#specter hate page??

[lizzyiii]

just read “his lady love” and i’m completely obsessed with your writing, i definitely need a part 2 for that please 😭😭😭

His Lady Love (2)

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

word count | 3.8k words

summary | you return to westeros, to find that the young prince has become a man and his burning infatuation with you has not died out and you reconnect with helaena

tags | no warnings? usual mention of targaryen incest (but let's be real, everyone who reads hotd fanfic has now normalised targcest), and child marriage (my poor bby Helaena), filler

note | oh my god, y'all 😭. idk what I was thinking with that dramatic ass mikaelson reveal. as we all know the reader is never described, but as we all also know the mikaelsons are white af. so I'm making it clear that the reader is NOT mikael's daughter, leaving the reader's description and race unknown, esther was busy getting her freak on and her real father will never be disclosed. because in my mind the reader or y/n is and will always be a curly-haired, brown-skinned baddie....so each to their own. AND I'm pretty sure this is going to be a series cause for the life of me I am unable to make a oneshot without further exploring a story.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

Five long years had stretched into nearly two thousand sunrises since Aemond Targaryen last laid eyes upon you. Each passing day weighed heavily on his soul, a slow burn of a thousand bitter memories. Some days, the tempest of his emotions roiled within him, bidding him to hate you—for your departure, for the way you had vanished from court like a wisp of smoke, leaving only echoes and shadows in your wake.

But the flames of that hate flickered and faded, giving rise to a deeper yearning, a gaping void where love had once flourished. Even now, after all this time, your spirit held his heart captive, stolen under the very nose of fate when you chose to forsake the realm.

In the wake of your absence, thirteen year old Aemond had become a specter haunting the hallowed halls of the library, pouring over tomes and scrolls in a frantic quest for knowledge of House Mikaelson—a house that seemed to dissolve into the mists of myth with each turn of the page. The histories were silent, and when he turned to his elders, the lords and ladies of the court, their ignorance stung deeper than any sword. Your name was but a whisper lost amongst the louder clamor of dragons and destinies.

Desperation guided his steps toward the Queen’s solar, where his mother resided. He pressed forth, demanding answers of her, yet it was peculiar; though he sought her wisdom and guidance, she seemed to have forgotten the very reason of why she had made you one of her ladies-in-waiting. Her brows knitted with confusion as he spoke your name, her big brown eyes clouded with a nostalgia she could not place.

Yet Aemond could see it in the gentle curve of her lips, in the way her gaze drifted past him, as if searching for a phantom. She missed you, that was clear. Her heart held a chamber of memories crafted from your offered comfort amidst the whispers of court intrigue, from the grace of your presence that had brightened the darker days.

The weight of five relentless years bore heavily upon Aemond Targaryen. Through trials of fire and blood, he had forged himself anew, emerging both mentally and physically formidable. He was now the most skilled swordsman within the keep’s sturdy walls, a warrior of such caliber that even the esteemed Ser Criston Cole would struggle to match his prowess. Secluded in the dim light of solitary training grounds, he immersed himself in the ancient tomes of philosophy and the illustrious history of House Targaryen, dedicated to honing his mind as keenly as his sword.

Yet in this relentless pursuit of strength and mastery, the warmth of his heart had withered, leaving behind only the chill of calculated ambition. His facade, meticulously crafted, rendered him cold and unyielding — a visage so fierce that even the bravest souls flinched at the thought of meeting his gaze directly.

Thus, it was with a jarring dissonance that Aemond entered his sister, Helaena's solar that day. It was a ritual he had come to cherish against the backdrop of his darkening spirit, visiting her and the twins for a fleeting moment of respite. However, as he stepped across the threshold, the air thickened and his breath caught in his throat.

Helaena sat with delicate artistry upon a chaise, embroidering threads of vibrant colors while keeping a watchful eye on her children. But it was not the familiar sight of his sister that seized him. No, there, in the heart of the chamber, stood his mother, Queen Alicent, holding the hands of a woman whose features were obscured from his view. However, even with your back turned, he recognized you and your unmistakable figure.

Alicent’s large, expressive eyes caught his, shimmering with an emotion he had not anticipated. “Aemond,” she uttered softly, the sound piercing through the tension-laden silence.

With the calling of his name, you turned, and the breath in his lungs faltered. The years stretched out like an endless tapestry between the two of you, but as he beheld you standing there after all this time, it felt as if no time had passed at all.

Five long years had passed, and in that span, Aemond had transformed. His once-boyish frame had hardened, each line of muscle now finely chiseled, his stature soaring to a height that eclipsed yours. He had shed the skin of youth and emerged a man forged by the fires of ambition and vengeance, yet he could feel a familiar tug at his heart as he stared at you.

But you… you had remained untouched by time’s relentless march. Your face, flawless and luminous, bore no marks of age; not a wrinkle nor blemish dared mar your smooth skin. Your form he remembered was preserved in perfection, your hair framing your figure in the same glorious waves that had enchanted him years ago.

You were the embodiment of memories he cherished, the same as ever.

For a fleeting heartbeat, Aemond dared to believe you were but a haunting mirage conjured by his yearning heart. If not for the watchful eyes of his mother and sister resting upon you, he would have thought himself lost to despair, ensnared by the fantasies of his own making.

An eternity seemed to stretch in the daunting silence that enveloped the two of you, the world around forgotten as each of you engaged in a quiet, yet profound examination. Your eyes sparkled like the night sky in the light of the day, and when you smiled—the same saccharine smile that had once filled his heart with joy during the innocence of his childhood—it left him breathless. “My prince,” you spoke softly, your voice dancing in the air, “how you’ve grown.”

In that moment, something within him shifted—a profound balm against the bitterness he had nurtured like a dark plant within his chest. All the resentment, the stinging remembrance of your abandonment, and the shadows of sadness that once clouded his thoughts dissipated at the mere sight of your smile. His throat was dry as a winter's night, thoughts scattered like ash on the wind, and yet, the corners of his mouth began to lift involuntarily, mirroring the warmth radiating from you.

Mikaelson.

A name that struck terror into the hearts of countless souls. Yet, here, in this strange realm of Westeros, where dragons soared and the icy dread of White Walkers loomed behind the walls, such fear was but a whisper lost to the winds. No, this land, though foreign and fierce, offered you sanctuary—not the kind woven from solace and warmth, but the kind fortified by distance and the absence of your cursed siblings.

Here, there were no vampires lurking in the cloaks of night, nor were there werewolves howling beneath the pale moonlight. Instead, there were dragons, fierce and resplendent, and direwolves, proud and wild. Most crucially, there was no Mikael—a freedom that tasted of hope amidst you heart's turmoil.

True, you thought often on whether you should have brought your siblings along, for Mikael would never find this place. Yet, a heavy foreboding gripped you; you understood all too well that the Mikaelsons (Niklaus) very presence would shatter the fragile peace you sought. Westeros was far from a land of plenty, riddled with poverty and further burdened by the cruel fate of women, yet in its chaos lay distance.

So, you fled, slipping away into the shrouded embrace of night, abandoning the only family you had known—or, more accurately, what was left of it. It was the sixteenth century, a time when hope flickered dimly in the eyes of men and women alike. You had not laid eyes upon Finn since Niklaus, in his relentless wrath, had condemned him to a tormented existence, and staked a dagger in his heart. Kol fared no better; his defiance had earned him Niklaus' ire, leaving him to face the very same fate that had befallen their eldest brother.

Months had slipped by as you braved the tempestuous seas, each wave an echo of your desperation, each gust of wind whispering promises of a new beginning. You had set sail toward the edge of the earth, guided by an insatiable yearning for freedom—until at last, you had discovered Westeros.

You had arrived in Westeros with an unyielding ambition, your ethereal beauty concealing a fierce determination that allowed you to easily compel your way into the court of Queen Alicent Hightower as one of her ladies-in-waiting. The smell of dragonfire and the whispers of civil war clung to the air, a distinct reminder of the foreign heritage of the Targaryens.

The first time you had seen one of the great beasts aloft, its shadow sweeping across the land, leaving you breathless and in awe. Dragons were an embodiment of the Targaryen power, but alongside that power lurked a shocking underbelly of normalized incestuous unions and the festering decay of traditional familial bonds. For a girl raised among the Mikaelsons, who had danced among the vices of immortality, this was both familiar and grotesque.

Your new world was laced with intrigue—rumors skittered through the halls like restless spirits. The whispers spoke of Princess Rhaenyra and the seed of doubt surrounding her claim to the Iron Throne, the barbs of scandal raised even higher by her many alleged bastards. These complexities intrigued you, compelling you to observe from the outside, where the machinations of power were far more amusing than any political play you had encountered in your old life.

Queen Alicent, though esteemed and regal, bore the weight of her flaws almost indiscernibly, like a cloak of gold marred by rust. From what you could tell, the Queen wielded herself like a pawn—her father being Otto Hightower, an unseen puppeteer, tugging at the strings of her choices. Maternal instinct flickered in Alicent like the candle flames that lit the chamber at night; she faltered and stumbled but made an earnest effort to nurture her children as best she could, though in your opinion she had failed miserably with Aegon. And yet, her fund of effort, a raw and poignant endeavor, resonated with you. The Queen was imperfect, yet within that human frailty lay a semblance of motherhood that Esther Mikaelson had failed to give you.

Thus, in your role as one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, you discovered a sanctuary of sorts. The court became a twisted labyrinth of alliances and betrayals, yet amidst the swirling intrigue, you found comfort in Alicent’s earnest attempts at kindness towards you.

In the two years you had spent in Westeros, you had found solace in the delicate friendship you created with Princess Helaena—a rare gem among the Targaryens, whose sweet and gentle spirit seemed devoid of the cunning that defined her kin. Helaena's quiet understanding struck a chord deep within you, reminiscent of a time before death had twisted your mind. Once, you too had lived in a world that felt like a dream, until Niklaus tore down the veil of your innocence with his ruthless reality check. He had carved fear into your heart, reminding you of the darkness that lurked within the world.

But as you observed Helaena, an overwhelming sorrow enveloped you. The Queen's decree to betroth the princess to Prince Aegon sank like a stone in her gut. Aegon—a broken soul, defined by indulgence and ambition—was a force of chaos that echoed the wickedness of their own familial bond. In many ways, he reminded you of Kol, with his infectious charm and volatile spirit, yet where Kol harbored a flicker of love beneath layers of darkness, Aegon radiated a depravity that sent shivers down your spine.

Your heart ached at the thought of Helaena being shackled to a boy so unworthy of her light. The specter of Aegon’s reckless nature loomed large, and you feared for the princess's fate. You could see it clearly: with every passing day of their union, Helaena’s spirit would wither under the weight of neglect and cruelty, her gentle soul extinguished in the fires of a loveless bond.

And then there was Prince Aemond, the second youngest son of Alicent's brood—a striking boy marked by a fierce determination to embrace his responsibilities as a prince. You often felt a pang of sympathy when you witnessed the relentless taunts from Aegon and the scornful jeers of his nephews, sorrow swelling in your chest at the knowledge that he was the only Targaryen without a dragon to call his own. And it was hard to ignore the tender glances he cast your way, his violet eyes lingering on you whenever you graced a room.

However, nothing could have prepared you for the sight of Aemond standing at your door during the elusive hour of the wolf, his ethereal silver hair, tousled and framing a face streaked with tears, the light of hope dimmed in his now singular violet eye. Fury ignited in your core when he confided the harrowing tale of how Aegon had dragged him to the Street of Silk, that dark sanctuary of vice—your heart shattered for the innocence that had been ripped from him, for the heavy shame that now clung to him, marked by his brother who should have looked out and protected him. By now, Aegon was six-and-ten, he should have gleaned wisdom from his years, yet he chose the path of cruelty instead.

In an effort to soothe the wounded prince, you opened your heart and your arms to him. You conceded to his requests, bathing him with tender care, allowing him the sanctuary of your presence as he lay beside you. Your intentions were pure, untainted by anything but the desire to comfort a boy you had come to deeply care for.

And yet, with a heavy heart, you turned your back on Westeros, your mind haunted by the echoes of family. In that fleeting moment of vulnerability, you found yourself yearning for the bonds that had once defined you. The Targaryens, ensnared in their web of resentment and betrayal, made it clear that true loyalty and love were rare treasures. Their familial discord stood in stark contrast to the fierce devotion of your own bloodline. For all the chaos wrought by the Mikaelsons, love remained their unyielding anchor.

Niklaus, with his volatile nature, was both feared and revered by you; yet, beneath that fierce exterior lay a soul tormented by the shadows of his past, perpetually haunted by the specter of abandonment. Finn and Kol, locked in eternal slumber by Niklaus’s cruel whim, lay undisputed in their coffins, yet your brother stood sentinel over them, unwavering and steadfast. The thought of returning to him was chilling; the mere sight of you would surely earn a dagger in your own heart.

You resolved to escape, to steal away before Queen Alicent could impose a husband upon you like a gilded cage. It was meant to be a brief respite, a momentary retreat from your burdens. You had once believed that seamlessly integrating into the intricate tapestry of Westerosi society would be a simple endeavor. Yet, the relentless weight of expectations proved stifling. Each encounter demanded a dance of delicate grace, a façade meticulously curated to meet the desires of those around you, and in turn, it drained your very spirit.

Thus, you sought solace in the sun-drenched lands of Essos, a realm that defied the rigid conventions you had grown weary of. Essos was a land of vibrant colors and broken norms, where the sun shone unabated and the very air seemed to sing of possibility. Gone were the burdens of being gracious and demure, replacing those restraints with the intoxicating freedom to explore the wild tapestry of cultures sprawled before you. In a realm filled with mercenaries and traders, where the scent of spice mingled with the salty sea air, you couldn’t help but feel invigorated.

Shame washed over you like a cold wave, a sharp pang of regret settling in your chest as you sat in Princess Helaena's solar, surrounded by the laughter of her twins, Jahaerys and Jahaera. The children, mere five summers old, served as a vivid reminder of your absence; Helaena had brought them into the world at the tender age of fourteen, while you had been lost in the allure of Essos. Your own selfish pursuits had drawn you away from Westeros, leaving your dear friend to navigate the tides of motherhood without your companionship.

But now, fate had drawn you back to Westeros, though the reason for your return eluded you—perhaps it was mere curiosity, or a desire to witness the Targaryens as they embarked on a path toward their own ruin. Perhaps it was simply the lingering comfort of a maternal embrace that Queen Alicent had once offered you. One thing remained certain: you were back, unchanged yet bound by the curse that clung to the Mikaelsons. You still appeared as you had, forever encased at the tender age of six and ten, the same age at which you had died nearly six centuries ago.

The twins were a study in contrast. Jaehaerys, the young prince, was somber and introspective, casting shy glances your way from beneath the curtain of his silver hair. In contrast, Jaehaera exuded a lively spirit, her laughter as bright as the morning sun. She was a sweet girl, eager for your attention, her small hands clutching her beloved dolls as she beckoned you to join her in playful realms of castles and grand adventures. Every so often, Jaehaerys would join in, indulging his sister’s imagination by taking on the role of a fierce dragon, albeit with a reluctance that made his quiet demeanor all the more endearing.

“I have missed you,” Helaena said softly from her place on the chaise, delicate fingers working through the intricate patterns of her embroidery, her gaze never leaving the fabric.

You met her gaze, a frown momentarily shadowing your features, your heart tightening at the sight of her. A small, bittersweet smile tugged at your lips as you replied, "As I have missed you, princess. I offer my sincerest apologies for my prolonged absence."

“But you have returned, and that is what matters,” she replied with a tranquil certainty, her expression unwavering.

With a nod, you maintained your tight-lipped smile, the corners of your mouth struggling to lift fully. “Indeed, I have, and I hope to stay here for as long as fate allows.”

As you resumed your playful moments with the twins — Helaena’s voice broke through the lighthearted chaos as she called your name. “Pray tell, how old were you when you came to court?”

Your lips pursed gently as you recounted, your tone tense but soft, “I was but six and ten years, my dear princess.”

An oblivious smile spread across Helaena's face, illuminating her features. “And yet you appear unchanged, as if untouched by time’s passage. Like a Lepidoptera,” she remarked, her imagination weaving images as vivid as the embroidered fabrics around her.

Your brows knitted in puzzlement. "A what, my princess?"

"A Lepidoptera," she patiently repeated, her eyes shimmering with youthful curiosity. "It is a classification that encompasses butterflies, which remain breathtakingly lovely until the end of their days."

A bittersweet pang echoed within you at her words, for you were destined for a far different fate, cursed to wander the shadows as a creature of the night. Yet, you offered a slight nod, managing a soft, "Thank you, my princess," as you absorbed the weight of her innocent compliment.

“And yet, I cannot claim to have missed you as intensely as Aemond has,” Helaena mused, her gaze distant as you idly threaded your fingers through Jaehaera's shimmering locks of silver.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite grasp what you mean,” you replied softly, masking your understanding with a facade of innocence.

“I believe you are quite aware,” Helaena said softly, a melodic note in her voice, her smile lingering with a teasing warmth, “Aemond has loved you since he was a mere boy.”

You cast her a sidelong glance before adopting an air of nonchalance. “Love is a weighty term for one so young, Princess. Surely, it was nothing more than a fleeting fancy.”

Helaena shook her head, her needlework a steady rhythm in her hands. “No, I do not believe so.”

Deep down, you didn't believe so either. Ever since your return to the depressive halls of King's Landing, a sensation had accompanied your every step—a watchful gaze lingering upon you. Aemond had worked to keep it hidden, but your heightened senses revealed the quiet intensity of his interest, as vivid as the summer sun.

There had been numerous revelations awaiting you upon your return to the Red Keep—the prideful births of young Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, the scandal of Rhaenyra and her uncle Daemon's elopement, and the grim decline of King Viserys's health, shadows stained upon the Iron Throne. Yet, the most haunting transformation was that of Prince Aemond.

Aegon had blossomed into the drunken sleaze you had always anticipated, a replica of the whims that dictated his every choice, but Aemond—oh, how he was the exact opposite of what you had envisioned. The youthful boy, once soft and unassuming, had unfurled into a striking figure, sharpened like the blade of a Targaryen sword, each line of his form etched with the harshness of time and expectation. His stature now towered over you, his presence immense, a tempest contained within the boundaries of a man’s body.

He seemed to carry within him a quiet fury, a storm beneath the surface, and it stirred something deep within you, a memory of that boy who had once been desperate for approval and had hope for a dragon. His boyish softness had been replaced by the resolute presence of a true dragon, a stark reminder of the power and peril that resided within his bloodline.

[band--psycho]

Harvey Specter x Reader- Stop Being So Stubborn

This story was requested by a lovely anon!!

Thank you so much for the request! (I'm also going to put this as a story for my A-Z Writing Challenge)

I hope you all enjoy this! 💛

Third Person POV

“Looks like Y/ns finally gone home,” Mike stated, sipping his coffee before looking over at the office across from Harvey’s.

Pretty much everyone at the office has been telling her to go home and rest; Harvey knew that even though he was one of the very few people who hadn’t said those words to her, partially because he didn’t want to get his head bitten off.

“I wouldn’t be so sure on that,” Harvey replied, not lifting his eyes from his paperwork once.

Y/n was as stubborn as he was, he knew her and he knew that just because she wasn’t in her office didn’t mean that she’d gone home. 

On late shifts such as these, the most common place to find Y/n was down in the library. 

So once Mike left, a few moments after their conversation, that’s where Harvey headed, but not before stopping off in the kitchen to make Y/n a much needed hot drink. 

“I thought I’d find you here,” he said as he entered the room.

A small sigh left Y/ns lips, “Congratulations on using your excellent detective skills,Mr Specter.”

The sarcasm in her voice was clear, as was the frustration at the interruption. 

“It wasn’t that hard, I could hear you sneezing from the hallway,” Harvey pointed out as he made his way closer to her:

“If you’re here to tell me to go home you’re wasting your breath,” she mumbled; her slightly bloodshot eyes fixed on the book infront of her.

Harvey was silent for a few moments as he sat down on the chair next to her and placed the drink he’d made her next to her, before saying, “You need to rest,”

He could tell she hadn’t been sleeping, not because of her snappy mood but because of the dark circles under her eyes. 

For a brief second her eyes left the page and glanced over at the hot drink now next to her. 

“I’ll rest when this case is over,” she mumbled, turning her attention back to the book she was reading. 

“If you don’t rest, you’ll make yourself worse and potentially lose the case,” Harvey was trying to be reasonable; make Y/n see that there was no way she could go into court and present the case, when she was like this, and win. 

He knew how hard she’d been working on this case and how much she wanted to impress everyone by winning it; the case meant a lot to her, he didn’t want her own stubbornness to be the reason she lost it. He didn’t want all her hard work to have been for nothing. 

“I’m fi-” 

Before Y/n even got the chance to finish that sentence she went into a coughing fit; which then made her eyes water. 

“You were saying?” Harvey said with raised eyebrows as he looked at Y/n and nudged the hot drink closer to her.

“Shut up,” Y/n mumbled, sipping on the hot drink he’d made her, hating that she’d inadvertently proved Harvey right, but also savouring the brief relief the hot drink provided her throat.

“Sweetheart-” Harvey began; his eyes soft as he looked at her, silently urging her to just stop being so damn stubborn.

“I need to finish this case,” the bluntness in her reply was an evident sign of her frustration; and the fact that Harvey only ever called her sweetheart when he was worried about her. 

“And you can,” he assured her as he placed his hand on top of hers lightly, it made a small wave of relief wash over Y/n, knowing that she didn’t have to fight him about this anymore; because she didn’t have the energy to do so. 

That was until a singular word made all of that relief vanish, “Tomorrow”

“Harvey-”

“If you don’t, I’ll tell Jessica to give the case to someone else,” Harvey interrupted, trying to ignore the guilt that gnawed at his heart when he saw the anger building in her y/e/c eyes.

It was a low blow; he knew that, but he was running out of options .

“You wouldn’t,”

“Do you really want to test that theory?”

“Blackmailing is illegal, you know,”

Of course he knew. 

But he also just didn’t really care about that. 

He cared about her. 

And making sure that she got the rest she so clearly needed.

“I’m aware, but if it means you can get some rest then I’m willing to do it,”

Y/n stared at him; as if trying to work out if he was serious about the threat he just made. 

“Fine,” she sighed in defeat as she closed the book she was reading. 

“Good,” Harvey concurred, “now drink your drink so we can get out of here,”

The shock was evident in Y/ns eyes at his words. 

“I can get home by myself,” she stated bluntly, putting her bay over her shoulder.

“It’s 10pm, in the middle of winter and you have a cold, like hell are you walking home, I’ll drop you there,” Harvey wasn’t asking; he was telling her that this was happening. 

He didn’t want her walking home, alone, not this late. 

“I need to go to the store-” 

“What’s this?” She asked cutting off her own sentence as Harvey handed her a small bag. 

“I asked Donna if she could get some medicine from the store,” Harvey explained. 

It wasn’t much, just some cold and flu relief, throat sweets, painkillers for the headaches he knew she got. 

He watched as the anger that had been burning in her eyes began to dwindle, “If I didn’t have a cold right now I would kiss you.”

The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them; but she didn’t regret them, not really. 

Her and Harvey had always been close and especially recently, their connection only seemed to grow. 

Harvey tried to stop a beaming smile from touching his lips but he couldn’t.

“How about we take a rain check for when you’re better, I’ll even take you out for dinner,if you want?” Harvet asked, and although he looked calm, his heart was racing so fast he was almost sure Y/n could hear it.

“Mr Specter, are you asking me out on a date?”

“Miss Y/l/n I believe you were the one who said you wanted to kiss me,” Harvey countered, “and yes, yes I am,”

He didn’t give her time to answer; they could discuss all of this tomorrow right now, it was getting later and Harvey was aware of that. 

“Now let’s get you home.”

Tagging:

@little-diable @rebelwrites @xacatalepsyx @wild-rose-35 @withmyteeth @yn-ymn-yln @munsinner @maximoff-xmen @vintagecarsandrecordplayers @book-dragon03 @bookworm1767 @fangirlfandomss @wretchedmo @mayans-mc @dana-is-snax @happilysparklyunknown @samanthaofanarchy @mrsamerica @navs-bhat @tinystudentmiracle @that-one-enthusiast @malfoys-demigod

[cum-villain]

I'd just like to analyze this page quick

At this point in the manga, first-time readers will be familiar with William having a kind facade, while in fact being the lord of crime. As such, it's natural to assume this is a dualism of the facade (the real William that exists watsonianly) and the true self (the William we see in the reflection, that only us readers see). However, with the context of the rest of the manga, I believe there is a different interpretation: William, and the villain he thinks he is haunting him.

See, William is a kind soul, and killing others lead to him struggling under such guilt that he could not possibly see himself as worthy of any happy ending. He smokes despite hating it polluting his lungs, he sees red blood on his hands that can never be washed away. And here, too, he's haunted by a specter.

Our William, saddened as he looks as his reflection. And the specter, with a menacing grin. It's entirely unlike him, but it reflects not his true self, but the monster that he hates, that he thinks he has become. But, of course, this reflection is only seen by us readers, and by William; no one else who knows him would ever think of him as such a person.

[utilitycaster]

in looking for posts about the end of C2 I found a self-inflicted ask meme (called that) in which I asked people to send wish items for C3 and first off, once we do have a hard episode count for C3 I might run something similar because it was fun, but also, looking through, some notes:

Laura playing a sorcerer was rather popular, as was Marisha as a high-Charisma character

Issylra setting REALLY popular...we got a smidge I suppose but this was not really a Continent In Depth campaign

people did want to see Travis as a lycan blood hunter, AND in some cases older characters

Lots of interest in an aeormaton too!

I really wanted to see Sam as a cleric, which is funny because I spent the first 30 episodes pissed off at FCG's execution but I DID come around, so. hat consumed.

why do people care so much about the seating arrangement. bestie i could not give a shit.

I think this campaign also made me go from "previously knowing each other can be good but I'm not interested in more twins, we've moved past that" to "let's keep the prior relationships either brief or like. require you submit a 10 page essay of backstory so we don't get some empty bullshit"

people REALLY liked wild magic barbarian so the fact that Taliesin and Matt were explicitly like "it sucks ass" is funny to me, a person who's neutral on it.

a lot of people wanted Travis as Tabaxi and I hate this and they got mad but I'm right and sexy and ready to have a long mean conversation with you about the anti-ableism leaving people's bodies when it comes to severe allergies.

3+ years and I still hate changelings and kalashtar I'm sexy and right on this one too

someone wanted a horse girl but a cavalier fighter; Imogen's horse girliness sort of didn't really have much time to be a thing (this is not a judgement, this is just, they weren't riding horses much bc of the nature of the campaign) and I would like a cavalier

*ironic laugh* multiple people wanting Laura specifically to play evil aligned.

people really wanted circle of spores for liam. there were a lot of repeats frankly that made no sense to me and i never got the answer. was there a server or something.

Travis INT or WIS caster when

Bard Ashley when

Sam's character should be taller than Travis's ACHIEVED FOR ALL BUT FCG & BERTRAND. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.

everyone was like WELL OBVIOUSLY the cast will play elves for the sleep reasons and then no one did.

the specter of a Shadowgast child had already risen unfortunately. before the relationship was fully confirmed no less.

spelljammer fans are not intellectual to put it mildly

please GOD not everything has to be self-referential in-jokes. use your mind.

[hyvyinjie]

𓂃ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ☂︎ 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒙𝒊𝒂༄˖°

ᴄᴀᴍᴀʀᴀᴅᴇʀɪᴇ | ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴀʀᴀᴅɪꜱᴇ

ᴍ! ᴍᴜʟᴛɪ-ꜰᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ! x ɢɴ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆｡ ✧° ☁︎ come be lonely with me ✧˖°.

𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓈𝒶𝓎 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝒾𝓈 𝒶𝓃 𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹, a shadow that lingers long after the sun has set.

how curious that something so jagged and raw can be the only companion that remains.

'are you okay? '

a query like a wisp of smoke from a forgotten altar; bewitchingly deciptive, answered by a mirrored gilded lie—a guise that conceals the soul’s deepest lament, like a siren's song cloaking hidden depths.

are you okay?

of course you are.

even as the cold rain—an icy deluge that seeps into your very marrow pours. the unyielding cascade chilling you to the bone.

of course you're okay.

in a reality alive with fleeting visages and laughter like the songs of ancient bards, why does the heart still bear the burden of solitude?

people flit like restless shades, phantoms that never truly pierce the essence of your soul, leaving behind the bittersweet ache of a connection unformed.

it feels like a movie, doesn’t it?

a grand performance where you are but a spectator, watching your own life unfold on a stage where you aren’t the protagonist in your own tale.

'it'll get better!' they chirp, voices bright as the sun, yet their words seem hollow, echoing in the cavern of your heart.

but did they ever consider if it was advice you truly crave?

of course.

...not.

what you seek is a stillness, a presence that holds space for your unspoken truths.

someone who listens, even in silence.

someone like a scroll of old; their pages turned with unguarded ease, revealing tales laid bare for you to read.

'i love you.'

'i care about you.'

such phrases, tossed around like autumn leaves slowly losing their weight in the wind.

just because they slip from the tongue, do they resonate with the mind? the heart? the soul?

perhaps they do—but will one act on them when the tempest of need rages the fiercest?

the brutal truth is, the chance that words blossom into action is as rare as finding a rose in a desert.

yet, when one hurls, 'I hate you.' you feel the sting of authenticity in those words, a far more potent rawness louder than any hollow praise of love.

drip.

drip.

drip.

Is it really the rain that falls, or are those the tears you didn't know you were shedding?—

wait—you’re..crying?

the hand that reaches to brush your cheek feels like a mirage, a distant echo of touch, as if you are caressing a specter, even while knowing it is real.

'why the tears?'

ask that question, and though you don’t have the words, the tears continue to flow, a silent rebellion against a world that insists you should stay strong.

even more perplexing is the emptiness that accompanies your sorrow.

why does even crying feel so void of meaning?

"guess we're both hiding in the rain."

the effort to engage, especially with a stranger—feels monumental, leaving you unmoved, eyes cast downward, heavy with the weight of unspoken words.

everything feels exhausting.

yet, it’s clear he stands with you. and regardless of the umbrella in his hand, he never once offered shelter to himself or to you.

amidst the howling winds of a titanic uproar; a mere shadow of the inner maelstrom that echoed the battles of gods—you both stood, steadfast warriors against the squall’s wrath.

his gaze is drawn upwards, rapt in the skies as if searching for answers among the clouds—while yours remains tethered to the ground, too heavy to lift.

thunder rumbles, a low growl in the distance.

but it feels..strangely comforting now.

the stranger offers no more than his initial greeting—was it even a greeting?—and the silence stretches between you like a vast ocean.

you are two strays, wandering adrift in a deluge.

lonely together.

♡ ˚ · . 良い一日をお過ごしください、愛 !

[wmarximoff]

𝐩𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐞𝐚 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: because only you can make Wanda feel at home.

warnings (18+): smut, strap-on sex (r receiving), name-calling, spanking, daddy kink, slight breeding kink, choking, weed consumption, mental health issues. MINORS DNI.

pairing: stoner!emo!Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 5k

masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

In the light of Wanda Maximoff's gaze the stars did not twinkle in flashes of silver that night – but neither they did during the night before that, or even the other night before that, one colder on the skin than the other, the light slowly fading into the dull, aged silver of the big city sky. There was no sparkle in those eyes that stared at the dark sky above her head.

The noise from the street below, the cars and passers-by and that sound of life, didn't reach up there on the seventh floor – everything blended into an amalgamation just down there, a distant and reserved experience. The sky vault was vast and absconding like a black hole that swallows everything that orbits it, and the apartment was closer to the sky than to the earth. The stars were there as they always were, but each twilight was duller than the previous one.

Not that Wanda wasn't used to a kind of internal calluses, but even the unlit night sky reflected the mood of those dead eyes in a somber emerald green, which didn't see the brightness of the world around her – eyes that didn't see anything else, as in a kind of trance, a willful blindness of blurred faces.

Even if the night had been serene and peaceful, a veil of moonlight draped over the metal of the rings spread across the lengths of her fingers, there would still be no glow that could pierce the shrouded bubble around Wanda's hunched silhouette, who smoked a long, white cigarette with a yellow filter, placidly seated in a chair with withered legs made of dark and solid plastic – the apartment's balcony was as modest as a boat that can only hold two or three people, and a group of four people would not fit there even squeezed against each other, with their elbows and shoulders touching as if inside a crowded elevator.

The Bronx apartment was small, the best a couple of college students with a part-time job could afford on the lowest paycheck. For a pair of twins like that, it was almost like sharing the visceral walls of the same uterus again.

Sokovian literature accompanied her open just above her pale thighs joined together, who was only wearing light denim shorts on that tragic New York summer night, warm and dry. This one, however, was a small book in a soft cream cover, scarcely more than a hundred bound pages—a crowded metric of Cyrillic letters in uniform stanzas; poems in a language reminiscent of her native tongue, her mother's favorites. Wanda hated poems and she hated her mother as well.

But sometimes, as if in a sardonic torture, it was necessary to conjure up that ghost of the past, foreboding and restless, struggling at its core, because the shroud of monotony was too much in the bosom of the newfound adult life in the big city, so far from home as Wanda was. She had gone to study, away from war and famine and her mother – but poverty has to be a constant specter in a young immigrant's life, like a hidden tumor, sucking little by little.

Sometimes homesickness visited her at night, when the world was too much to bear outside her comfort zone. And then came the urge, the chest pulsing hard, crackling under her skin, seeking refuge in the idea of that creature who primarily should offer her some kind of comfort, however Wanda did not actually taste that source of support as primigenous as Pietro Maximoff, her twin brother, had done, drinking it straight from the fountain.

Pietro was sweet, a good boy and a fine son, but their mother hated her as much as only a mother can love a daughter. And Wanda loved her as much as a daughter can hate a mother.

And so she read, traced with the tip of her peeling black-painted fingernail each line of that little set of Sokovian poems, looking for comfort where she thought she could find it in those withered lines. But it didn't do any good, not when Wanda hated poems, thought they were boring and pointless. And even the cigarettes didn't help her enjoy them with an active air of a condemned intellectual, despite the fact that she loved the sweet, harsh death that smoked down her throat, quieting her since the beginning of the immature nerves of adolescence.

But it wasn't the infuriating poems or the countless cigarette butts pressed against the hollow bottom of a metal ashtray one after the other like a handful of unlit candles stuffed into the top of a birthday cake, or the memory of a monotone childhood in the Sokovian province that would fill the void in her chest, and that Wanda had always known.

Poems were boring, cigarettes were rotting her insides, and from the bosom of youth she'd yearned to pack up her things and leave Sokovia behind for good, without a kiss or a goodbye. But the dream died still in the womb – there was, far from home, a certain depressing monotony, so different from the monotony of living a life in a place where you don't want to be, imbued in the action that was occasionally crossed by long sleepless nights, in the company of stress and intrusive thoughts.

She didn't feel at home in New York, but Sokovia had never been her home either. But finding a certain degree of depressed boredom within her dream seemed worse to Wanda than the monotony of living in a house where everything looked the same. There was something wistful for her to discover that everything she'd ever wanted could be just as depressing.

There was just something wrong, something wrong with her spirits, like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that didn't quite fit together. Maybe the world didn't spin for her the way it did for others. Maybe she just expected too much from a world that always offered so little.

“Are you smoking on the balcony again, Wanda?”

The voice came rumbling from within the walls of the small apartment, from the back of her head – a high, masculine tone and charged with that hard-talking rhythm of south-eastern European accent still limiting the pronunciation of the English words, sanding them harshly, as in a solid chant.

“I am,” was her reply, the dull tone of a corpse still harboring a soul that struggles to shed its shell, her accent sounding just as strong as his, “I kind of needed this right now.”

“Dude, you know you need to stop doing it.”

Towards Wanda then, from the profuse darkness of a living room with lights out and gushing dimness that swallowed the hand-me-down furniture placed there, the figure of a young boy halfway to finish performing the thrusting motion his elbow into the right hole of a dark blue denim jacket, new and clean, freshly pressed and still smelling of lavender fabric softener.

Wanda looked at him with emerald irises tired by poetry, from under her long lepidopterous lashes laden with smoke – Pietro, tall and strong, had tresses of his poorly bleached hair cut short, a mane of unruly hair soft to the touch, and a beard with wisps of unmade dark threads carpeting his square jaw and around his thin lips. There was something herculean about the boy; he had always been something of an athletic, if even dour, type, a hit with the young ladies their age, the twins. The Fast Jock and the Weird Girl.

“You smoke all the time too, don't be a hypocrite now, Piet. Isn’t fair.”

“It's not because of that,” snapped her twin brother in bad manner, creasing a patch of fur between his bushy brows, then adjusting the cut of the jacket to his broad shoulders as he grabbed her by the lapels in his big hands, pulling the garment forward.

Although not so close to her brother, separated by the distance of an outstretched arm, Wanda was quite capable of distinguishing the aroma of woody cologne and fresh and striking deodorant, like a walk through the men's cosmetics section in a corner pharmacy.

“The neighbors will complain about the smell again and you know we don't have the money to pay another fine. Miss Harkness will be the first to complain, you know she always does. I'm not going to pay anything now, I don't have a penny left in my pocket. You'll have to manage to pay that fine if she complains again. And you’re the one doing the talking this time, not me.”

“Miss Harkness hates me,” Jadish eyes rolled in their sockets, a twirl of scorn, “She will complain about me every chance she gets.”

“Just put this shit off, c’mon.”

“No.”

“Wanda.”

But Wanda yielded to the stern blue gaze of her older twin brother, and with a single flick of her right wrist, she pressed the burning end of her cigarette against the bottom of a red tin ashtray placed just above the small table next to her, imagining that that piece of metal blurred by ember ash and toasted smoke was the pointed face of the middle-aged landlady, owner of profuse brown locks and a big pearly smile, who was always carrying in her arm a white rabbit, old and fat, almost similar to a puffy domestic cat.

“Okay, are you happy now?”

“My pocket certainly is, yeah,” the boy with the unnaturally pale hair muttered under his breath, before turning on heels shoved in white sneakers and turning his back on his sister, sitting in the high chair on the balcony.

“And why is this house so dark, eh? Turn on some lights every now and then, Wanda. We’re not animals living in a cave. This looks like one of those vampire movies... you're in your vampire phase again, is that it?”

The single lamp on the ceiling of the room had been turned on by Pietro's indicator pushing the plastic switch up, a beam of pearly white light coming from inside the house, passing through the tall sliding glass doors and bothering Wanda's irises, acclimated to the darkness of a dull night, in a corrosive ardor that incited her to squint her eyelids and crease her brow like a nocturnal animal exposed to the artificial light of a car lantern on the road, hiding her face behind a curtain of thick long, dark hair in a back-necked motion.

Then Wanda, her pale face exposed to the plastic light of the ceiling lamp, suddenly became aware of her brother's state – the newly acquired jacket still smelling of the clothing store, the sneakers clean with soapy water, the collar of the shirt all perfumed and his hair well combed, the ends of his beard well trimmed, he all spotless and smelling good. And a crease of curiosity crept between her dark brows, because Pietro's usual state consisted of basketball shorts and an alternation or two between a pair of baggy shirts that he didn't wash all that often.

“Why are you so dressed up like that? That jacket is new,” she got to her feet then, the soles of her bare dusty feet hitting the cold balcony floor before stepping onto the warm floorboards inside the house, “Are you going to some job interview or something?”

“Job interview on a Saturday night, сестричко? Pff, yeah, I'm going out with a girl. You know, like actual normal people do on their free weekends.”

Pietro looked at her with a mischievous little smile broken at the corner of his thin lips, calling her “little sister” in his native language as he always did when he was purposely teasing her, treating her like a little girl, a silly girl and so ignorant of the lives of adults they should have at the end of that time in life, in a youth encapsulated in the advent of adulthood, which in all its layer of social shyness could never have considered the fact that the brother was going on a date.

And Wanda's brows furrowed for a bit, a thin squeegee of embarrassing embarrassment tugging at the pit of her stomach, her ego vaguely insulted by that childishness insinuated by Pietro – because indeed it was Saturday night, a hot and sultry night of summer in the Big Apple, and the young twin had organized no program for herself but reading pages of Sokovian poetry until her brain became an overworked illiterate while she smoked the ashes of her meager existence, interspersing the two actions between sips here and there of red tea that would eventually cool down and spill all over into her cup. College life hadn't been as kind to Wanda as it had been to Pietro, after all.

“But,” she muttered in a tight voice, brows still pinched together, “But I thought today we were going to—”

“Man, to tell you the truth I'm already well short of time,” the guy then pressed the pad of his right thumb against the side of the cell phone he fished out of the back pocket of his dark jeans, unlocking the device's screen in a flash of white glow next to his apollonian nose, which kind of hinted at the structure of her own.

“Damn it, it's almost half past eight – Monica will kill me if I'm late again. Just... you don't have to wait up for me, right Wanda? If anything, just give me a call,” and Wanda followed him with her eyes, her mouth still half open in a dead sentence, when Pietro's right fingers closed around the tin handle of the front door.

“Побачимось.”

And so Pietro was gone, the door closing with a metallic click behind him without the real expectation of a not really necessary answer from his sister, the parting word already echoing from the corridor outside. He never expected a comeback, it's true. And once again Wanda found herself alone, prostrate like a dead plant in a red clay pot in the heart of that apartment with its withered bare walls and warm floor, sulky and damp during the sticky seasons of heat and cold and bitter in the seasonal blows of winter.

Before the height of her stomach, her right fingers fit into the crooks of her left fingers, her fingertips fidgeting with the handful of silver rings dotted there, twirling them, pressing and pulling them around the spans of her fingers. The dark nail polish on her thumbnail was scratched, but she didn't care about it that much.

Pietro didn't come back for something he hadn't forgotten, but Wanda continued to stand at the door like the most faithful of dogs, as if he were going to open the door and say he'd changed his mind, opting for an evening washed down with salty buckets of popcorn and classic American sitcom along with his little sister's company. But there wasn't that. Nothing happened minutes later. From the kitchen faucet, dripping water trickled into the aluminum sink at a broken, faintly vertiginous rhythm. A fly tinkled its little fluttering wings around the lamp above her head of dark hair.

And then isolation took hold in Wanda who caged the oxygen inside her lungs, as if that house and its walls were nothing more than a bulwark that segregated her from the outside world to that door through which her brother had left her, as if the small apartment in the Bronx was her own cocoon of the social, an abode that harbored a being unworthy of sunlight, a being similar to her.

Wanda found herself trapped in a dilemma as much as she was trapped inside her own home, her body and her mind. She was tired of being hemmed in by the ceiling and floor of the apartment, and she could no longer bear the thought that with Pietro far away, as far away as he was now, being the social animal he always was, Wanda would have to be haunted by the company itself.

Without him there was just her, alone and aimless, like a shipwrecked man floating on an old, swollen piece of wood in a vast ocean where sky and sea met on the horizon, no sign of life nearby, the water so deep and dismal that you couldn't see the sand at the bottom. Just her, floating alone in the dark.

And, together from the pillars of their maternal womb, that primary cradle shared between the two twin children, Wanda did not feel that in fact she had been born to be just her, to live a life as reclusive as the experiences of today's hermit that were available before her, and despite her assertion to her brother that solitude was good for her reclusive spirit, the caliber of her involuntary anthropophobia gave an anxious squeeze to the core of young Wanda Maximoff's chest.

Solitude pleased her, but she only evoked a profuse disgust at the idea of loneliness, of isolation. Wanda feared being alone with her own thoughts.

“Fuck it.” Her peach lips curled into a long thin, taut line.

With the fingers of her right hand, Wanda searched for something in the pocket of her thin burgundy knit jacket, her black nails cut short, then slipping lightly over the half-dented pack of cigarettes also placed inside to, finally, hook against the material of her phone with which cigarettes shared space inside the cut in her pocket. She picked up the device with a certainty born of the anxious restlessness that gushed in the walls of her pharynx.

Wanda then reached for it with a movement of her elbow, bringing her phone close to the round tip of her button nose, unlocking the device's screen with the help of her right thumb. And, without hesitating to dive into that cluster of digital apps, she did what she had to do – what everything in that pitifully withdrawn situation in which she found herself in her own social exile compelled her to do, the digits of her fingers pressing the glass screen, typing on the digital keyboard.

hey can you come over?

piet is out

And then, after a second or two, a new message typed by her quick fingers flashed.

i don't wanna be alone tonight

The emerald eyes, profuse and dull in their clear irises, screwed up in anticipation of the answer like a faithful waiting for a sign from their god, staring at that little speech bubble as long as she could.

The folds of Wanda's fingers pressed against the edges of the poor phone, the loops of her rings scraping against the dark plastic. Just waiting, anticipating, fingers curled, anxiety bubbling in scarlet bubbles inside her stomach. And then, a prompt response popped up in the chat shared with that other number.

Of course I can go.

I'll be there soon, Wands .

She took a long, deep gulp of oxygen that rushed in and inflated her lungs in a refreshing release, excarcerating it right away. The muscles in both her shoulders softened into the red hooded jacket she wore – there would be no more loneliness to swallow or tears to shed. Soon you would be there for her. And it only took an interval of fifteen minutes for Wanda to open inwards the door that Pietro had closed behind him twenty-five minutes before, with a hard movement of her right elbow taut against her ribs.

That was how her gaze moved in midair so that, in such a way, it clung to your expectant eyes, which intuitively sought her greenish irises as soon as the door was opened to the inside of the apartment – and there you were, you, standing in front of her door, standing in the long, deserted hallway, staring in mutual care at Wanda's grim-faced face; the chiseled arch of her brows, the delicate lines of her button nose, the well-defined arch of her mouth and high cheekbones.

Opening the door at that moment was like opening the way for all loneliness to go away, because then you were there, there for her.

“Hey,” your lips curled into a chaste smile, “Hey, Wands.”

“Thank you.”

And then, desperate, tormented by a ghostly worry, Wanda, speechless from any verbal response to her affable greeting, walked towards you with a long-winded expression on her pretty, lightly made-up, cigarette-scented face, wanting nothing more than her girl in her own arms.

And she cupped both sides of your face between the warm palms of her hands, bringing her lips to you which she padded with her own mouth in a necessary clash, feeling you uplifted against her body, overwhelmed with her own miseries, just trying to feel nothing but you.

Your lips collided then, her hands holding you close, her rings feeling like little cool spots on the skin of your cheeks, such a disparate awareness of Wanda's warm, caring touch. There would be no better touch in the world for you than the one that displayed all the affection you knew Wanda had for you – a symbolic pair of hands on your cheeks, not only to feel you, but also to hold you and worship her. To prove she knew you were there for her like no one else would be.

“Thank you.”

Wanda muttered in a breath of hot air brushing against the pulps of your lips, still feeling the ghost of your warm lips against hers, a delicious tingle running across her tongue, tasting of ecstasy – lids closed, your foreheads touching almost shyly.

“Thank you, Y/n.”

“I'm here now, Wanda. I am here for you.”

Her warm fingers caressed the skin of your cheeks, instilling a placid serenity in her body. Short nails, coated in black nail polish, traced invisible lines across your cheekbones. Wanda reeked of melancholy and fear like the back of Marlboro cigarettes. And she kissed you once more, and then again and again, interspersing the kisses between little whispers of thanks, declarations for the void to hear. She continued until the automatic lights in the hallway went out.

ᗢ

Puddles of fabric were the pieces of clothing abandoned on the bare wooden floor like helpless stray animals. When Wanda looked up, the movement was conducive to her becoming aware of the erratic pattern where one fold of wallpaper stuck to another on the wall in front of her. It was a rather threadbare wallpaper, derived in the most accurate sense of the word from a faded red wine red that had been there before she moved into that apartment. Her orientation perspective was choked and restrained at that point – her fingertips seemed to enjoy the feel of warm flesh pressed against them, soft and firm at the same time.

Even though her vision was clouded, splattered on her lepidopterous eyelashes by drowsy droplets of a soft intoxication, she saw herself, as if able to smile to herself, lightheaded, her eyes dark green like moss – she was high because you had smoked a joint together some time ago, on the balcony (your elbows brushing and she looking at your glow under the starry sky, because no star would shine brighter than the twinkle inside your irises when Wanda looked at you, hiding the world around you two behind a foggy layer of smoke).

A thick bead of sweat formed above her temple, in her dark hairline, pouring down the length of her pale face until it dripped from her chin, just past the sharp bulge of her left cheekbone. A drop that landed on the arched back below her.

“F–fuck, daddy! Daddy!”

A high-pitched sound vibrated through the room's four red walls—the crack of a slap delivered against your skin, a smack that Wanda made sure to mark on your bottom in euphoric readiness, her fingers in pink welts on your skin, because something in her always delighted to press the bruises with which she bestowed you, ever making your flesh her possession. She loved to mark you, to make your body her perfect picture, the masterpiece of those hands that yearned for her warm skin.

“You're a fucking bitch,” she snorted in a hint of a harsh accent, “My bitch. My favorite bitch.”

“Daddy's favorite,” you repeated in a voice choked with weed and pleasure, and an electric shiver runs down Wanda's spine.

The shudder cost her a break in her rhythm and roughness and rhythm, that long scarlet silicone strap sliding to reach inside the wet folds of your pussy, but you didn't realize it, not how she did it – after all, your face plunged into the pillowcase that emanated the sweet aroma of Wanda's shampoo, the folds of your fingers hooking on the sheets that reeked of her woody perfume, as if submerging in a red mist that she referred to so much, you wouldn't have noticed that her hips wobbled once.

It was like being swallowed by her everywhere, and so you screamed, howled like a bitch in heat – and Wanda appreciated how loud you could be. Claiming her name, how good she, only she, was able to make you feel, and that you were close. Definitely close. In muffled pleas begging daddy to go faster and stronger, deeper and harder towards your womb – and behind the strap she felt her own clit every time the tip of the toy thrust into your cervix.

An indecency was arranged in your closed eyelashes when Wanda looked at you from behind, both of you being without any clothing to cover the length of your bodies as you were, as naked as the day you were born as she fucked you from behind. And at that moment, a welcoming warmth radiated from your broad-shouldered body, and for Wanda, it was like seeing herself integrated into a puddle of torrid sunlight, fulfilling her need to have you close; her arms wrapped around you from behind, her bare breasts pressed against the pale skin of your back, her feeling you there, belonging to her, moving with her.

“Daddy– please! Please wanna cum– I wanna–”

Entranced in a flash of wild desire, feeling Wanda's deft hand move across the skin of your abdomen, being smoothed by the eager digits of her left hand's clever fingers wandering southward down your body, into your tasteless hips, your mouth throbbed lewdly.

“Daddy!”

Her face was hidden in the contour of your neck, in the shoulder joint sprinkled with sloppy bruises, so that Wanda would be able to nibble, from there, a fresh patch of warm skin, easing the burning and tingling that came from the act with the tip of her tongue; her greedy nose tangled in a few profuse locks of your sweaty hair.

Your throat flexed, spilling out a breathy needy moan that pulsed against the line of your teeth. In sync your bodies moved on top of the mattress of her bed, back and forth.

“I wanna come on you,” she gasped, “I wanna mark you as mine. I'll paint your fucking womb white with my load, baby. I’ll break you until no one can use you but me. You're my fuck hole – mine, mine, and nobody else's.”

“Y– yours! I’m yours, daddy, yours!” But there was a hitch in your speech, words squeezing into your throat when Wanda's five right fingers closed against the outline of your neck, screwing into your skin like a thick rope. Saliva seeped from the corner of your lips, down into your chin.

 The roar that bloomed through a crack in her lips had been a husky murmur. As her right hand was busy squeezing your neck, her left was busy plucking the pulsing nerve between your legs—so needy, an urgency growing in your bones and flesh, yearning for the ardor of her figure. Wanda, who unfolded to you with such care and mastery, her inhuman touch burning over your skin.

Her fingertips brushed your fine wet, rough pubic hair, and Wanda took a deep breath, her chest rising heavily and falling lightly, snorting a breath of warm air against the hollow of your ear—the scorching skin of her torso girding itself against your spine, who saw yourself as being able to feel the two swollen nipples pressed against your stinging shoulder blades, her thick her cock still straining your insides in a continuous, harsh back-and-forth.

“Fuck,” her tongue flicked against the roof of her mouth, followed by a curse in her native language, “You are mine, Y/n, you’ll always be mine. Mine. No one else is going to have you but me, fuck, I– I'll make sure of it, I, I'll come on you. I'm going to stuff you so everyone knows you're my bitch walking around with my cum leaking out of you.”

Your ecstasy compelled you to choke on a groan coiled in your throat, and at Wanda's speech you rolled your hips back, fucking yourself in her cock, begging for more, as debilitating when against something as simple as a touch, a simple touch of ethereal fingers, despite the strap that widened you from the inside. Wanda was the only one capable of tearing your brittle body to pieces if she wanted to, and even the vaguest idea made her blood boil in her veins.

“W-Wanna cum,” was a moan from you, your brows meeting furrowed across your peach flushed face; you sounded a little dizzy in your rambling speech, pressing your fingers against the sheet.

“Wanna cum around daddy's cock, wanna–”

“Fuck, I'm gonna come inside your greedy little cunt, gonna– fuck, Y/n!”

Before her you came in a rush of nasal groaning – harsh and confused. Screaming for Wanda, pressing your ass against her hips, shaking. But she buried herself back in you one or two more times before she did it on her own – your walls quivering and tight, familiar and pleasant enough before Wanda plunged her orgasm inside you. And in such a way that she did it, as if just being inside you was what was needed to untie the knot at her primordial apex, then a hand below her navel.

“I'm fucking coming inside you!”

She couldn't actually do it, not the way she really wanted to, but it was enough to feel that familiar tightening in the pit of her stomach when she was there, in that position, that characteristic sting of orgasm digging in her belly. Wanda withdrew from you, your glittering liquid glistening around the strap that the dark harness fastened to her waist, and, with her head seeming to weigh more than the rest of her body, Wanda toppled forward, landing on the slats bed next to you panting, in which the chest rose and fell with an impressive weight.

“Fuck… fuck.”

Her lids squint over the heavy gaze, the world dimming for a second, awareness slipping away. Eyes closed, the room immersed in a puddle of accentuated silence. Then a minute passed. And two and three. There was a click of the spark wheel of a lighter rolling against the stone, gas coming out and paper burning. Wanda's nostrils were filled with a hissing odor of burning grass, smoke reaching her. Her eyelids fluttered open.

With your spine leaning against the wallpaper behind the bed, you, sitting there, were lost in the red – the remnants of the summit ascended in a moment of pleasure smeared the inner sides of your thighs, like a ghost of what was once the climax of the carnal act in which they were so vividly engaged. Swallowing a lit joint between your fingers, Wanda never found you as beautiful as she did at that moment, high and fucked, light for the orgasm and the weed.

“You… are really mine, aren't you?” she asked in a grim voice thread, that accent rolling between the words she alluded to.

You looked at her, “Of course I'm yours. Just as you are mine, silly.”

She just looked at you, silent as she could be.

“Give me a hit,” one hand reached out, reaching for what you held. To disconnect from the world and just feel you.

But, holding the rolled cigarette between the extension of your fingers, Wanda realized that an idea took place behind your empty eyes. You then pressed the commission of your lips around the joint, inhaling that dense smoke to the core of your lungs before, then, reclining your face in front of Wanda, who was still lying down.

The ends of your hair grazed her left nipple as your wet lips met, and you let the smoke trapped in your lungs slip into her open mouth before finally kissing her, her tongue slipping between your teeth, her left fingers tangling in the hair above the nape of your neck, holding you close. When you broke apart, Wanda blinked in ecstasy – your noses were almost touching again.

“You're not going to leave me, are you?” was a sigh against your lips, “You won't abandon me, Y/n.”

“I won't,” you smiled, “Because I love you, Wands. I love you. You know I'll always come when you call.”

And then Wanda looked at you. She looked at you as if it were the first time she had seen you in her life – as if she were discovering you again, understanding you once more, realizing that with you there was no loneliness. In the same way she did every time you surprised her. Wanda understood that as long as she had you, you to indulge her, you to love her, there would be no homesickness left to feel.

“I love you too,” she whispered, “I love you too, Y/n.”

She knew she loved you, in that moment, because she didn't belong in New York or Sokovia - in that moment, she just belonged in your arms.

[kimberlyannharts]

misc thoughts on the Darkest Hour finale

= that sucked. It sucked even more when you remember this is the finale and possibly the last time we'll see these characters/these versions of the characters and they barely get any noteworthy closure for what this event built up

= Like where. the fuck. was RITA. After everything with Mistress Vile, how she was basically the face of this event, she doesn't have any sort of role in the end? She doesn't escape the dumpster for the epic girlboss clapback against her abuser? Instead we bring back....Death Ranger for that? It's kind of hilarious how I was literally like "I guess Death Ranger could come back for the finale but that seems like a waste for a character like them" and guess what! It WAS a waste!

= I have no idea what JB was talking about in his thread. Nothing about this finale suggested a connection to the TV show universe; if anything, it more firmly established that the comics and show were in different continuities. If the idea is Billy will eventually succeed in resetting the Grid to the show status quo, it certainly didn't happen here. And anyway.......

= For some reason the franchise has really been committing to this idea of Billy fucking up and spending the rest of his life trying to bring things back to the former status quo which is so weird. Why is it always that and not a lesson about learning to live with your mistakes and moving forward. Especially in this situation, where theoretically fixing the Grid would undo the characters' lives that they'd lived for years at that point. Just completely pointless and cynical for no reason, not "sad" or "reflective"

= And yes there's no reset. Grace, Coinless Trini, and Kiya just get wiped from existence. The Grid shattering was pointless, except for I guess allowing the Rangers on Earth to morph without getting corrupted. Tigan also dies out of nowhere, so damn, the girls really got the short end of the stick here, didn't they

= AND MEANWHILE M*TT DIDN'T DIE. INSTEAD HE GOT TOMMY'S PLACE IN THE BIG GROUP MORPH. I HATE HIM. WHY DIDN'T HE DIE

= I was right that Vessel would purge Dark Specter and that would be the end of them both but still super underwhelming, made even worse by how Dark Specter was such a nothing, boring villain. God.

= fuck Hyperforce fuck their forced inclusion fuck how they just took time away from the actual characters that mattered to, you know, Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. We never even got closure on that random plot thread about Chloe's mom, so what was the fucking point

= Also the Emissaries don't get followed up on, in case you were wondering. I guess we can assume Green and Black were cured from the infection as well but uhhhhhh I guess they're the only ones left now lol

= Nearly every. single. page. had some characters' romance baked into it and dear god man. I love romance! But that was just so much. We didn't need nearly every Ranger hooking up with someone and for that to be their primary relationship. I know getting Candice back was inevitable with how much Skull talked about her but who cares. When Phantom Ranger and Kendall hugged I was literally like MELISSA NO DON'T YOU DARE

= Speaking of which, I have no idea what they were trying to imply with the Rocky/Adam handhold. Frankly I refuse to give them credit for that when they spent the entire event sidelined with never a hint of romantic development. Maybe if they actually had a role in this event that showed them coming together as a romance? That would be great. But this was not it. It's like how they can't keep Yale's pronouns straight - I'm not giving them credit for representation if they don't commit. Especially when, as I said, literally every other romance this stupid event made up got a lot of explicitly romantic scenes

= Only upside to this is the Tomberly scenes were great and there was nothing saying they broke up. They stayed together and had this universe's Olivia equivalent and Kim beat Billy's ass for trying to erase that. The end!

[piduai]

do you think that he first hallucinated the sequence of yuusaku turning around and looking at him the moment he shot him 3 years ago & it's been silently haunting him ever since? or he repressed that memory/only had a realistic recollection of it until now, and the delirious state induced by his fever has triggered the memory to morph?

to me it's the second one, i think that at the time he just coldly watched yuusaku collapse and preferred to not give it much thought since. a few chapters earlier there was this page

which i think plays into that... after all, he killed yuusaku just to test a theory (whether his father will be able to accept and love him now that his other son is dead), not out of hatred. there shouldn't be a reason for him to feel instant regret on the battlefield.

but then he met asirpa, and she changed him. as i see it these chapters can be read as just backstory exposition, but he's also in a state between dream and reality caused by a high fever and forced to look the skeletons he thought he buried right in their bony faces. so he's half-dreaming half-hallucinating the events of his past, and it culminates in his memories morphing like such right before his fever breaks. after that the specter of his brother never really goes away, though. it's the beginning of the end for him.

he's used to people taking advantage of each other and he was fine with playing dirty in order to get a few crumbs of love. but yuusaku was kind to him, and gave him that love for free... unfortunately, that's not something ogata could accept. asirpa's kindness undid her as well. asirpa is not his brother though, and he never had to compete with her for someone's affection or acknowledgement, and as it is she should be nothing but an end to his means. but she's not. he's fond of her. she reminds him of his brother, whom he hated, but who loved him. this is why he must also hate and defile her.

[houseoflibra]

Saint Seiya: Dark Wing Chapter 33: The Celestial Wailing Star Harpy

Page 1

Page 2

Chunfeng: - (The fight between) - (Shoichiro and the Capricorn Gold Saint) - (was really amazing...)

Page 3

Chunfeng: - And yet I...

Page 4

Chunfeng: - (...needed protecting,) - (and was only in the way!) - (I'm a specter too!!) - But... - I'm weak... - and scared...

Page 5

Chunfeng: - I'm trembling in fear... - and I can only wear my surplice's wings... - How can someone like me fight - next to Hime, - and Lord Hades... and Shoichiro...?

Page 6

Chunfeng: - (If only I was powerful...) - (like Shoichiro...) - (...or that Capricorn Gold Saint...!)

Page 7

Chunfeng: - (If I were like him...) - (drawing strength from longing...) - (and from rage...)

Page 8

???: - (Strong power arises from intense anger.)

Chunfeng: - Who's there?!

Page 9

Chunfeng: - Is this... - ...the Harpy Specter...?!

Page 10

Harpy: - Are you happy to stay like that? - Weak, immature, pitiful?

Chunfeng: - That's...!

Harpy: - Being cared for by Lady Pandora, - and protected by Lord Wyvern... - Are you satisfied with that?

Page 11

Chunfeng: - I'm... - I'm not! - I... - I...!!

Harpy: - Then get angry!!

Page 12

Harpy: - And hate!! - Hate yourself, - and your own weakness!!

Chunfeng: - Ah! - Aaaaaugh!!

Page 13

Chunfeng: - I don't want... - ...to be weak...!

Page 14

Chunfeng: - (I'll take rage...) - (hatred...) - (and regret...) - (...and use them to blow away that weak self...!) - (Yes... I see now...) - (That power too...)

Page 15

Chunfeng: - (Then...) - (This way I can do it too...!)

???: - Chunfeng?!

Chunfeng: - Huh?! - (Shoichiro!!) - (Shoichiro,) - (with this power,) - (we can defeat the enemy together...!)

Page 16

Chunfeng: - Hey hey, Shoichiro! - You see this?... - !!

Shoichiro: - Zhu... - That - cosmo is like Eito's...

Page 17

Chunfeng: - (No! I...) - (I...!) - (I don't) - (want you to make a face like that and worry about me!)

Page 18

Chunfeng: - (I...) - (I don't want to have to be protected behind those black wings...)

Page 19

Chunfeng: - (I want) - (to be beside you...!)

Pages 20 + 21

Chunfeng: - I want to fight right next to Lord Wyvern!!

Page 22

Harpy: - (That's right. Your anger,) - (and hate) - (should all be for the sake...) - (...of my Lord Wyvern.)

Chunfeng: - Yes.

Page 23

Chunfeng: - This life, and cosmo - exist for the sake of Lord Wyvern, - don't they?

Shoichiro: - Zhu... - Is that strong cosmo stable...?

Page 24

Chunfeng: - Yeah. - It seems that the cosmo that dwells in the surplice - has somehow become attuned with me.

Shoichiro: - (The cosmo of the surplice...) - (Does this armor) - (have a strong will like a soul too...?)

Page 25

Shoichiro: - Wah?!

Chunfeng: - I'll protect you, Shoichiro. - So you take good care of Hime, okay?

Page 26

Shoichiro: - Huh? - Wha?!

Chunfeng: - Hahahah! - You're so transparent! - (The voice of that shadow back then...) - (...feels like your soul now.)

Page 27

Chunfeng: - (So now) - (I will use this power) - (to defeat that enemy!!) - Let my winds of destruction...

Page 28

Chunfeng: - ...strike you down!! - Corrupt Depravity!!

Page 29

Seirim: - Ah!!

Page 30

Seirim: - (This cosmo...)

Page 31

Seirim: - Hahahah! - No way! - She's assimilated - with the "soul of the surplice"...!

Page 32

To be continued...

[deeptrashwitch]

Wraith

Name: Dominique Wright

Age: Late 40's

Profession: Station Chief (CIA)/ Main Coordinator (Specters)

Date and place of birth: [Redacted]

Residence: [Redacted] (She's been seen a lot around Killeen, Texas)

Height: 1,62 m/ 5'3 ft

Weight: 54 kg

Relationships:

[Redacted]

[Redacted]

[Redacted]

[Redacted]

[Redacted]

[Redacted]

There isn't much about "Wraith", only the nearest ones to her know part of her life, no one really is aware of her complete story. People only have details about her adulthood after she entered the CIA, and one of those details is that she has worked beside Watcher (Kate Laswell) during all her career. The reasons of their hate for each other is unknown, but apart of it, they work perfectly together.

She is one of the Station Chiefs along with Watcher, they are oficially assigned to Georgia and Nepal. But in reality, they are on the U.S coordinating a Team and a Task Force (Specters and 141 respectively), taking care of many threats across the world. And about the Team, she was given the idea by one of her superiors, and she looked for the Captain of the main squads.

Wraith met said Captain during a mission in San Marino during the early 2000's, and looked for her in 2018. During the years after the creation of the team Wraith has worked together with the Captain and the Lieutenant, but has done some research on the side, everything related with the former Task Force 267. And she has worked with Watcher's Task Force, looking for information about Six Aces.

Extracts of her notes

'I've considered Cpt. Marchant as the leader of this team, but her background keeps me doubting' (November, 2017)

'These soldiers are certanly amazing, but I'll investigate them just in case' (February, 2018)

'Western Sahara, how many people like this is still alive?" (March, 2018)

'Six Aces. How long is their influence?' (June, 2018)

'Who gave Michaelis the archive?! Why did it have that kind of things?! That was lost as far as I knew!' (October, 2018)

'Someone sold the 267. But who? Why? How did they met Carabalí?' (January, 2019)

'This new group is dangerous. I'll have to look about it. Six Aces.' (July, 2019)

'I can't believe she actually allied with Golden Empress, this will be a headache' (September, 2019)

[...]

'That bastard! We need to keep Black Tomb sealed!' (May, 2023)

'I need to warn Alicia. She mustn't go there...' (June, 2023)

[From here, the pages are ripped and stained with something similar to blood. For more details, look archive 9178293 and [redacted] new criminal record (archive 6183916)]

[ohferal]

anyway basic summaries of my muses to refer to until i get their pages all filled out on the site so y'all got smth to work with in the meantime

thresh:  7'2" skeletal specter who likes to torment both the living and the dead.  can do all the things u would expect a ghost guy to do.  steals souls and stores them in his lantern.  awful fucking guy !  but he's also charismatic and a lil fruity.  no he will not instantly try to steal the souls of everyone he interacts with please feel free to mess around with him.  he / him

fiddlesticks:  12'5" thrown together "scarecrow" housing a primordial demon of fear.  was born the moment the universe was created.  almost based entirely on instinct and barely understands the world despite being part of it for so long.  often repeats things it's heard in a horrific broken voice.  feeds off fear n can often just innately Know what someone's fear / trauma is.  he's also got an infinite amount of demon crows he can create.  he's like a really weird and also scary dog.  an actual cryptid !  he / they / it

naafiri:  FUCKED UP DOG !  her lore is kinda complicated so basic rundown is once human > turned god > got corrupted > sealed within own weapon > takes over the body of anyone who touches said weapon.  her current host is a pack of dune hounds that functions like a hivemind.  not outright aggressive but yknow.  will bite when she wants.  she / her

warwick:  FUCKED UP DOG !!!  previously a gangster who changed to be better n adopted a bunch of kids but whoopsies got taken and inhumanely experimented on until becoming wolfman.  doesn't really remember his human life but gets glimpses of it sometimes.  usually lays low n tries to hunt specifically bad people who Already smell of blood but honestly any scent of blood makes him literally lose it so.  good luck !  he / him

catnap:  human child in shitty capitalism infested toy factory nearly dies and gets turned into a giant living toy monster against his will.  very happy about it /s.  took part in big uprising orchestrated by another living experiment he Very Healthily /s worships like a god n that caused a Lot of people to die n be eaten for survival.  either stuck in said factory still or out in the wild being a cryptid.  he / it

megumi:  just a 16 year old goin through the horrors honestly.  can manipulate shadows and summon 10 shikigami from said shadows.  is usually pretty chill if not grouchy every now n then.  king of resting bitch face.  he / him

griffon:  fucked up demon bird !  can use lightning abilities.  generally pretty amicable and doesn't actually wanna do any of the generic demon stuff.  guy bein a dude.  talks a lot of shit and is extremely snarky tho but usually means no harm.  he / him

kisho:  fucked up lil clown they !!  4'10" 16 year old little Gremlin who thrives off chaos whether they've caused it themselves or not.  can create extremely vivid illusions that while harmless physically can do a lot of mental damage bc they.  know a little too much abt how to break someones mind.  has a bad history but makes sure no one knows it.  can often times misunderstand things in the worst possible way and lashes out.  Very mentally unstable but also :3  they / he

alatus:  fucked up grown ass man. 5'6" 24 year old assassin for hire who loves his job just a liiiiiittle too much.  grew up bein abused by his mom n snapped early so he's momless lol.  extremely manipulative n violent but knows he's pretty and uses that fact to get away with a lottttt of shit.  don't ask how he gets sm money all the time his answer changes every time.  i hate him but i love him.  he / him

taiyang:  SUNSHINE BOY !!!  5'11" tigerboy whos in a constant state of :3  in genshin he's like 100+ bc he's an adeptus but in other verses i like to think he's just a normalass 22 year old catboy.  the sweetest lil guy ever he wears his heart on his sleeve and loves EVERYONE.  will try to befriend everyone ever even if it's not a good idea.  he cares So much.  he can in fact turn into a wholeass tiger if he so chooses !  he / they

wrath:  living embodiment of the human sin wrath. 5'9" 22 year old little ASSHOLE !!!  he's a demon that got kicked out of hell bc he didn't wanna do his family of other sins evil generic demon plans of ooooo take over the world n make people suffer so.  now he's stuck on earth !  v begrudging abt it but out of spite he's taking this chance to actually fight his family n other demons to keep humans safe.  very temperamental as expected but surprisingly never actually Loses it !  he / him

cypher:  ANGER ISSUES HELL YEAH.  5'3" 19 year old girliepop that can and will pick a fight with anything and everything.  very similar to alatus  (  these two are the only muses i have that actually know each other !  )  in that she grew up being abused by her single parent until oopsies she's also now an orphan !  but instead of working with gangs to survive growing up like he did she fights with em + everyone else to get by.  feral little girl failure.  she / her

[dickarchivist]

Could you take us inside The Crypt--what kind of ship is it, what is the inside like, and so on?

I actually did a lot of research on Star Wars Clone Era ships because of this ask, and lemme just say I am very happy with the results.

The Crypt is an ARC170-Modified Starfighter, similar to this one: (images taken from the wookiepedia page)

It was modified at the request of Dax'Malkin, sacrificing a bit of the cargo space to create a 6 person sleeping quarters along two walls (three bunks along each). There is room for 2 speeder bikes as well, when the bikes are stored vertically in their small cargo bay.

There is a single holding cell, as well. For just in case.

The Crypt, on the outside, is painted in similar colors to other Republic ships, though Specter adds the name of their vessel to the outside with their squad colors: red and gold. After o66, Specter covers the name, and hates every second of it.

Inside is a different story, however. Specter's style is similar to impressionism and surrealism, using color blotches and pointelistic techniques. He likes when you can see the brush strokes. He painted each of the bunks to match the person sleeping there. Each bunk has a curtain on the outside, put in by Dax'Malkin, to give the Clones a feeling of having privacy, their own rooms. Something they likely never had before.

Ghost's has jaig eyes at the headboard and seven birds in flight.

Phantom's has hand marks, one set for each brother, along with Dax and Athena's.

Specter's is covered in photographs.

Banshee's bunk is a sprawling symphony of musical notes painted across the walls.

Wraith's bunk looks like a flower field in full bloom.

The sixth bunk belongs to Athena. Her's, Specter painted with her. It's got tooka cats, flowers, and music, and birds. Her bunk has two photos in it, one of her and another padawan, a Nautolan boy named Bos. The other is of her, Dax, and Grave Squad. Athena wanted a piece of each of her brothers in her "room".

Each bunk has a background akin to Van Gogh's Starry Night, painted in reds and golds like their armor is.

The speeders also have names, Coffin and Casket.

Dax'Malkin doesn't have a bunk, but when he's tired enough for sleep, the pilot's chair is where he hunkers down to rest. Sometimes Grave will put them in one of their bunks, especially if he's been injured.

[sonarspace]

༉‧₊˚. oh, who is she?

welcome to my about page ! :D

luna. twenteen. arab but mixed, a mr worlwide 2.0 tbh.

yes-please!

painting | building legos | listening to music | reading | the beach | stars | the moon | online shopping | spending quality time | learning languages | napping

ugh-no!

waiting | being late | people who are always late | not knowing things | people with an attitude

fictional heartthrobs

gojo satoru, geto suguru, & sukuna (jjk) | harvey specter (suits) | harry bingham (society) | leon kennedy, ada wong, & carlos oliveira (resident evil) | batman/bruce wayne (dan mora + mariko tamaki editions) | simon 'ghost' riley (cod) | nathan drake & elena fisher (uncharted game series) | raihn (crowns of nyaxia) | julian & dante (caraval series) | benjamin barry (how to lose a guy in ten days) | patrick verona (ten things i hate about you) | vi (arcane)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎮

destiny | call of duty | resident evil | until dawn | uncharted | rdr2 | mortal kombat

˙✧˖°🍿 ༘ ⋆｡˚

currently watching: tell me lies, suits & arcane rewatching: b99 & gilmore girls

🎧ྀི♪⋆.✮

cigarettes after sex | sza | mitski | brent faiyaz | 21 savage | billie eilish | lana del rey | ariana grande | frank ocean | the weeknd | clairo | faye webster | harry styles | the last shadow puppets | flo | katseye | ethel cain | donell jones | bobby v.

༘⋆📖˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

currently reading: nothing because i’m in a damn slump ! 😓 read & recommend: thirst for salt | end of loneliness | august blue | caraval series | dance of thieves series | vampires of el norte | funny story | sea of tranquility | crowns of nyaxia | if we were villains | malibu rising

[theredhavendelegate]

Iss. 12:

Breaking News!

(Skip to the end for update)

---

The office door slams open. “Millie! Dunc!” a gruff, mustachioed man shouts as he enters.

A young woman with short, brown hair glances up at him from her desk. Another man is seated to her left. He has an unshaven face and eye bags, and he bolts upright at the intrusion, sending an empty mug to the floor.

The moustache turns around and slams the door. He locks it. “I am being followed!”

Millie frowns, leans back in her chair, and opens her journal to a fresh page. “By-who and what-for? Don’t spare any details.”

“Put that thing away, Mills. This is serious.” The man walks past her desk and scoops up the fallen mug. He drops it on a table nearby and fills it with coffee from a room temperature kettle, then explains, “I’m Harvey Donaghue, the one and only! I’m the man who runs the papers—”

Duncan interrupts, “Except for The Broad Street Negotiator, The True-Blue Tribune, The Ne—”

“Hacks and tabloids!” Harvey shouts. He takes a sip from the mug he stole and immediately spits it into a sink near the coffee station, its stainless steel basin stained brown. “This isn’t the Candamoran blend, what is this crap?”

Millie rolls her eyes. “That is the Candamoran blend, it’s just been left overnight. Nobody drinks that ‘crap’ except for you and Lord Redhaven anyway.”

Harvey empties his mug into the sink. “Good coffee is the mark of a good leader.” He sets about preparing a fresh kettle. “Now, where was I?”

Duncan, half yawning, answers, “You were, uh, being…followed?”

Harvey snaps his fingers victoriously. “I was being followed! Right, a half-dozen mystery men, all clad in white chemical suits like the specters of a life not lived!”

Millie scribbles everything he says into her notebook, grimacing at the prose.

Harvey continues, suddenly grave, “They’re from the government, the lord’s estate I’m sure. The truth is too much for them to handle. I’m confident this time, they’re coming to shut down the presses, to silence the voice of The People.”

Duncan rubs the sleep out of his eyes and stands up. “They’re probably just fumigators. Miss Flannigan had an infestation of…something the other week.”

“And how. I could hear mice in the wall we share with her,” Millie remarks, scrawling in the margins of the page as the conversation develops.

“Quiet!” Harvey hisses.

The air is filled with the dull bubbling of the kettle, the hiss of escaping steam, and something scrabbling in the wall. There is a metallic click-clack coming from the door. Someone is fidgeting with the handle on the other side.

Millie squints toward it, Harvey kneels behind the coffee station, and Duncan glances around. “Should I get it?” He whispers.

The rattling stops.

The steam hisses louder.

The door explodes off of its hinges and 'half a half-dozen mystery men, all clad in white chemical suits like the specters of a life not lived', come barreling in.

---

Hiya, it’s me, Emmett. You know, the guy who runs this blog? I hate to break character, but this one’s important: The Redhaven Delegate is going on indefinite hiatus. I’m going back to school, and my other projects (mostly Ghost Bricks) are eating up a bigger percentage of my time and energy than I’d hoped.

When will it be back? No idea. You’ll just have to wait and see.

Until then, dear reader, take care of yourself and watch your back. You never know what’s lurking out there in the void.

---

First

Prev

[lalunameli]

Summarization/Partial Translation: Meiou Iden Dark Wing Ch 33

I don't normally do many Saint Seiya translations and this will probably be a one time thing, but I thought it would be good practice for another project I'm currently working on.

[SPOILERS]

DW 33 Summary

After the fight against the Capricorn Gold Saint where Souchirou protected her, Zhu finds herself in Elysian worried about Souchirou and doubting her strength as a Specter. She mentions being unable to wear her Surplice except for the wings and how she's scared and trembling and feels she can't protect her "home" T/N: she uses 「ウチ」 (her "home") in kana a lot in this ch., and I think it implies more than just the literal meaning, like those most precious to her.

She mentions Yoruhime, Hades-sama and Souchirou and that she can't fight along side them. She notices the Capricorn Saint was using anger to fuel his kraving for more strength.

The spirit of the Harpy Surplice appears and tells her the strength of power is born from anger and asks her if it's ok to stay as weak as she currently is.

"Aren't you concerned about protecting Pandora-sama and Souchirou-sama? Are you satisfied?"

Zhu mentions not being scared and again brings up her home, but the spirit of the Harpy Surplice says she's scared.

"Then hate your weakness" (and attacks her)

Zhu: My weakness, I don't need it!

Zhu (Next page): My anger, my hatred, my frustration, I want to blow them all away...!"

She has an understanding of the Spirit of the Harpy Surplice's power, reaches inside herself for strength and realizes even her home would be in jeopardy but the panel with her smile seems she's willing to make that sacrifice.

But Souchirou calls out her name, and she realizes with the power of her home, together they can defeat their enemies.

She speaks to Souchirou who comments her power is the same as Eito-kun's. Zhu gets upset by this.

Zhu thinking: "No, my home, my home...you're my home!"

Next panel "I don't know why you're making that worried face!"

Souchirou: If this is your home, I don't want to be protected by your black wings."

Zhu powers up and thinks: I want to be near you and my friends.

"I WANT TO FIGHT ALONGSIDE WYVERN-SAMA AND MY FRIENDS!!"

The Harpy Surplice appears on her.

Harpy Spirit: That's right anger, hatred, everything is all for my Master.

Not sure if this is Zhu or the Harpy Spirit: So it should be for Wyvern-sama.

Zhu: My life and Cosmo are for Wyvern-sama

Souchirou: Zhu, your Cosmo is strong and stable

Zhu: Yes, my Surplice is staying on, and is in tune with my Cosmo. Look!

Souchirou (thinking): My Surplice's Cosmo, even the soul of my armour has a strong will.

Zhu thanks Souchirou and Yoruhime for being a part of her home.

Zhu thinking: At that time the shadow voice had the same spirit and feeling as this one.

Next page: So I'll use my power to defeat the enemy!!

The winds of ruin...

Next page: Receive them! CORRUPT* DEPRAVITY!!

Seirim: This cosmo

Next page: Hahaha could it be the assimilation of the spirit of the Surplice?

This is the true power of the heavenly star.

T/N: The kana for this move is クルプト which I would normally translate as "Klapt" or "Krapt", but I noticed it is also the translation for the rapper Kurupt and sometimes the word "corrupt" so I went with "Corrupt Depravity" since it makes the most sense for the name of the attack.

[sierrabcore]

WRITTENBYSIERRA ⤷ A WRITEBLR INTRO

i refuse to harbor hate in any form. i am not my father. my experiences do not define me;

about me;

im sierra, 17, they/she! im an avid poet, author, and aspiring journalist!

my favorite subject is biology, my favorite trope is enemies to lovers, or mjd!

my favorite books include crime and punishment, the book thief, and a separate peace

im an avid bsd, kuroshitsuji, kot, fop, and a lull in the sea anime fan

wips;

puppeteer's symphony

wip page (coming soon) | genres: thriller, mystery, fantasy, action

In a world where selected families wield extraordinary abilities and instill fear in the hearts of many, Virion Aurelius grows up in the shadows of his lineage. Despite the power and stature of his family, Virion is approached at the tender age of 16 by an undercover assassination company seeking his unique skills. Later, a failed assassination attempt at the age of 21 introduces him to Ellion Atlan, a mysterious figure associated with the Armada Syndicate, a rival company of his previous. Within the dark world of the syndicate, Virion rises through the ranks, becoming a key executive under the leadership of Kieran Atlar. It is during his rise that he encounters Sylvaris Vale, a boy whose destiny becomes linked with the fate of the Armada Syndicate. Virion and Ellion form an unlikely alliance, forming the detective duo known as "Shadow Pair." Tasked with undercover missions, they dive deeply into schemes and deception. this unveils a complex relationship fraught with history and shared moments. What happens when Virion’s departure of the Armada Syndicate causes a ripple in time? Virion makes the gut-wrenching decision to sever ties with the syndicate, leaving behind a trail of uncertainty and betrayal in his wake.

Ellion Atlan ascends through the syndicate's ranks due to his unparalleled combat skills. His partnership with Virion in the formation of the Shadow Pair defines an era, revealing layers of their intricate past. Ellion's leadership within the organization is put to the test as the specter of Virion's departure continues to cast shadows over their tumultuous world. As Virion departs, Ellion forges new alliances, particularly with Velan Theron, another formidable executive. The duo navigates conflicts within the Armada Syndicate, especially those involving the Golden Ardor. The ongoing conflicts with the Golden Ardor unravel a tale of power, loyalty, and betrayal, leaving Ellion Atlan at the center of a storm that threatens to shatter the fragile balance within the Armada Syndicate. "Shadows of the Syndicate" explores the intricate dance between light and darkness, loyalty and betrayal, as the fates of Virion and Ellion intertwine in a web of secrets, power struggles, and unforeseen consequences.

fates perdition;

wip page (coming soon) | genres: thriller, mystery, fantasy

In the hallowed halls of an ancient university library, two philosophy graduate students, Cerys and Alistair, unwittingly unearth an occult manuscript that promises forbidden knowledge. Penned by the mysterious Dr. Casimir, the manuscript recounts the chilling tale of an underground realm of shadows where forces lurk beyond the mortal world. Driven by intellectual curiosity, Cerys and Alistair delve into the text, accidentally triggering an ancient entity, one that has been dormant for centuries. A dark force stirs to life, weaving its sinister self around them, casting shadows in every corner. Simultaneously, in an alternate timeline, the brilliant philosopher, Dr. Casimir, disappears under mysterious circumstances during an elaborate ritual. Drawn into this ominous mystery, Cerys and Alistair seek the aid of their four friends—Everette, Amoris, Arlo, and Siran. As members of a secret society dedicated to unraveling the mysteries of life and death, they explore ancient manuscripts and conduct forbidden rituals, unwittingly opening a portal to the very realm that shadows them.

Death itself seems to watch their every move, and the group becomes entangled in a web of cryptic clues, philosophical debates, and supernatural occurrences. The pursuit of forbidden knowledge unravels a tapestry of life, death, and the blurred lines of morality. As they confront the consequences of their actions, the group stands at the crossroads of fate, where choices defy destiny, and the boundaries between the tangible and the supernatural blur. In a climactic confrontation with the dark force and the revelation of Dr. Casimir's fate, the group must decide whether to close the portal or embrace the unknown. Their choices become the deciding force on which their destinies are woven, shaping the fabric of their existence and unraveling the mysteries that lie within the labyrinth of shadows. "Fates Perdition" is a dark academia thriller infused with philosophical depth, supernatural intrigue, and a touch of forbidden romance—a tale where the pursuit of truth comes at the cost of confronting the darkness within.

reverie in the verdient veil

wip page (coming soon) | genres: fantasy, action, adventure

As Aedris Montclair grapples with the mysterious disappearance of his parents, the impending TaiSol festival casts a shadow over his newly inherited responsibilities. In the absence of the King and Queen, the vibrant pulse of Norec Verdiania seems to waver, threatening the very heart of the kingdom's unity. Aedris, determined to honor his parents' legacy, embarks on a journey of self-discovery and leadership, forging bonds with allies who will become pillars of support in the turbulent times ahead. As whispers of a distant kingdom's aggression echo across the eastern winds, Aedris faces a daunting challenge. he ventures into the complexities of diplomacy, uncovering a web of political intrigue that extends far beyond the verdant veil of Norec. Each encounter, be it with allies or adversaries, shapes Aedris' understanding of the delicate balance required to rule a kingdom.

my socials;

discord: sierra.b instagrams: creative (graphic design and visual poetry)- creativebysierra writing (fiction)- writtenbysierra writing (other)- sierrasanthology literary magazine- tonesofcitrus twitter/x: ssillysierra