’s frame remained tense, muscles taut as if he could will himself to stay upright, but Ivan and Fedyor felt the unmistakable tremor that ran through him. His head lowered momentarily, though he forced it upright again as he struggled to maintain some semblance of composure.

Yuri then began to bind his ribs tightly, the process meticulous, each wrap drawn carefully around his fractured bones to keep them secure.

With each pull of the bandage, Kirigan’s face tightened, his breaths becoming more and more strained as his battered resilience began to crack, revealing the depth of his torment.

Ivan watched closely, his worry growing as he felt Kirigan start to sway, his body sagging into their grip as if he might lose consciousness.

“Just breathe, General,” he encouraged, his words low, only for Kirigan to hear. A hint of alarm crept into his voice. “We’re almost done. You need to keep breathing.”

When they finished, Kirigan looked markedly more vulnerable, his skin pale and slick with sweat, his breaths shallow and ragged.

Ivan and Fedyor exchanged a brief, worried glance before easing him down, lowering him as cautiously as possible back onto the blankets. His body went limp, the tension finally releasing as he settled against the blankets. His eyes fluttered closed as he allowed himself a rare moment of rest.

The young Inferni stepped forward, a warm, wet cloth in hand. Her movements were hesitant, her hands trembling slightly as she knelt beside him. She gently dabbed the sweat from his brow, her touch feather-light, as though afraid even the slightest pressure might cause him pain.

While she cared for him, Kirigan lay there, eyes half-closed and head tilted slightly to the side.

He remained still, barely moving, save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. But as the initial agony from Yuri’s manipulations began to subside, it became clear that the bindings were helping. His breathing, though still labored, grew steadier, deeper, and the tight wraps around his ribs provided much-needed support. The fact that he was no longer bleeding into his tunic also contributed to his stabilization.

So, gradually, he seemed to regain a thread of his usual composure, enough that they knew he was ready to be dressed.

Ivan gave a subtle nod to Fedyor, signalling that it was time to get him back into his clothes and restore some semblance of his usual dignity.

Yuri placed himself behind him, sliding his arms beneath Kirigan’s shoulders to gently lift him upright again, giving the others room.

The two Heartrenders carefully adjusted his tunic and Kefta, ensuring his comfort and avoiding any strain on his injuries. 

As they finished, Ivan’s gaze lingered on Kirigan’s face, studying the pale cast of his skin and the lines of pain etched faintly around his mouth and eyes. There still was a vulnerability about him, one that none of them had ever seen before. The General who led them with unyielding strength was, in this moment, simply a man—worn, fragile, and undeniably mortal.

“You should rest, General,” Ivan suggested quietly, his concern evident. “It would do you good.”

Kirigan immediately shook his head, his voice firm despite his exhaustion. “No, we’re going home. Now.”

Ivan sighed, understanding the determination in Kirigan’s eyes. “We can do that. But unless you want to end up face-first in the mud, General, you’ll have to ride with me.” He raised an eyebrow, a hint of dry humour in his expression, but he quickly shifted back to seriousness. “Honestly, there is no other way. Those herbs will hit you soon enough.”

Kirigan simply nodded, acknowledging Ivan’s point.

His agreement brought a wave of relief over the group. Fedyor’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile, his eyes softening as he watched Kirigan.

The Grisha sprang into action. They quickly packed up their belongings, extinguished the small fire, and gathered their supplies, each one eager to get their leader home safely.

Once everything was ready, they turned their attention back to Kirigan.

When they lifted him to his feet, their hands remained steady and supportive, each motion gentle, aware of how much effort it must cost him to remain upright.

Kirigan swayed slightly, his face drawn with pain, but he kept his shoulders squared, still refusing to truly let show how much he was suffering.

Some Grisha then moved quickly to fold the cloaks, roll up the blankets, and dismantle the makeshift bedding with practiced ease, while others helped the General back onto his horse.

He leaned heavily onto the pommel of the saddle, silent, his determination overriding his discomfort. Ivan swung up behind him, slipping an arm around Kirigan’s waist to secure him with caution.

“Hold on, General,” he murmured, his voice a mix of concern and reassurance. “We’ll get you home.”

Kirigan gave a faint nod, too exhausted to put up any more resistance, simply accepting the care. He sank back slightly into the strong arms bracing him securely, the warmth of Ivan’s grip both firm and comforting.

Finally, the group resumed their journey at a slower, more measured pace.

For the first stretch, Kirigan tried to keep his head up, his gaze forward, fighting the overwhelming fatigue that clouded his mind. But as the minutes passed, the potent herbs began to take full effect, overpowering him. Despite his best efforts to remain alert, he felt himself slipping.

With a final sigh, Kirigan surrendered to the drug-induced darkness, his body sinking heavily into Ivan’s arms. His head fell back against Ivan’s shoulder, leaving him defenceless in a way none of them had ever seen.

“Easy there,” Ivan murmured, instinctively adjusting to hold him more securely. The concern of the group sharpened as they noticed, but there was no panic; they had prepared for this.

They moved as swiftly as they could under the circumstances, urgency propelling them forward. It would take another two hours to reach the Little Palace, and every minute felt like an eternity.

The whole time, Fedyor kept a watchful eye on both Kirigan and Ivan.

To his dismay, as the journey progressed, he sensed Kirigan’s pulse quickening, the medications wearing off. It was clear that the pain was intensifying again; Kirigan’s face tightened with each jolt of the horse, and his breaths became more labored. Fedyor had hoped they would reach the Little Palace before this happened, but the agony from Kirigan’s broken bones was too intense.

Then, Ivan intervened.

Fedyor could feel the small flickers of power emanating from his husband. Ivan was carefully manipulating Kirigan’s heart, drawing him back into a deeper state of unconsciousness. Each time Kirigan began to surface, Ivan would gently interfere, ensuring the General remained unaware of the pain that threatened to overwhelm him.

He knew the General wouldn’t approve, but none of them cared today; they were united in their determination to get him home safely, no matter what it took. Ivan’s need to protect the man who always put others first was a quiet rebellion he allowed himself.

The road stretched long as they pressed forward, each Grisha’s gaze straying every so often to their leader, their worry a silent thread weaving them all together.

Finally, as they approached the Little Palace, two Healers were already assembled. Word of Kirigan's condition had reached them earlier, thanks to one Grisha who had hurried ahead.

Their faces tightened as they saw Ivan riding in, his arms cradling Kirigan’s limp form.

As he pulled his horse to a stop, the two of them rushed forward and reached up to take on the weight of the wounded General.

Ivan released his hold on Kirigan’s heartbeat for just a moment, helping the Healers guide him carefully down from the saddle. Instantly, Kirigan's eyes fluttered, and a hoarse, involuntary sound escaped his lips; a faint, ragged groan, raw and filled with distress. It was a sound he would never have allowed himself had he been fully aware. But here, between the grip of consciousness and the dark of oblivion, his usual defences had fallen away, leaving only the unshielded pain of his injuries.

Ivan clenched his jaw, watching with a blend of worry and helplessness as Kirigan lay there, the true extent of his suffering laid bare for all to see.

One of the Healers immediately pressed a hand to Kirigan’s forehead, murmuring softly as her power flowed through him, coaxing him back into a deeper state of unconsciousness. She knew it was the only way to shield him from the pain that would otherwise tear him awake.

The healers then hurried him inside, weaving quickly through the bright corridors, sunlight spilling in patches across the stone as they made their way to the infirmary. Ivan, Fedyor, and the rest of the group followed closely, all unwilling to let their General out of their sight.

Along the way, other Grisha paused as they took in the pale, lifeless figure of their leader. Some watched with wide, stricken eyes; others whispered anxiously among themselves, clearly shaken by the sight of the unresponsive General.

They finally reached the Infirmary, where the Healers immediately set to work.

The troupe watched in silence as Kirigan was laid carefully on a bed in the centre of the room.

The senior Healer placed her palm gently on his chest, sending a wave of energy that anchored him into a profound oblivion. Kirigan’s body tensed involuntarily, his muscles convulsing slightly under the intensity of the Healer’s power before he fell completely limp. The brief surge faded, and his awareness slipped further away under her deliberate touch.

Another Healer began to move with smooth, practiced motions, summoning her power to knit the ugly wound and address the injuries hidden beneath.

Meanwhile, the senior Healer hovered her hands above Kirigan’s ribcage, guiding a steady flow of energy into each fracture and bruise.

As the healing process continued, Kirigan’s muscles, still partially tensed from the remnants of pain, began to yield. The harsh lines etched into his face softened gradually, revealing a flicker of peace that was almost foreign. His breathing slowed, settling into a more regular, deeper rhythm.

Eventually, the lead Healer reassured all the Grisha, “His broken bones have been set, and severel internal contusions and bruises have been treated. He should be pain-free now.”

Then she turned to Ivan and Fedyor. “He heals faster than any Grisha I’ve ever seen. But even someone of his power needs time to recover from these injuries.” She glanced back at Kirigan, her eyes filled with concern. “He’s lost more blood than we’d like. I recommend keeping him under for a few hours—force him to rest. We all know what he’ll do otherwise.”

Ivan nodded decisively, understanding the unspoken truth behind her words. Kirigan’s relentless drive meant that if he were conscious, he would insist on resuming his responsibilities immediately.

They had to ensure he stayed down long enough to recover properly, even if it meant going against what they knew he would want.

The second Healer had already moved to clean the remaining blood and sweat from Kirigans skin and now gently dressed him in the soft linen shirt and loose trousers designated for those in recovery. Then, a warm, heavy blanket was tucked carefully around his shoulders and along his sides, as though to preserve the restorative energy that still lingered in the air.

Before they stepped back, the lead Healer pressed her hand onto Kirigan’s torso again, one last surge of her power weaving through him, sealing his consciousness in the darkness for a few more hours at least. She met Ivan’s gaze and nodded; he understood the message—the General would remain safely unaware.

At last, Kirigan lay still, his breathing slow and even. The golden light filtering into the room cast a gentle glow across his pale face, highlighting the shadows beneath his eyes.

He looked almost fragile, a faint trace of vulnerability in the way his head rested against the pillow, a stark contrast to the imposing figure he typically embodied.

The Grisha lingered at his bedside, caught between relief and unease. The General—unbreakable, untouchable Kirigan—lay before them like any other wounded soldier, stripped of his customary armour of strength.

Though exhaustion tugged at their limbs, no one wanted to leave him alone in this vulnerable moment. Their glances drifted toward Ivan, seeking reassurance.

His silent nod was all they needed to stand down. It showed that Ivan would remain, and that was enough.

Over recent missions, he had proven himself enough times for them to look to him now without question. If anyone was to watch over the General, it would be Ivan, and they accepted this as naturally as they would a command

So, in the end, one by one, the tired men began to leave, some murmuring a quiet farewell, others offering a brief look of respect before they departed.

As the last of their troupe had stepped out, Ivan settled into a chair by the bed, his hand resting on the edge of the blanket, keeping vigil. Fedyor sank down beside him, a gentle but constant presence, his gaze steady as he watched over both his husband and their General.

Finally, Ivan glanced at Fedyor and tiredly murmured, “He won’t thank us for this.” His tone was dry, touched with a hint of exasperated affection.

Fedyor smiled, his eyes softening. “No,” he agreed, his voice a whisper, “but it was the right thing to do.”  They knew that once Kirigan awoke, the man who loathed any display of weakness would be quick to erect his walls again.

They shared a quiet moment, watching as Kirigan’s breathing remained steady, his face completely at peace. It was rare, even precious, to see him like this—unguarded, free from the heavy weight he carried for all of them.

In the stillness of the room, a silent agreement formed between them. They would take it upon themselves to care for Kirigan, to ensure he received the attention he so rarely allowed himself.

It was clear that he had fought alone for much too long; perhaps others hadn’t dared to offer care, or Kirigan, likely, had rejected any such attempts. But today, something had shifted—he had allowed them, if only briefly, to ease his burden. And they would be damned if this was the last time.

They would make sure that the man who fought so fiercely for his soldiers would, at last, have someone to fight for him.

They settled back in the knowledge that the hours ahead would pass quietly, but that was exactly what they wanted: time for their General to rest, fully and truly, under their care.

And when Kirigan awoke, they would be there—ready to meet his inevitable stubbornness with patient, steadfast loyalty, the same loyalty that had brought him back to safety.

[enricobratta]

Why is the song called "Bohemian Rhapsody"?

Why does it last exactly 5 minutes and 55 seconds?

What is this song really about?

Why was the Queen movie released on October 31st?

The movie was released on October 31st because the single was first heard on October 31, 1975. The song is titled "Bohemian Rhapsody" because a "Rhapsody" is a free-form musical composition, composed of several seemingly unrelated parts and themes. The word "rhapsody" comes from Greek and means "assembled parts of a song." The word "bohemian" refers to a region in the Czech Republic called Bohemia, the birthplace of Faust, the protagonist of Goethe's work. In Goethe's work, Faust is an elderly, highly intelligent man who knows everything except the mystery of life. Not understanding it, he decides to poison himself.

Just at that moment, church bells ring, and he goes out. Upon his return, he encounters a dog that transforms into a sort of man: it is the devil Mephistopheles, who promises him a full life in exchange for his soul. Faust agrees, becomes young again, and becomes arrogant. He meets Gretchen, and they have a child, but his wife and child die. Faust travels through time and space, feeling powerful, but as he ages again, he feels unhappy once more. Not having broken the pact with the devil, angels contend for his soul. This work is fundamental to understanding "Bohemian Rhapsody."

The song talks about Freddie Mercury himself. Being a rhapsody, there are 7 different parts:

First and second act: A Cappella

Third act: Ballad

Fourth act: Guitar Solo

Fifth act: Opera

Sixth act: Rock

Seventh act: "Coda" or final act

The song tells the story of a poor boy wondering if this life is real or just his distorted imagination. He says that even if he stopped living, the wind would continue to blow without his existence. So he makes a pact with the devil and sells his soul. After making this decision, he rushes to tell his mother, saying: "Mama, I just killed a man, put a gun against his head, pulled the trigger, now he's dead. I threw my life away. If I don't come back tomorrow, continue as if nothing matters..." The man he kills is himself, Freddie Mercury.

If he doesn't honor the pact with the devil, he will die immediately. He bids farewell to his loved ones, and his mother bursts into tears, tears reflected in Brian May's guitar notes. Freddie, frightened, shouts, "Mama, I don't want to die," and the operatic part begins. Freddie finds himself on an astral plane where he sees himself: "I see a little silhouette of a man" and asks, "Scaramouche, will you do the fandango?" Scaramouche is a small skirmish between armies on horseback (the 4 horsemen of the Apocalypse of evil fight against the forces of good for Freddie's soul) and continues by saying, "Thunderbolts and lightning, very, very frightening me." This phrase appears in the Bible, specifically in Job 37: "The thunder and lightning frighten me: my heart pounds within my chest." His mother, seeing him so scared by his decision, pleads for his salvation from the pact with Mephistopheles. "He's just a poor boy... Spare him his life from this monstrosity. Easy come, easy go, will you let him go?" Her pleas are heard, and angels descend to fight against the forces of evil. "Bismillah" (an Arabic word meaning "In the name of God") is the first word that appears in the Quran, the holy book of Muslims. So God himself appears and shouts, "We will not let you go, let him go."

Faced with such a confrontation between the forces of good and evil, Freddie fears for his mother's life and says, "Mama mia, mama mia, let me go." From the sky, they shout again that they will not abandon him, and Freddie shouts, "no, no, no, no, no," saying, "Beelzebub (the Lord of the Darkness) has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me." Freddie pays homage to Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Johann Sebastian Bach when he sings "Figaro, Magnifico" referring to Mozart's "The Marriage of Figaro" and Bach's "Magnificat." The operatic part ends, and the rock part begins. The devil, furious and betrayed by Freddie for not honoring the pact, says, "So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye? So you think you can love me and leave me to die?" It is striking how the lord of evil feels powerless before a human being, faced with repentance and love. Having lost the battle, the devil leaves, and we come to the last act or "coda," where Freddie is free, and that feeling comforts him. The gong sounds, closing the song. The gong is an instrument used in China and the Far East to cure people under the influence of evil spirits.

The song lasts 5 minutes and 55 seconds. Freddie liked astrology, and 555 in numerology is associated with death, not physical, but spiritual, the end of something where angels will protect you. The 555 is related to God and the divine, an end that will give rise to a new phase. The song was first heard on the eve of All Saints' Day. A holiday called "Samhain" by the Celts to celebrate the transition and opening to the other world. The Celts believed that the world of the living and the dead were almost united, and on the Day of the Dead, both worlds united, allowing spirits to transit to the other side. Nothing in "Bohemian Rhapsody" is random. Everything is very measured, worked, and has a meaning beyond being just a simple song. It was voted worldwide as the best song of all time. This theme represented a radical change for Queen, as if they had indeed made a pact with the devil; it changed their lives forever and made them immortal.

[planet-gay-comic]

The Deep Bonds and Rebellion of Gladiators in Ancient Rome Insight into the World of Gladiators

In ancient Rome, the life of a gladiator was marked by constant danger, harsh discipline, and a struggle for survival. These fighters, often slaves or prisoners of war, were trained in gladiator schools and lived under extreme conditions, which brought both physical and psychological burdens. In this tense and intense atmosphere, deep emotional bonds often developed among the gladiators. There are indications that these bonds were not only of a camaraderie nature but also had homoerotic or homoromantic elements.

Homoerotic Relationships Among Gladiators Ancient Roman society had a complex and less rigid view of sexuality compared to many modern cultures. Relationships between men were not uncommon and could take on different social roles depending on the context. In the gladiator schools, known as Ludi, the fighters lived and trained in close quarters. This close proximity and constant confrontation with death and injury could foster emotional and physical bonds among the fighters. Literary and artistic sources from that time suggest that such relationships existed and even formed an important part of the social fabric within the gladiator barracks.

The Gladiator Rebellion: The Spartacus Revolt The harsh conditions under which the gladiators lived eventually led to one of the most famous uprisings in antiquity: the Spartacus Revolt. In 73 BC, about 70 gladiators, led by the Thracian fighter Spartacus, rose against their Roman masters. With improvised weapons, they managed to escape from their school in Capua. The uprising quickly grew as many other slaves and oppressed individuals joined them.

Spartacus and his comrades formed a formidable army and raided through Italy. Their fight against the Roman legions was characterized by remarkable tactical skill and unwavering courage. The Roman leadership, initially surprised and overwhelmed, eventually deployed the experienced general Marcus Licinius Crassus to quell the rebellion.

The Decisive Battle and Its Consequences After several battles and skirmishes, Crassus managed to corner the rebels. In the final battle in 71 BC, Spartacus and his followers were decisively defeated. Spartacus himself likely fell in the battle, although his body was never found. As a deterrent, Crassus had about 6,000 captured slaves crucified along the Via Appia from Capua to Rome.

Aftermath and Significance The Spartacus Revolt remains a symbolic example of resistance against oppression and exploitation in the ancient world. It highlights the extreme social inequalities and the brutal conditions under which slaves and gladiators lived. Additionally, it offers a fascinating insight into the complex emotional and social dynamics within the gladiator communities, including the possibility of deep homoerotic bonds.

Thus, the history of the gladiators is not only a story of combat and violence but also a story of courage, loyalty, and deep human relationships that could flourish even under the harshest conditions.

Image generated with StableDiffusion SDXL, overworked with inpainting and composing

[happilylovingchaos]

911 Lone Star Countdown - Disasters Week Questions

Hello and thank you for including me @lonestar-s5countdown! This is a little trickier for me to answer tbh. I think 9-1-1 might stand to have longer-lasting consequences from their natural disasters (no need to skip past tsunami wreckage recovery or months-long rebuilding of the highway collapse, those would make some meaty dramatic narrative arcs), but otherwise it so far edges out Lone Star when it comes to order of experience (like, which state got which disaster first).

1) My favorite disaster… okay, gonna have to divvy btwn the 9-1-1s for this!

The plane crash in 9-1-1 (OG) would probably be my underrated favorite in terms of narrative developments for Buck, Bobby and Abby.

Season 4’s heat wave was more glossed over for plot setup, but I didn’t mind this natural disaster precisely because it was a little smaller in scale and because the plot setups (even the Iris arc tho that definitely needed fine tuning in hindsight) hooked me in already. (I also didn’t mind Brianna and Caleb in this one b/c this time Caleb’s situation was not his own fault.)

2) Since they’ve already done tornadoes (though, there’s always a chance they’ll do those again), a volcanic eruption, wildfires and a winter storm, I would think the only disasters LS hasn’t gotten down yet are freeway collapses, floods (barring how the cast would look while soaking wet, don’t ignore areas like Galveston, writers! There’s WAY more to the state than farmland, Dallas, Austin and El Paso yk! Let’s just say before I digress I kinda wish the showrunners were able to film in actual Texas), a border skirmish (just out of genuine interest— not getting any more political and no Owen’s refugee rescue doesn’t count) or droughts/ water shortages (no, heat waves also don’t count). I also just realized that the domestic terrorist arc could have waited for a later season too! O’Brien and Owen had chaotic good vibes much akin to him and Billy Tyson (if the three of them worked together tho? The 126 should probably move their whole firefighter team out of Travis County b/c they ain’t gonna go through the second-hand pain again).

3) They had and lost me at meteor/ asteroid, so I’m not sure I’d say looking forward to it. It all depends on execution, I suppose? (Sorry for the question mark, I’m just baffled since that usually needs film-length amount of time— I’ve seen the film Deep Impact. Scientific nitpicks aside the investigations, action and future implications in that film were well-paced enough.)

4) My top 3? Judd b/c he’s a great all-around leader whenever shit hits the fan— honest (sometimes to a fault but I can kinda relate), strong integrity and conscientiousness, and so dad-like even before he became a dad. Mateo b/c he’d be like the underrated badass youngest brother of any group— speaking as an only child tho. Third… boy, I can’t break this tie. It’s a draw between Tommy (she’s very composed and professional even during the times she isn’t) and Paul (I’d like to learn memorization-observational skills from him, and he fits the “cool Zen mode” temperament a little better than Carlos, don’t @ me).

5) This is painful… okay I’m so sorry. I don’t think I can answer this one as of now.

Tagging next: @lutavero @reyesstrand @toomanycupsoftea @fitzherbertssmolder @marjansmarwani @trkstrnd

[moonselune]

I'm not the same anon who requested for BG3 ladies in compromising positions but could I request for the same prompt with Raphael, Rolan, and Wyll with female crush?

Hehehehehhehehhe what a brilliant request

Rolan:

You were in Ramazith’s Tower, meticulously organizing books in the library. Standing atop a ladder, you reached for a particularly high shelf when the ladder wobbled precariously. You felt a sudden panic as you lost your balance, arms flailing for support.

"Careful!" Rolan's voice called out, but it was too late. The ladder tipped, and you fell backward, bracing for impact.

Instead, you landed against something solid. Rolan had caught you, his arms securely wrapped around your waist. The momentum pushed you both back, and you ended up pinned against him, his chest against your back. You felt his breath on your neck, and his grip tightened to steady you both.

"Are you alright?" Rolan asked, his voice a mix of concern and embarrassment. His usual irate demeanor had given way to genuine worry.

"Y-yes, thank you," you stammered, aware of how close you were. You could feel his heartbeat against your back.

Rolan cleared his throat, trying to compose himself. "You should be more careful," he said, attempting to sound stern but failing miserably. He finally set you down and stepped back, giving you space but not before a lingering touch on your arm.

You turned to face him, your cheeks flushed. "Thank you for catching me."

He offered a small smile, his eyes softening. "Anytime. Just try not to fall off ladders too often."

Wyll:

The battlefield was a chaotic mess, goblins swarming from every direction. You fought fiercely, but in the midst of the skirmish, a particularly large goblin blindsided you. You stumbled, the ground rushing up to meet you when suddenly, a strong arm pulled you back.

Wyll had swooped in, his rapier flashing as he dispatched the goblin with swift precision. In the heat of the moment, he didn’t realize the position he had put you in until it was too late. You were pinned beneath him, his body hovering protectively over yours, his face inches from yours.

"Are you hurt?" Wyll asked, his voice husky with exertion. His eyes searched yours for any sign of injury, his concern palpable.

"I’m fine," you managed to say, acutely aware of his proximity. The warmth of his body, the intensity in his eyes—it was overwhelming.

Wyll seemed to realize the compromising position and quickly helped you to your feet, his cheeks slightly flushed. "I, uh, didn’t mean to—" he began, looking a bit flustered.

You smiled, touched by his gallantry. "Thank you, Wyll. You saved me."

He gave a modest nod, his usual confidence returning. "It’s my duty, but I’m glad you’re safe. Let’s finish this fight together."

Raphael:

You were exploring the lavish House of Hope, Raphael’s opulent domain, when you felt a sudden trip. One of his servants had deliberately stuck out a foot, despising you for your special treatment from the master you assumed, and you stumbled forward, bracing for a hard fall.

Instead, you found yourself caught in Raphael’s arms, his grip firm and possessive. He had been waiting for this moment, his smirk revealing the truth—this was orchestrated. You were pinned against his chest, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

"My darling," Raphael purred, his voice dripping with false concern. "Are you alright? It seems my servant was careless."

You glared at him, the dots connecting, knowing full well this was his doing. "You planned this, didn’t you?" you accused, your face heating up from both the proximity and his audacity.

He chuckled, his hand stroking your back soothingly. "Perhaps. But can you blame me for wanting to catch you in my arms?"

His touch was intoxicating, his presence overwhelming. You couldn’t help but lean into him slightly, despite your irritation. "Raphael, you’re insufferable," you muttered, though there was no real anger in your voice.

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "And yet, you are here, in my arms," he whispered, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "I’ll always catch you, darling."

With a resigned sigh, you allowed yourself a moment to enjoy his embrace. "Just don’t make a habit of it," you warned, though your words lacked conviction.

Raphael smiled, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "No promises."

Hope you all enjoy it ! - Seluney xxx

[mksbigg3stfan]

Redson (LMK) Analysis !! (It's mostly just me stating stuff we already know, probably, so sorry if I waste your time (¯ . ¯٥)) This is kind of long, so under the cut for convenience !! (*≧д≦)

Demons can't exactly be dictated by the same standards humans are, since either through nurture or nature, they seek power and chaos. Chinese demons specifically eat humans to take a human form, gain power, or increase their lifespan. So, the demon hierarchy is simply: the strong are both revered and feared enough that lesser demons do not attack them. When there is a skirmish, it's likely that the roles can switch, or the greater demon becomes just that much more infamous. As a whole, their society is based on the exploitation of those they deem weaker than themselves. It is all about the fight to be the most powerful and feared.

From the beginning, Redson was taught to see others as 'below' him, especially since he is the son of a greater demon. To him, cruelness and viciousness are simply his nature: demons are the embodiment of chaos, and he is no exception.

His parents taught him firsthand the true importance of strength. They bore upon him the knowledge of ruthlessness, how it was a means to an end. As a demon, there is nothing more important than slaying your enemies and those beneath you, forcing them to respect you out of awe and fear.

That included intellect as well. (PIF was definitely more keen on that than DBK.) Being able to stay composed and proper shows control. And control shows power. Exploiting resources, allies, is just as important as the reverence gained with that power. Intelligence allows strength to be used wisely. Because Redson may be a demon, but, he is a prince second.

Even though they are family, control and power still reign supreme. It's clear that Redson fears his father, especially fearing failing him. DBK doesn't seem against disciplining his son harshly. In fact, both parents degrade him often.

There is also the pressure of continuing his Father's legacy. To be as powerful as him, to not bring shame upon the family by being weak. No matter how hard he tries, Redson still feels inadequate. His parents are never satisfied with anything he does, and they often treat him in a patronizing way.

It's clear that deep down, he is insecure and feels like he is not enough and will never be good enough to live up to his father's legacy. Almost like a sort of feeling of worthlessness. His anger issues are both inherited by his parents and a result of his stressful environment.

He hides those insecurities through his regal persona through saying things like, "I, the GREAT Redson," and "You PEASANTS." Redson also refuses to use anyone's name, instead referring to them by things like Peasants and Cowards. It's a way of devaluing those around him, so that he can feel greater than them. Another barrier between a Greater Demon Prince and those who are lesser.

Even though he's much closer with Mei and MK by season 3, I don't remember a time when he called them anything besides Peasant, Noodle Boy, and Dragon Horse Girl.

Being around the two has helped him mature more emotionally. Instead of being angry that Mei stole his gimmick by gaining the Samdhi Fire, he handled the situation quite maturely. Instead of throwing a fit or raging, he tried to help her master its power, since he's the only one who knew how.

I could also yap about how i see redson and mei as foils and how perfect their dynamic is, also missed opportunities with the two, but that's for later if anyone cares lol

Before then, he only saw her as MK's stupid lackey. He didn't really respect her because she didn't seem to take anything seriously. Only when she showed how serious she took the training, how much effort she was willing to put in, the extent she was willing to go, that's when Redson started to respect her. It ties into his value for strength and hard work.

He learns to respect MK for similar reasons, in seeing that he is able to take thinsg seriously when he needs to. (Most of the time.) Mei and MK also help Redson learn to lighten up and simmer down through their more carefree attitudes.

Sighh i love you traffic light trio please come back to me 💔💔💔

Traffic light trio u know where home is 😿😿😿

[alonygamingnerd]

"A bit too quiet"

Sedra Campaign part 6

Following 1st and 3rd Squad rendezvous with each other and assessing their situation. 1st squad, at half strength and at the request of Grimes, would walk in front of the platoon's tank, while 3rd squad, at full strength, would walk behind the tank to counsel their numbers.

The sounds of distant explosions fill the air through the silence of the platoon's march.“So…” CPL Mullins speaks, breaking the silence, “heard any updates from the other platoon over the radio?”, looking back towards Warren with a tone of boredom and curiosity in his voice.

LCPL Warren, who had been staring to his left watching the tree, looks forward to Mullins, “From what I’ve heard, 1st Platoon has been in and out of skirmishes with light Covie resistance. 2nd Platoon has been locked in a firefight for the past 15 mins.”

“While we’re on the subject of updates, heard anything else?” GYSGT Grimes jumps in.

“4th platoon have been deployed into the nearby cities to assist the Sedran Colonial Guard.”, Warren replies, turning towards the Gunnery Sergeant, “I also heard some chatter of Echo and Lima Company being deployed, but I can’t tell for sure.”

“Ha”, CPL Godfrey letting out a small laugh ,“And they were saying they weren’t going to need us.”

CPL Mullins let out a sigh, “So much for us not being here long.”

“Let's be honest, did you really think this was going to be quick?” CPL Godfrey responds with a small bit of surprise and annoyance in her voice.

“I could hope, it is just a bunch of Covie remnants, a single cruiser, and 5 corvettes. How strong could they possibly be? Especially against Battle Group Thire. Those covie remnant ships are barely functioning at full strength with little crew they have. This whole thing could just be some sad desperate last attempt to get one last battle in”, says CPL Mullins.

Battle Group Thire was the 19th fleet’s biggest battle group composed, at this time, of 4 Halberd-class destroyers, 6 Mulsanne-class Frigates, 5 Paris-class Frigates, and a single Halcyon-class Cruiser that was brought back from the dead, refitted and refurbished with parts and weapons from Marathon and Autumn Classes. The Point Blank-class prowler was away undergoing maintenance.

“You just jinxed us.”, GYSGT Grimes says in an agitated tone as he stares directly at Mullins.

SHLD 2 slightly turns his head to look back at the Marines, “Mullins, you should know better by now, if they deploy us it’s never going to be easy or simple.” he then gives a quick look of to Shield 6 before continuing to look over his Spiker.