#there is no room for magic in the world men have built

[mxwhore]

I'm this fucjing close to doing an asoiaf/tma crossover where jon is a spooky king and martin his sworn sword or some shit

[calliesmemes]

DARKNESS HAUNTS YOUR NARRATIVE

UNSETTLING SENTENCE STARTERS FROM VARIOUS SOURCES THAT WILL SEND SHIVERS DOWN YOUR SPINE AND LEAVE AN OMINOUS FEELING LINGERING IN THE ROOM.

CHANGE gendered words and in-universe phrases as needed.

SPECIFY muse for multimuses.

“   I’m deep inside your mind. There is no escape for you. ”

“   You save everyone, but who saves you? ”

“   The power inside of me — it’s terrifying. ”

“   Power belongs to those who take it. ”

“   You’ll be the ruin of me, won’t you? ”

“   You weren’t meant to save the world — you were meant to destroy it. ”

“   You didn’t break me; you built me. All you did was make me ruthless. ”

“   You have no power over me. ”

“   I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me. ”

“   All the greatest loves end in violence. ”

“   I don’t think you’re truly mean. You have sad eyes. ”

“   In theory the prophecy could still come true. ”

“   One day, your empathy is going to get you killed. ”

“   We are masters of our own destiny. ”

“   Never trust a survivor until you find out what they did to survive. ”

“   The horror that you have seen is not who you are. ”

“   A little too much anger, too often or at the wrong time, can destroy more than you would ever imagine. ”

“   Your scars are not your shame; they are your story. ”

“   I will never turn my back on people who need me. ”

“   Isn’t it scary to be ready to die at such a young age? ”

“   Your mind is a weapon. Keep it loaded. ”

“   Are you hearing those voices again? ”

“   It scares me sometimes. The emptiness I see in your eyes. ”

“   You may not be interested in the war, but the war is interested in you. ”

“   Haven’t you taken enough from me? ”

“   You collect scars because you want proof that you are paying for whatever sins you have committed. ”

“   It is okay to be angry. It is never okay to be cruel. ”

“   I hope that what you did to me haunts you. ”

“   The price of freedom is high. It always has been. ”

“   When you talk, I can hear the revolution. ”

“   Do not pretend that you are some meek, pathetic little girl when I can see that vicious mind working behind your eyes. ”

“   Your new life will cost you your old one. ”

“   Watching someone you love suffer can teach you even more than suffering yourself can. ”

“   Some people are in your life to test you ”

“   Fear makes men more dangerous than magic ever could. ”

“   At what point do you think i'll become the wound itself and not simply the bearer? ”

“   We are made of all those who have built and broken us. ”

“   All power demands sacrifice and pain. ”

“   Some things buried deep need to stay that way. ”

“   You and I are going to change the world. ”

“   I wonder which will get you killed faster — your loyalty, or your stubbornness? ”

“   Something’s made your eyes go cold. ”

“   If I am not a weapon, then what am I? ”

“   Your chains are broken, but are you truly free? ”

“   You were alone before they left you. ”

“   You can love a monster, it can even love you back, but that doesn’t change its nature. ”

“   It’s awful not to be loved. It’s the worst thing in the world … it makes you mean, and violent, and cruel ”

“   We can simultaneously be both human and monster. ”

“   I have this strange feeling that I’m not myself anymore. ”

“   You laugh like a little girl and think like a martyr. ”

“   Grief taught me inhumane things. ”

“   You will always be a monster. There is no turning back from it. ”

“   I know there’s a villain, and I’m worried it’s me. ”

“   I can’t stand the bitter thing that I’ve become. ”

“   People will never bleed enough to fulfill your vision of justice. ”

“   What if I told you the truth about what happened that night? ”

“   Part of me died in order to survive. ”

“   We are cursed with a tendency for violence. ”

“   I speak in verses, prophecies, and curses. ”

“   I see no use quarrelling with fate. ”

“   Nobody smart plays fair. ”

“   Fine, make me your villain. ”

“   They should be terrified of me. ”

“   I gave you devotion, blood, and my life. ”

“   How disappointing, when people succumb to what is expected of them. ”

“   Perhaps that was why I had to endure pain — because true transformation can only happen in the crucible of suffering. ”

“   Morality, too, is a question of time. ”

“   Memories destroy us. ”

“   My entire life, I’ve been fighting a war. ”

“   Fair is foul, and foul is fair. ”

“   Are you becoming what you’ve always hated? ”

“   I have found it takes a lot of strength to endure myself. ”

“   Loving any of us is a death sentence, isn’t it? ”

“   You long to be bandaged before you have been cut. ”

“   I feel so lost among these entirely strange people. ”

“   Remembering is like an open wound. ”

“   The wounded recognize the wounded. ”

“   I am alone and am suffocating because I cannot give voice to my emotions. ”

“   I’ve lived through entire tragedies in silence. ”

“   The more you love, the more you suffer. ”

“   The crowd that applauds a ruler’s coronation is the same crowd that will applaud a tyrant’s beheading. People like a show. ”

“   You are a better knife than you are a person. ”

“   Life goes more smoothly without a heart. ”

“   People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar. ”

“   I’m nostalgic for the anger I once had. ”

“   The pain I didn’t tell you about has built a home inside of me. ”

“   My greatest regret was how much I believed in my own future. ”

“   All I ever do is grieve. ”

“   Do not mock a pain you haven’t endured. ”

“   I control the shadows. They do not control me. ”

“   Turn the pain into power. ”

“   Sometimes, we survive by forgetting. ”

“   I am now the most miserable man living. ”

“   To remain as I am is impossible; I must die or be better, it appears to me. ”

“   In this sad world of ours, sorrow comes to all; and, to the young, it comes with bitterest agony. ”

“   I see in the near future a crisis approaching that unnerves me. ”

“   Memories do not always soften with time; some grow edges like knives. ”

“   Maybe everything that you thought was breaking you was actually leading you towards yourself. ”

“   Sometimes, not being in control is the most beautiful thing in the world. ”

[sipitdownlikecherrysoup]

i noticed - l.jn # 1

chapter 1. an evening dress to remember. (3.1k)

pairing: regency era gentleman! jeno x dressmaker! reader

blurb: Y/N is a popular dressmaker in regency-era london, and foolishly decides to gatecrash the first ball of the season: a masquerade. even a mask can't stop jeno from noticing that she doesn't belong.

tags: fem & she/her reader, present tense, use of Y/N, reader is paranoid, jeno is incredibly observant, i know nothing about embroidery/tailoring but i try my best, inspired by benedict's story (bridgerton).

Your heart pounds so rapidly in your chest that it feels like it might explode, and you feel terribly sick. You worry that the insane amount of effort you’d put into this dress will be ruined with the amount you've sweat in your anxiety. 

Maybe you are making a mistake. No, you definitely are, but it's a little too late to back out now. You are already at the ball. The famed Lee Masquerade Ball. The Lee’s always have the privilege of opening the season with their extravagant masquerade, and it's a favorite among many of the high-society families you now find yourself surrounded with. 

You should be having an excellent time yourself, just like the blushing young ladies on the dance floor, and the men happily chatting alongside a tower of sparkling drinks so high that you would definitely send yourself into the cardiac arrest you’re so worried about should you attempt to take a glass for yourself. The only problem is that it's hard to have much fun when you’re worried that someone will discover that you do not belong here.

Should anybody notice that perhaps your posture is incorrect, or your manners aren't quite right, or that you do not know the correct way to formally address many of these guests, or Heaven forbid somebody recognises you as their dressmaker, you will be thrown out of London for good. You’ll lose your home, the flourishing career you have built for yourself, your whole life. 

All you had wanted was to experience what a ball was like yourself. The young ladies that frequent your store gush about them all day long. You’ve heard so many tales of the fanciful foods, the most amazing music, and mesmerizing decorations that could make you feel transported to another world. And you know nearly half of the dresses in this very room were hand designed, or even hand tailored by yourself, as well as a decent portion of the gentlemens’ clothing, too. Foolishly, selfishly, you had thought maybe you deserved to attend one of these events after all your hard work. And even if it is as magical as those young ladies made it sound, is it worth all the risk?

This is a mistake.

“If you stare at that tower much longer, you might be able to make it fall with that piercing gaze alone.” A voice shakes you out of your thoughts, making you startle. It’s soft but deep, too, and comes from much closer than you thought anybody was to where you had tried to hide yourself in a far corner of the room. 

When you turn to face the owner of the mysterious voice, your breath catches in your throat. 

Like yourself, some guests to the masquerade opt for a look that conceals their identity. Some say it's part of the fun. For you, it is a genuine disguise. 

Others opt for a simple mask that does little to hide their identity.

The thin and sleek, deep-blue mask adorning Jeno Lee’s face does nothing to disguise him, and the fact that you are speaking to one of the hosts of this prestigious event does nothing to calm your nerves. 

You had only seen him once, when he accompanied his mother to the store over a year ago and she insisted he purchase a new pair of silk-white gloves. Startlingly, you realize he is wearing them right now. 

It must amuse Jeno, the way you stare at him, slack-jawed and wordless and dumb, if the way he smiles gently at you has anything to say about it.

“Did you want one?” He asks you, politely. 

“I Want… One?” Is all you manage to speak brokenly

He blinks at you, a faint smile gracing his lips again. “A drink. From the tower. I can fetch one for you if you wish.” 

You spy an opportunity to escape, to send him on his way and dart out of this far-too-big house, to run all the way back to your cozy apartment above the shop and forget this ever happened, so you nod and try your best to match his niceties, “If you would, please, I would be grateful.”

You know something you said was wrong from the way his eyebrows crease ever so slightly but he doesn't call you out on it. He must be too polite.

“Very well.” He turns to approach the drink tower in question before pausing, swiveling on his heels to look at you again, “I apologize. I didn't get your name, Miss…?” He prompts, looking at you expectantly. 

Your brain short circuits. You swear you can feel it pouring from your ears as you fumble wildly for a response. Your name— No! Not your name! Any name but your name.

“Miss… Throckbottom!” You squeak out, only to internally wince when your words reach your ears. Somehow, you have mixed up the worst aspects of two of your clients surnames. Lord Throckmorton, and Lady Oakenbottom. Curiously, it sounds a lot like ‘rock bottom’ and that is exactly how you feel right now. 

Still, Jeno has that stupid, and yet incredibly endearing, amused but polite smile. His eyes crinkle this time, too, so you know you’ve really humored him. You worry that he will question you, or that he knows but he only happily replies, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Throckbottom.” 

The moment he turns away from you, the escape plan begins. Your eyes dart around the room to locate the nearest exit and then you break for it. In your haste, you try to exit a different way than you entered and get utterly lost in a maze of hallways that seem to stretch on forever. 

As you race around the corridors, finding several rooms that seem only to be filled with different types of chairs, multiple locked doors, and a large hall that surely rivaled even the finest art galleries with the collection adorning it's walls, you panic about how deep into this mansion you now are. If you are caught so far away from where you should be, you will be all the more suspicious. And what if you are assumed to be a thief?! Forget being banished from London, you would be thrown straight to the execution block! 

Looping back around on yourself, you barely have any air left in your burning lungs when you make it back to the ballroom, but you are rewarded with a hopeful glimpse of your way out. You try your best to casually make your way across the entire ballroom, sticking to the far edges and drawing as little attention to yourself as possible. Your heart aches when you pass by a tray of sweets unlike any you had ever seen, but you could not risk stopping to try them. Not when you were so close to getting out. 

Finally, you reach the door, but just as you are about to duck and run, a hand catches yours to gently pull you indoors before it lets go. It’s firm and yet much gentler than you would have assumed given that whoever had grabbed you surely wants you arrested or put to death. 

“There you are, Miss…” 

He snuck up on you again. Just who is Mister Lee that he has the ability to go entirely undetected by your senses!? What kind of training does he have? Does he know that you were running about his house like a headless chicken just minutes ago? Has he been following you undetected the whole time? 

Despite your thoughts getting away from you, you muster the strength to turn and face Jeno, planning on at least attempting to defend yourself. You are shocked still by the careful concern written across his face, and dancing in his eyes, entirely unhidden by the flimsy mask he wears. He looks worried, terribly so, about you, you realize. As if he’s aware of the dangerous situation that you have gotten yourself into.

But he can’t be. Not when he says, “Are you unchaperoned, Miss? Surely you should not be. I was surprised when you had vanished.” 

Of course. This is the polite gentleman you had been speaking to, after all. He would be worried about the safety and honor of any lady. It doesn't have anything to do with you in particular.

You shake your head quickly, trying your best to lie your way out of this, “No, my mama is somewhere around here. I only wanted some fresh air, but I forgot myself. It would not do well to leave alone, thank you for the reminder.”

You spot the drink in his hand, the one you had requested, or rather the one he had asked you if you wanted. He had been carrying it around dutifully, then. 

“Perhaps a drink will cool my nerves, actually.” You add, trying your best to come up with a convincing story, “I apologize for leaving so suddenly. This is my first ball and I am rather nervous.”

Jeno passes you the drink, but you don't miss the inquisitive look in his expression, like once again you’ve said something wrong. This time, he does not ignore your mistake. 

“Ah, this is your debut season? You are… somewhat older than the usual debutante, but I can appreciate that it is likely still nerve wracking.” 

Shit. You had thought it would be good cover to play the clueless debutante. It would explain your lack of manners, and your nerves, but you were not sixteen, nor seventeen, nor even eighteen, but twenty-three! You’re not sure whether to be upset or not that he can tell your age from behind your mask. 

You panic, totally blanking, before digging yourself deeper into the hole of lies, “W-well! You see, my family is not… so… wealthy, at the moment, and we have had to save for my dowry… so…” You give up talking and then down the drink, far too quickly, almost choking on the slight burn of the alcohol. You had not realized it would have strong liquor in it. 

Jeno watches you closely, just as he has been the entire time you’ve been speaking to him. Again, he appears endeared, presumably by the way you just threw back your drink, and then he looks as though he has an idea.

“Would you like to share a dance?” 

He looks so genuine as he asks you, like maybe he truly does wish to dance with you. You cannot think of a single reason why. Perhaps he is trying to help you appear more desirable, then? He really is kind. 

“Yes.” 

No. What are you doing? Why did you agree? 

You don't have time to think about that because a pleased-looking Jeno is already leading you towards the floor, and somehow he is perfectly timed with the beginning of the next song. A song that you have no idea how to dance to. You don't know how to dance to any song!

Jeno takes one of your hands into his, and then places the other onto your waist. Thankfully, this appears to be a slow dance rather than anything too complicated. You quickly respond by resting your free hand on his shoulder, and then try your best to follow his lead as the dance starts. 

It's evident almost immediately that you have no idea what you're doing. You’re staring down at your feet instead of looking at him. Even with such simple steps, you’re treading on his feet and messing up the timing. Your eyes snap up to his face worriedly, but there isn't any judgment. Instead, Jeno simply looks contemplative before he leans closer to ask you a question in a hushed voice, “Have you never danced before?” 

Your head is spinning. He’s so close. You’ve never been this close to a man before, not even when tailoring their suit jackets to perfectly fit their arms— and goodness, does Jeno’s jacket fit him well. You are almost mad that you didn't get to tailor it yourself. 

It’s almost a relief that Jeno doesn't seem to require an answer to his question, unbothered that you stare dumbly at him once again, because he certainly already knows the answer. The hand resting at the side of your waist shifts, curling around your lower back, and then he pulls you closer still. He smells faintly of cedarwood and orange blossom and it nearly sends you into a frenzy because why is it so good? You think whatever he is doing to your mind, the way he is hypnotizing you, has tricked you into feeling that you are floating. 

Until you realize that your feet are not on the ground. Jeno is lifting you, with the strength of only one arm, so that you are just barely hovering from the ground. The skirts of your dress are long enough that they still touch the ground, concealing the fact that Jeno is all but puppeteering you into the perfect dancer. 

You must look shocked because Jeno whispers to confirm that you are alright with this before you quickly school your expression back to neutrality and nod. 

It's far too fun dancing with him like this, or just being spun around given that it's very little work for your part. It doesn't look like it's any effort for Jeno either, somehow. How crazy is this guy's core strength, anyways? It wasn't too typical for a gentleman to be that strong, because why would they need to be?

There is a subtle mirth dancing in his eyes when he continues prodding at your facade, “It is strange to neglect to teach a debutante to dance when that is the prime tactic for capturing a suitor.” 

Call you crazy but you might even think that Jeno is having fun, too. At your expense. 

“We could not afford dance lessons.” You grasp onto that same excuse from earlier, hoping he will let it go.

“Ah, then you must have been planning to charm a suitor some other way.” Jeno muses, and he’s still giving you that soft smile that makes you want to just melt, “From what I have seen, you do not seem to be conversationally gifted either, perhaps you have other talents?”

You have half a mind to scowl at him but manage to refrain. It would be too risky to claim being talented in areas you're unable to talk about, especially when you’ve painstakingly learned how curious Jeno is. You know nothing of pianoforte or watercolors, but embroidery you know.

“Needlework.” You say, before remembering to expand on the subject, “It is my greatest passion. I am never prouder of myself than when I am able to create a unique pattern.”

Unfortunately, you find it hard to stop yourself from rambling too much. 

“The pattern on my gloves, for example, uses multiple types of stitching to create what looks like drooping wisteria. Mostly the herringbone stitch and the continental knot stand out, hm, but the humble chain stitch should not go unforgotten. It is a classic.” 

Jeno appears to look at your gloves with an incredible intensity that almost makes you clam up self-consciously before he begins his praise, “It is fine work. Your modiste could be jealous.”

You tried to hide your nervous laughter behind a smile, feeling warm from his compliments, but dying inside at the ironic image of feeling jealousy towards yourself. 

The conversation lulls, but it's a comfortable silence you find yourself in whilst your eyes drift to take in the scenery of the ballroom again. 

You catch a glare from a short, pretty-looking lady and immediately you tense up. It's not just her, the woman next to her is glaring too, and you recognise her as one of your customers, wearing a dress you’d finished laboring over just days ago. You quickly scan the room to find that there are hardly any ladies not giving you some form of nasty look, and there are plenty of gentlemen looking your way as well. 

But of course the ladies are giving you such evil looks. You are dancing with Mister Lee, arguably the most desirable bachelor in the ton, perhaps only aside from his titled brother, though maybe still preferable based on the way you had seen debutantes fawn over his ‘handsome visage, kind eyes, and kinder still personality’ many a time while taking their measurements. The man that holds the supposed unofficial record for highest number of ladies trying to faint on him at a single event, as rumor has it, was still looking only at you. The Jeno Lee that many mothers had scorned whilst waiting for their daughters to finish trying their new gowns on for the fact that he has yet to announce his intention to marry is ever so close to you. The very Jeno that currently has an arm tightly wrapped around you is renowned for putting off his need to marry because he would much rather spend his time at home than at high society parties, so of course the fact that you are taking up so much of his time makes you the target of every unwed lady from here to… The rest of England! 

You feel dizzy from all of the attention, from how you can feel the hundreds of pairs of eyes glued to you. 

You need to leave. As soon as this dance is over. As soon as he lets you back onto the ground.

Almost as if you had pleaded hard enough to the Gods, the dance ends just as you will it to. Jeno finally lets you go. He’s wordless, but again there's something questioning in his eyes that you ignore. You offer your best, and yet definitely still shoddy, curtsey to Jeno and immediately hightail it back towards the main door. 

You have no idea what possesses you but you turn your head back for one last look, unable to stop yourself, to see that Jeno is standing stock still in the middle of the dance floor, watching you leave. His gaze does not falter, it almost burns into you. He makes no move to follow you this time, in fact, he makes no move at all, much to the confusion of the other attendees that watch him linger alone in the dancefloor even after it has been abandoned by everyone else. He just watches you, and then everybody else does as well. That seems to snap him from his daze, and then he’s walking away from the floor but you don't bother to look long enough to find out where to. 

You focus back on your escape, near running now and it isn't long before you are through the door. 

You do not stop running, and you do not look back again.

---

author's note:

thank you so much for reading <3. this is the first time i've published on this blog, so i hope it's well-received. i can make a taglist going forward if anybody is interested, and please stay tuned for part 2! i have at least 8 parts planned overall :). thanks very much to cherry for proofreading this for me <33. - soup

[book--brackets]

Simon Snow by Rainbow Rowell (2015-2021)

Simon Snow is the worst chosen one who’s ever been chosen.

That’s what his roommate, Baz, says. And Baz might be evil and a vampire and a complete git, but he’s probably right.

Half the time, Simon can’t even make his wand work, and the other half, he sets something on fire. His mentor’s avoiding him, his girlfriend broke up with him, and there’s a magic-eating monster running around wearing Simon’s face. Baz would be having a field day with all this, if he were here—it’s their last year at the Watford School of Magicks, and Simon’s infuriating nemesis didn’t even bother to show up.

Carry On is a ghost story, a love story, a mystery and a melodrama. It has just as much kissing and talking as you’d expect from a Rainbow Rowell story—but far, far more monsters.

Gentleman Bastard by Scott Lynch (2006-present)

An orphan's life is harsh — and often short — in the island city of Camorr, built on the ruins of a mysterious alien race. But born with a quick wit and a gift for thieving, Locke Lamora has dodged both death and slavery, only to fall into the hands of an eyeless priest known as Chains — a man who is neither blind nor a priest.

A con artist of extraordinary talent, Chains passes his skills on to his carefully selected "family" of orphans — a group known as the Gentlemen Bastards. Under his tutelage, Locke grows to lead the Bastards, delightedly pulling off one outrageous confidence game after another. Soon he is infamous as the Thorn of Camorr, and no wealthy noble is safe from his sting.

Passing themselves off as petty thieves, the brilliant Locke and his tightly knit band of light-fingered brothers have fooled even the criminal underworld's most feared ruler, Capa Barsavi. But there is someone in the shadows more powerful — and more ambitious — than Locke has yet imagined.

Known as the Gray King, he is slowly killing Capa Barsavi's most trusted men — and using Locke as a pawn in his plot to take control of Camorr's underworld. With a bloody coup under way threatening to destroy everyone and everything that holds meaning in his mercenary life, Locke vows to beat the Gray King at his own brutal game — or die trying...

Piranesi by Susanna Clarke (2020)

Piranesi's house is no ordinary building: its rooms are infinite, its corridors endless, its walls are lined with thousands upon thousands of statues, each one different from all the others. Within the labyrinth of halls an ocean is imprisoned; waves thunder up staircases, rooms are flooded in an instant. But Piranesi is not afraid; he understands the tides as he understands the pattern of the labyrinth itself. He lives to explore the house. 

There is one other person in the house--a man called The Other, who visits Piranesi twice a week and asks for help with research into A Great and Secret Knowledge. But as Piranesi explores, evidence emerges of another person, and a terrible truth begins to unravel, revealing a world beyond the one Piranesi has always known.

The Broken Earth Trilogy by N. K. Jemisin (2015-2017)

This is the way the world ends. . .for the last time.

It starts with the great red rift across the heart of the world's sole continent, spewing ash that blots out the sun. It starts with death, with a murdered son and a missing daughter. It starts with betrayal, and long dormant wounds rising up to fester. 

This is the Stillness, a land long familiar with catastrophe, where the power of the earth is wielded as a weapon. And where there is no mercy.

A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness (2011)

Conor has the same dream every night, ever since his mother first fell ill, ever since she started the treatments that don't quite seem to be working. But tonight is different. Tonight, when he wakes, there's a visitor at his window. It's ancient, elemental, a force of nature. And it wants the most dangerous thing of all from Conor. It wants the truth.

Patrick Ness takes the final idea of the late, award-winning writer Siobhan Dowd and weaves an extraordinary and heartbreaking tale of mischief, healing and above all, the courage it takes to survive.

The Sandman by Neil Gaiman (1990-2003)

In PRELUDES & NOCTURNES, an occultist attempting to capture Death to bargain for eternal life traps her younger brother Dream instead. After his 70 year imprisonment and eventual escape, Dream, also known as Morpheus, goes on a quest for his lost objects of power. On his arduous journey Morpheus encounters Lucifer, John Constantine, and an all-powerful madman.

The Poppy War by R. F. Kuang (2018-2020)

When Rin aced the Keju—the Empire-wide test to find the most talented youth to learn at the Academies—it was a shock to everyone: to the test officials, who couldn’t believe a war orphan from Rooster Province could pass without cheating; to Rin’s guardians, who believed they’d finally be able to marry her off and further their criminal enterprise; and to Rin herself, who realized she was finally free of the servitude and despair that had made up her daily existence. That she got into Sinegard—the most elite military school in Nikan—was even more surprising.

But surprises aren’t always good.

Because being a dark-skinned peasant girl from the south is not an easy thing at Sinegard. Targeted from the outset by rival classmates for her color, poverty, and gender, Rin discovers she possesses a lethal, unearthly power—an aptitude for the nearly-mythical art of shamanism. Exploring the depths of her gift with the help of a seemingly insane teacher and psychoactive substances, Rin learns that gods long thought dead are very much alive—and that mastering control over those powers could mean more than just surviving school.

For while the Nikara Empire is at peace, the Federation of Mugen still lurks across a narrow sea. The militarily advanced Federation occupied Nikan for decades after the First Poppy War, and only barely lost the continent in the Second. And while most of the people are complacent to go about their lives, a few are aware that a Third Poppy War is just a spark away . . .

Rin’s shamanic powers may be the only way to save her people. But as she finds out more about the god that has chosen her, the vengeful Phoenix, she fears that winning the war may cost her humanity . . . and that it may already be too late.

Villains by V. E. Schwab (2013-present)

Victor and Eli started out as college roommates—brilliant, arrogant, lonely boys who recognized the same sharpness and ambition in each other. In their senior year, a shared research interest in adrenaline, near-death experiences, and seemingly supernatural events reveals an intriguing possibility: that under the right conditions, someone could develop extraordinary abilities. But when their thesis moves from the academic to the experimental, things go horribly wrong.

Ten years later, Victor breaks out of prison, determined to catch up to his old friend (now foe), aided by a young girl whose reserved nature obscures a stunning ability. Meanwhile, Eli is on a mission to eradicate every other super-powered person that he can find—aside from his sidekick, an enigmatic woman with an unbreakable will. Armed with terrible power on both sides, driven by the memory of betrayal and loss, the archnemeses have set a course for revenge—but who will be left alive at the end?

Uprooted by Naomi Novik (2015)

Agnieszka loves her valley home, her quiet village, the forests and the bright shining river. But the corrupted Wood stands on the border, full of malevolent power, and its shadow lies over her life.

Her people rely on the cold, driven wizard known only as the Dragon to keep its powers at bay. But he demands a terrible price for his help: one young woman handed over to serve him for ten years, a fate almost as terrible as falling to the Wood.

The next choosing is fast approaching, and Agnieszka is afraid. She knows—everyone knows—that the Dragon will take Kasia: beautiful, graceful, brave Kasia, all the things Agnieszka isn’t, and her dearest friend in the world. And there is no way to save her.

But Agnieszka fears the wrong things. For when the Dragon comes, it is not Kasia he will choose.

Legacy of Orisha by Tomi Adeyemi (2018-2024)

They killed my mother. They took our magic. They tried to bury us. Now we rise. Zélie Adebola remembers when the soil of Orïsha hummed with magic. Burners ignited flames, Tiders beckoned waves, and Zélie's Reaper mother summoned forth souls. But everything changed the night magic disappeared. Under the orders of a ruthless king, maji were killed, leaving Zélie without a mother and her people without hope. Now Zélie has one chance to bring back magic and strike against the monarchy. With the help of a rogue princess, Zélie must outwit and outrun the crown prince, who is hell-bent on eradicating magic for good. Danger lurks in Orïsha, where snow leoponaires prowl and vengeful spirits wait in the waters. Yet the greatest danger may be Zélie herself as she struggles to control her powers -and her growing feelings for an enemy.

[homelanderbutbig]

The Only One He Trusts (G/T Homelander x Reader)

1246 words. Pure fluff. Homelander is 8 feet tall. Reader is non-descriptive. Established relationship.

He big angry but you calm him down.

You hear Homelander coming before you see him. Despite his height, he can be incredibly light-footed when he wants to be. You couldn't believe how many times he's snuck up on you from behind without you even hearing him. But when he is angry, he wants to make sure everyone knows.

His footsteps are loudly coming closer to you, as you sit on the couch reading a book. You put your book down as Homelander enters the penthouse, and you can tell immediately how mad he is by the irritated expression on his face.

"I can't fucking believe these people!" he roars, throwing his hands exasperatingly in the air as he begins pacing around the living room. "I make one little mistake and I drop three fucking points. Three! Like those motherfucking mouthbreathers have any idea what I do for them!"

You sigh as you watch him continue ranting about his day. To everyone else at Vought, Homelander's temper is something to be avoided at all costs. If you say the wrong thing, he will not hesitate to show his disapproval and crush you without a second thought. But you know him differently than everyone else, you see past his posturing to what he desperately wants to hide from the world. He wants to be loved, to be looked at without fear. And you are the only one he trusts to give that to him, without any ulterior motive other than to share your affection with him.

You slowly descend onto the steps to get off the couch, a feat on its own as everything in Homelander's penthouse was built taller for his size. You are grateful he had steps put in at the bottom of all of the furniture, just for you. He immediately stops pacing when you place your feet on the ground, although his brow remains furrowed and his hands are still clenched so tight you are surprised he hasn't ripped the leather.

"Oh sweetheart," you say softly as you walk towards him, with a look on your face only showing concern for his wellbeing. This sympathy that magically quells whatever anger he had just a few minutes ago. Even though you are only eye-level to his abs Homelander feels small when you talk to him like this, as if he is a lost child crying out for his mother.

Homelander watches silently as you look up to him and raise your hand to his fist, gently stroking his knuckles. He can't help but loosen his grip, but he hesitates to hold your hand. There is still a fire burning in him, evident by his face involuntarily twitching as he fights with his emotions.

"You had a bad day today, didn't you?" you ask him. He lowers his head, quietly nodding, but he is unable to look you in the eyes.

"Everyone is allowed to have bad days. Even superheroes," you say as you continue to pet his hand. "You don't have to be angry anymore, sweetie. Let me take care of you."

Whatever fury he had left quickly fizzles out as his expression shifts to sadness, and his eyes start to become watery. He finally starts to open his hand up, allowing you to maneuver your hand in between his large fingers.

Before when Homelander became angry, he would simply stew on his emotions, turning more and more into himself as his only real companion was the man he saw in the mirror. The man who appeared to be looking out for him, but in reality only kept him locked perpetually in this state of numbness and negativity. The antagonism enforced by people cowering in fear of him, not only for his powers but for his inhuman height. The diabolical nature of him that made him a god amongst men, yet also alienated him completely from everyone, human and supe alike.

But when you entered his life, you helped him to let go of that apathy, to cast aside the horrific parental role he made for himself and see the young boy inside begging for love. The tenderness that he didn't think an inhuman god like him would ever receive, or would require as the man in the mirror would tell him. Gods are above human emotions. And yet, he felt no greater happiness than when you allowed him to express his pent up feelings, to allow himself to be human.

"Will you come down for me, honey?" you ask him, as you see the walls he built up from his rage begin to crumble. "You can trust me."

He blinks away the forming tears as he carefully descends to a cross-legged sitting position, mindful not to sit on his cape. An old habit he never let go of, beaten into him as a child. You slowly climb onto Homelander's legs to get closer to his face. He looks at you like a scolded puppy, with tearful sad eyes, waiting for you to tell him everything's alright.

As you gently caress the sides of his face, he cannot help but close his eyes and lean into your touch. He raises his immense hands to your back to keep you propped up as he presses himself further into your fingers, relishing the way you touch him as if he is made of porcelain. You can feel the wetness of his tears as his big head nestles into the crook of your neck, resting on your shoulder.

You can't help but smile at how delicate he is with you, remembering back to the first time you tried giving him this kind of attention. How horrified he looked when his head accidentally pushed you down to the ground when he attempted to lean into your touch. How he cried over thinking he injured you, and that you would leave him out of fright. And how easily you soothed him that it was only an accident, and it didn't make you love him any less.

Moving your hands from his cheeks to his undercut, you start scratching his hair with your nails. You've learned how much this simple act settles him down, and if it were up to him, you'd be doing this 24/7. He reflexively grips you slightly harder as you scratch his scalp, although you know he would never hurt you. He only wants to bring you closer, to hold you and never let go.

"Mmmm…." Homelander mumbles into your neck, the heavy weight of his voice rumbling through your entire body. You let out a brief chuckle, happy to see him finally starting to relax. The tension he came in with is leaving his body as he melts into you. When he's like this he reminds you of a cat, purring at your affection and rubbing his head contently into you.

"That's it baby boy, let it go," you softly whisper into his ear as he continues to sink into you. "You don't have to hold onto your anger anymore. I'm here for you."

"Promise?" you hear him murmur quietly. His voice is so faint it reminds you of the lonely little boy he keeps locked inside, hidden beneath his godlike titan form. The boy he refuses to let anyone else embrace but you, because he trusts you. Out of every single being on this earth, Homelander only trusts you.

"From the bottom of my heart, I promise," you reassure him, moving to kiss his cheek.

"I will always be here for you."

[librarygoth]

to preface I did enjoy Barbie, and I feel like I need to make that really obvious bc it’s the internet and some feminine presenting cis woman will call me a misogynist bc I’m butch lmfao, but I think the movie’s core messages are weakened by the way it handles manhood, masculinity, and queerness. Forgive the typos—I’m probably not gonna read this back:

In Barbie world, there is no room for meaningful gender variance. All gendering is idealized gender, with only feminine presenting women and masculine presenting men fitting into the paradigm—queerly gendered figures like Allen, Weird Barbie, Earring Magic Ken, and Sugar’s Daddy Ken are largely excluded from Barbie world society, both under the Barbies’ matriarchy and the Kens’ patriarchy, are regulated to the fringes and are either ridiculed or ignored. Allen, arguably the closest of these queerly gendered figures to the Ken’s idealized masculinity because his queerness is quieter but ultimately present, finds that under the Barbies’ supposedly utopian matriarchy, he is tolerated but not accepted, and that in the Kens’ patriarchy, he is fully terrified for his life.

Stereotypical Barbie’s narrative arc is a queerly gendered one, hinted at by everything from the Indigo Girls to her inability to fit in with the other Barbies. Ultimately, the movie wants us to understand that idealized expectations of gender are harmful, but simultaneously doesn’t provide any real source of liberation for its queerly gendered characters other than escaping their society for another one. The only reason the queerly gendered Weird Barbie is offered a cabinet position at the end is because she is a woman in a matriarchal society, and because the other Barbies feel guilt at not accepting her—but their feelings about her don’t change. They still think she’s not like them.

On the front of manhood and masculinity, something the movie glosses over is that before the Kens are introduced to the concept of patriarchy, they are marginalized people in the Barbie World society. They have no political, social, or economic power, and during the course of the movie it’s even revealed that they not only don’t have homes, but that the Barbies don’t even care enough to know that they don’t have homes. When the Kens discover patriarchy, their enthusiasm isn’t because they inherently think men deserve to rule the world, but because they were exposed, for the first time, to a system where they had power, and they decided they were sick of being subjected. But this point is undermined by a subtle through line of biological essentialism; early on, we see two Kens ready to fight over Stereotypical Barbie’s affections, suggesting that even here, men are inherently more prone to violence. And the society built in Barbie world is a society in which women are naturally intelligent and capable leaders, and where men are vapid and stupid. Interests and activities viewed as classically masculine are dismissed as frivolous and goofy—even ones without any moral or ethical association.

The only men who are exempt are those with queer genders, and even then, this ignores the well-documented misogyny many cis gay men express, and still positions them outside of society without any greener grass in sight. And in Barbie world, queerness for men equates femininity (just as Weird Barbie’s queerness is something more masculine than the other Barbies, even if not masculinity proper), which implied that masculinity, not manhood, is actually the crime, and that manhood and masculinity are inextricably linked (again, Weird Barbie isn’t masculine, per se. She just isn’t feminine).

So while the movie’s message seems to be rooted in the idea that idealized femininity and idealized masculinity are harmful, it seems to also believe that masculinity and manhood are bad, and femininity and womanhood are good, but only if performed in the right way. We are supposed to understand that even if Stereotypical Barbie needs to leave to truly understand herself, the other Barbies have concrete senses of self and purpose, and that even if idealized gender expectations are harmful, Barbie world is better when ruled by the femininity—even that under feminine rule, it’s a utopia. But it’s still a world where queer expressions of gender and sexuality don’t have the opportunity to exist (Barbies only date Kens after all, no matter how many young sapphics made their Barbies scissor). Weird Barbie is specifically an interesting representation of queerness—it is only masculine girls (masculine in this context just means sapphic; sapphicness is a divergence from femininity in any society that values idealized femininity above all other forms), who are believed to have destroyed their Barbies as children. It’s often a point of pride among women who “aren’t like the other girls,” or those who like to feel different. Of course the reality is different—I’m a butch who never destroyed my Barbies; I just made them help my Power Rangers save the day. But the discrepancy between Weird Barbie (who is queer coded in a way straight audiences will likely understand) and Stereotypical Barbie (who is queercoded in a way likely only more accessible to queers, but specifically lesbians, who isn’t attracted to any of the Kens who want her but can’t figure out why), is stark. Stereotypical Barbie isn’t cast out of society because she is still performing a degree of acceptable femininity, and has the privilege choosing to leave. Weird Barbie, on the other hand, is forced to the fringes of society because she is visibly queer.

It’s fascinating to me that feminine presenting cis women (or those like AFAB she/theys who may not be cis but essentially move through the world as if they are feminine presenting cis women), have universally labeled the Barbie movie “for the girls,” when in reality, it feels to me more of a movie for those who fail to perform gender correctly. But I understand why, because the movie still, loudly and clearly, sends the message that femininity is good, and masculinity is bad—and of course the people most harmed by this message, which is oh so prevalent in leftist spaces, queer spaces, feminist spaces, are trans fems (bc transmisogyny), trans mascs, butches, studs, people whose masculinity is racialized, and people who experience marginalized masculinities.

[mad-maximoff]

𝐒𝐎𝐊𝐎𝐕𝐈

Dark AOU WandaXReader (Quick Fic)

Summary: Wanda is adjusting to living in a new country. In a new home, Tony decides to throw a massive party to celebrate defeating Ultron. Wanda becomes quite attached to you. Once she sees Natasha flirt with you, she wants you to know who you belong to.

Warnings: Dub/con, Language, Possessiveness, BDSM (bondage/degrading/Wanda dom/R sub), magical cüm-filled strap use, drinking, drunk sex, jealousy

Word Count: 4,907

The party was in full swing. Everyone was celebrating the defeat of Ultron a couple of days later. Everyone mourned the deaths, especially Wanda. She was at the stage of anger in grief. She snapped at every second something upset her. Who couldn't blame her? Her twin brother, the only family she had was killed. You couldn't imagine what she was feeling. She never opened up to you. You were her handler. You made sure she made her way around upstate New York. Her English wasn't too confident but she made due. You were young, and wanted the job Tony gave you. You worked for Stark Industries for two months before Ultron was created. You were assigned to help with Tony's image. Tony is tech-savvy yes, but your 21-year-old mind was built for social media. You made sure the Avengers (especially Tony) had a good social standing on all social media platforms. Plus you kept the entire world in the loop in their lives. You couldn't release top secret information on the internet but you shared funny clips or photos of all of them. Just to show the world that the Avengers are normal people. You lived in the new compound, it felt like you never left. So Tony decided to allow you to stay in one of the numerous extra rooms he had. 

You were in your bedroom finishing off your makeup and hair. You'd hate to admit it, but you've become more vain living here in the compound. You were surrounded by perfect bodily heroes. They woke up and didn't have to do much to look good. You always had to stay on your a-game. You adjusted the straps on your new Versace platformed heels feeling 6 feet tall. You weren't too comfortable in heels so you had no idea why in the hell you let Natasha persuade you into buying them. However, she was right. They matched your black lace bodycon dress you are wearing tonight, and you tried to pair your outfit with the right fragrance. Burberry? Dior? No. Yes, Valentino Donna. It smelt amazing; just a few sprays made your confidence skyrocket.  

Once you stepped out of your room you noticed the difference when Tony told you the bedrooms are noise cancelled. The music was blaring, it was deafening. You got closer to the huge living room crowded with dozens of people. Tony was near the DJ taking song requests, Steve was chatting with Sam, Thor and Banner were conversing with other geeky guys and Natasha and Clint were behind the bar serving drinks. From where you were standing, you couldn't see Wanda. She's probably hiding in a corner of the room only observing. You made your way down the staircase to the main dance floor cutting threw dancers. Countless men stopped mid-dance, or sentence just to stare at you. You weren't interested in chitchat, nor were you interested in men for that matter. Even when Stark and Pepper tried to set you up with hundreds of men they thought you'd like. You never had the heart to come out and tell them. Not quite yet. 

You made it to the bar waiting patiently for either Nat or Clint to see you. You could tell what their game plan was. Clint handled the beer and other already-made drinks, as Nat was the real bartender. You admired their friendship. You wished you had something like that.

"Hey there pretty lady, unfortunately, I need to see some ID." Natasha leaned over the counter making eye contact with you. You laughed abruptly looking around the room making sure no one else heard her. 

"Oh my god! Stop it! Haha! You know damn well how old I am." Natasha chuckled to herself shaking a shaker full of liquor. 

"I don't know, pretty thing like you. Under all that makeup, you could easily be a minor." She unscrewed the cap and poured a red liquid into two martini glasses, handing it to two blondes to the right of her. 

"Jesus Romanoff, are you trying to flirt with me?" You grinned fidgeting with your dangly diamond earring and playing with your earlobe softly. 

"On the contrary Miss Y/n. All I'm trying to be is a good bartender. So, what'll be?" Her arm reached pointing behind her back to the countless decisions of booze to choose from. 

"Make me a screwdriver. Extra vodka." She adjusted your posture looking out onto the dancefloor, but still no sign of Wanda. "Where's Maximoff? She's not cooped up in her room again is she?" You turned your back to the bar leaning against it. 

"Oh, you're really getting drunk tonight huh? You're off the clock Y/n, you don't have to worry about her." Natasha lifted the bottle pouring more vodka than orange juice into a short glass. "You should be enjoying yourself. Instead of searching for her, search for someone to hook up with." She winked handing you the glass. 

"Ha! Me? Hook up with some random woman? I could never." Your lips pursed connecting to the rim of the glass, the ice hit your lips first allowing the orange liquid enters your mouth. You shouldn't have asked for extra vodka. You remembered Natasha always was heavy-handed with the liquor. Your drink was basically all vodka and a splash of orange juice. 

"Yes beautiful, you can get any special lady you want. Looking the way you are." Her hand reached over touching your exposed bicep. Her thumbs caressed your skin. You blushed to feel the heaten quicken. "You're a damn flirt, Nat." You flicked your wrist towards her. 

You left the bar area stepping down the steps to the dance floor. You're entire body burnt. You haven't finished your drink yet but the burning sensation came quickly. 

"Haha fuck this drink is hitting quick!" You talked to yourself under your breath. The burning felt like a lighter under your ass. It wasn't a drunk burning, it was like you were set ablaze. You made your way to stand beside Steve. 

"Hello fellas, found any luck with the ladies yet?" The burning was starting to startle you when it was becoming hotter. You tried to push through it thinking maybe being smushed against so many people in one room with loud music was making you feel this warm. 

"Nope." Both Steve and Sam replied clinking their beers together. "You might have more luck than us though." Steve fluffed his plaid shirt; fixing his leather up. You chugged the rest of your drink knowing if you didn't you'd leave it somewhere and forget it. "Hm? Why's that Rogers?" Your fingertips clung to the rim of the glass. Sam chuckled to himself folding his arms across his chest. 

"Cause Wanda is staring you down like a hawk." Steve pointed with his hand that held his beer. You turned your head around your shoulder finally seeing Wanda. 

Her hair was slicked back into a high ponytail, wearing a deep crimson sundress with outlines of white flowers as the print. Over her dress, she was wearing a faded black leather jacket, with matching leather armbands. Her head tilted directly looking at you. Her eyes were burning red, she seemed angry. Her platform boots scuffed across the floor making her way to you. 

"There you are! I've been looking for you! Where were you hiding?" You sat your empty drink on a table meeting Wanda's gaze. She didn't initially speak she sat an unknown bottle wrapped in a brown paper back and duct tape beside your glass. 

"I've been here this entire time detka. Fata prostuță. You wanna drink? I brought a special treat back from Sokovia." Wanda's ringed fingers circled the rim of the cap of the bottle. She undid the tape pulling the bottle out of the brown bag. The bottle wasn't in English, all written in Sokoivan. 

"Oh yeah? Eu sunt fata prostuță? What is it even? Is it vodka or gin?" You grasped the bottle from her hands trying to make out what it was. Your Sokoivan was good but this bottle was hard to read. It was like the print was printed on accidentally twice. Red and Black. All you can read was the name of it printed big in the middle of the label "SOKOVI". Both Steve and Sam joined, telling Thor to come over. 

"It's just liquor. The only way for anyone to buy this is to be a Sokoivan citizen. You can only buy one bottle a year. This stuff is so strong they photocopy your ID. 

"Holy shit kid, this stuff is 100% proof. I think you can fill a Toyota Corolla with this. You sure this is legal?" Sam peered over your shoulder. Thor cackled hitting his hand this his chest. "No matter. This Midgardian drink is no match for my Asgardian liquor. This is no drink for normal mortals." He pulled out a metal flask raising it to the sky. 

"Well, then you wanna put your money where your mouth is Thor? We drink a shot of each and see who's left standing hm?" You were cocky you'd admit. So, originally you thought Thor would take your sarcastic remark and laugh it off. To your shock, he did the complete opposite. "Fine! A dual of drink it is! Natasha, bring the young girl and I shot glasses!" He threw his flask down next to you on the table pulling out the metal chairs. 

"I must warn you two. When I was 9, me and...Pietro... stole a bottle of beer from our neighbour's balcony. We sat on our step outside taking sips of it feeling grown. Our father caught us, he sat us down and made us take a teaspoon size amount each of SOKOVI as punishment. We both were sick for two weeks afterwards. I didn't even start drinking again until I was 22." Wanda laughed touching her hand to her chest. It was the first time you saw Wanda happy, genuinely in a long time. The last time you saw her this happy was when she met Clint's newborn, Nathaniel Pietro Barton. He was named after her brother. She wished he met him. She looked so cute holding the baby.

The crowd started to surround us after hearing Thor boast about him kicking your ass. You were not afraid. You knew you could hold down liquor. Though these both weren't ordinary drinks by no means. 

"Honey, you can always opt-out. If you're not comfortable saying no I can tell blondie for you." Natasha came with the shot glasses for both of you. Grazing your hand as she dropped off the glasses to the table. 

"Thank you, Romanoff. But I think Y/n can handle it. She's stronger than you think." Wanda gritted her teeth towards her, hovering behind you. Her brows furrowed flipping her ponytail to the other side. Her hands pressed down on your shoulders, your dress had spaghetti straps. Your body jolted feeling Wanda's small cold hands touching your exposed skin. Her rings on her finger dug into the tops of your shoulders. It was sharp but in a way, you enjoyed feeling her on you. 

"Oh don't get me wrong Wands, I know she's a tough girl. But she's going against a god with a drinking problem. I just don't want her to overdo it." Natasha could tell Wanda was mad at her piping up, she looked down at you in confusion. You gave her the same expression wondering what had gotten into Wanda. Until Nat gave a little cheeky smirk. You couldn't tell what it was for. 

"What? You don't think I can take of Y/n? Is that it?" Wanda's hands lowered off your shoulders down to your biceps. Stroking the outside of your arms with her thumbs. Her nails were naturally long with a coat of cracked black nail polish, and every circle she made with her thumb ran a sharp fondness of her nail. 

Natasha's smirk never left staring directly down at you. "Oh no, don't mind me. If you think you can take care of Miss Y/n. Then be my guest. She'll be the last drunk I have to deal with at the end of the night I guess. I'll leave you two alone." She snickered staring directly at Wanda, before leaving you two she looked at you once again giving a wink. Retreating to Clint who started taking bets on you and Thor. 

"You do that Romanoff." Her tone was cold. "Don't let her scare you detka. You're a big girl. You can take it." Her hand joined your jaw doing the same circular motion she was making on your arms. 

"Now. Open up." She held your jaw tightly, using her other hand to grab one of the shots. Both were clear so we all didn't know which is which. She let your lips softly touch the prim tipping the liquid into your mouth. It burnt worse than the burning feeling you felt moments ago. It tasted like gasoline but 10 times worse. Like flavoured gasoline. Peppermint? Maybe. You couldn't fully get the real taste of it thank god or else you would've puked. Either way, it tasted awful. Thor did the same shooting back either one, letting out a huge cheer. 

"That's the spirit, Wanda! Let the game of drink commence!" He swiped his other shot throwing that one back as quickly as he let go of the first one. You grasped onto the glass doing the same motion. You almost puked. The second one was way worse. Much, much worse. You'd rather drink the peppermint gasoline. It just tasted like straight bleach. The smell, the taste. You swear for a brief moment that's what they gave you. 

                                            

╔═══ -ˋˏ *.·:·.⟐.·:·.* ˎˊ═══╗

An hour or two has passed. Maybe it was only 30 minutes. You couldn't tell, you couldn't even remember who you were. Steve was by your side helping you sit up straight. You were sweating bullets. You were a mess. Your dress straps hung off your shoulders, Wanda constantly had to fix them as you moved in your seat. You were too stubborn to give up. You and Thor were on the sixth set of shots. Thor was slurring, frailing his muscular arms around like a lunatic. 

"You okay frumos? You look like you should tap out huh?" Wanda caressed your temples lifting your head to look at her. Your reflexes were involuntary, your lips lifted on each corner. "Nah!! I'm fucking fine Wanda! I can do another couple of rounds." Your body slumped forward making your tits bounce against the table. Your head was too heavy for your neck letting your face smash into your chest. Steve and Wanda took either side of your body pushing your back onto the chair. Wanda wrapped her hand around the back of your throat holding you up. "Come now Y/n. You proved you're point. You showed me and that little flirt Widow you can hold your own. Let's bring you back to your room." Her cheek grazed yours as she whispered in your ear. 

"No Wanda! I'm not done yet! I take care of you! Not the other way around! Thor! Pour me another!" You slurred letting the words drool out of you. You bolted from your seat standing straight. The Sokoivan and Asgardian liquor hit you like a ton of bricks once all the blood flow is released into your legs. You almost fell flat on your ass. Steve had quick reflexes hositing you up by your wrist. 

"Woah there come on Y/n. Please sit back down." Steve gave your wrist a tiny tug trying to lead you back to the seat. You looked over at Wanda seeing her facial expression from a smirk to a hostile glare. Her head tilted again looking down through her eyebrows. Her eyes changed from green to deep red. "Y/n. Listen to us. Now." 

"What is your neck and ears broken? I told you no! Come, come Thor. Pour em!" You twitched breaking free from Steve's hand. Sam shook his head pouring two shots of each liquor for Thor and yourself. "This is it, guys. This is your cut-off. I don't care who wins. Let's hope you both survive tomorrow morning." He pushed two shot glasses in front of you and him. Sealing on the caps tightly. Tony was video recording the entire event. Clint and Natasha were sitting at the bar table watching the disaster from the distance. You threw the one shot into your mouth almost forgetting to swallow. 

"Y/n. Listen to me. Be a good girl and sit your ass down." Wanda's small fingers pointed sharply at the chair behind you. You knew you were too drunk to answer. You had other thoughts brewing. 

"Wanda? Give me my last shot! Then I'm done!" You whipped around facing her directly. Wanda raised an eyebrow grabbing hold of the last shot. "Really now? You promise me?" 

"Fuck yes! Let's do it!" Your head bowed staring at Wanda's boots. 

"Will you let me do it my way detka? Huh, baby?" Her finger lifted your head from your chest. 

"Yes..let's get it over with it." Your arms wrapped around Wanda's hips. She jolted bucking your hands away. "Drink now. Play later." Her arm pushed yours away. You gave a puzzled look at her remark, not fully knowing what she meant. She pressed her lips on the shot glass drinking it back. 

"Hey!!" You were too drunk to talk, every word slurred any emotion. She didn't swallow the liquor, her head leaned forward crashing both of your lips together. Her lips parted allowing the liquid to glide from her mouth to yours. Everyone cheered and hollered at the sight of us. Wanda was taller than you, but your heels made you two the same height. Her hand was behind your head showing her dominant nature you've never fully seen yet. She let you go catching her breath. You swallowed the liquor, plobbing back down on the chair. 

"I told you I'd do it my way Y/n. Now, you're done for the night." Wanda's arms flung around your neck placing her chin on your shoulder. "Let's bring you upstairs. I'll take care of you better..." 

"Alright, just give me a second. I forgot to give Nat a case file this afternoon." Your task made you sober up for a milli-second remembering you forgot to do something before Natasha's mission tomorrow. Wanda's arms tightened around your neck, her nails dug into your bare shoulders. "How about I go and grab it tomorrow morning? I don't want you to go near her right now." You stood up pushing her away. "Wanda I'm fine. I can grab it, I'm not that drunk." Your posture was slouched stumbling to the glass doors to the research office, where the printer was. 

There sat a fairly large green folder. Your hands were going numb. You had trouble trying to grasp the folder. You knew you shouldn't have had that last shot, it was beginning to fuck you up. You must have looked like a complete idiot trying to grab this folder. Someone was laughing behind you. "Y/n? If you forgot my folder you could've told me. Instead of looking like an idiot." Natasha chuckled clicking her heels closer to you.

"I'm sorry I forgot." You didn't realize your hands were not even close to the folder, you were trying to grab it a foot away. "Here мед, let me help." Nat's body was against your back, her hands rolled down your arms clutching your hands. Your hands finally touched the green folder. "Oh finally! Thank you, Natty!" You flipped around still having Natasha close to you. Her hands reached up to your cheeks. "You're welcome you little cutie." She grinned softly, looking directly into your eyes. Her head came close planting a tiny kiss on your forehead. She let go whisking the folders away. "Come on now, Ms. Maximoff is probably having an aneurysm your not near her 24/7." 

You giggled brushing her retort. "Oh shut up, Wanda's harmless. Besides, I've been assigned to her for so long, of course, she has an attachment to me." You followed behind Natasha; shutting off the lights behind you. 

"Come now Y/n. She almost tore my head off when I told you not to drink with the god of thunder. I don't want her to get in my head again." You both walked shoulder to shoulder looking out into the crowd. You couldn't see Wanda in the crowd. You didn't realize she was behind the both of you. She was watching you two through the windows. Her eyes pierced into your body. The burning sensation came back. It felt as though your soul was being stretched like an elastic, about to snap. You initially thought you were having a heart attack. You stopped in your tracks as Natasha continued walking until she realized you weren't following her. "Y/n? What's wrong? Are you okay?" Her heels pivoted clicking on the laminate. 

"She's fine Romanoff. Go back to the party I'll take care of her." Wanda's eyes glowed with her hands dancing a crimson light. Her wrist flicked and Nat trailed off forgetting about you. Wanda stepped behind you, feeling the padding of her bra graze your shoulder blades. 

"Ești o curvă murdară..Hm? You're a cheap slut aren't you?" You couldn't speak. Your throat dried up making your saliva feel like you were swallowing sand. It hurt to breathe. "N-no...I'm not a..." Your eyes became a disco ball, black darkness with white sparkles all over. You couldn't form a coherent sentence to protest. Wanda's hand dipped under your dress cupping your crotch forcefully. 

"No? Cause you feel soaked already. Face it detka. You're a stupid slut that doesn't know how to act." Her voice strung along as you faded out.

    ╔═══ -ˋˏ *.·:·.⟐.·:·.* ˎˊ- ═══╗

You woke up cold. You were somewhat sober, your head still sprung around but you were conscious. You went to sit up until you felt your arms lock above your head. You looked seeing your arms locked in leather cuffs over your head on the headboard. So were your legs. You didn't realize you were naked until you saw your ankles cuffed, your legs spread wide open showing off your small center and the light fuzz trailing down your pubic bone. 

"Awe great, you're finally awake. Good. Now we get to have some." She sat in an armchair beside the bed. She was hunched over with her hands between her legs. Her makeup was ruined, her face was naturally rouged either from anger or from crying. Her black makeup was smudged all over her cheeks. 

"What? What the hell is going on Wanda? What are you doing to me?!?" You flexed your arms trying to unhook yourself. 

"Oh no, no. You don't want that Y/n. You bruise very easily. I think you should get yourself checked. Look at the number I've done, You could connect the dots." She laughed sitting up from the chair. Her hand grazed your thigh, you saw her work and it instantly made your stomach drop. It was a mixture of big purple and red bruises. Some had teeth marks near your opening. The inside of your legs across your panty line was coated in circular teeth marks breaking blood under the skin. My god, she was right. She did do a number on you. 

"When did you do this? I don't feel good Wand." Your stomach felt hollow, it wasn't a pleasant feeling. You felt like you were going to puke or pass out again. All of this at the same time was making you feel extremely weird. You liked Wanda, but she scared you in this moment. You had never seen this side of her. 

"Nu contează detka. You need to realize you're mine. You need to stop flirting with that little tart Widow. You work for me. So all of you is mine." She didn't have her leather jacket on, she leaped onto your stomach. Her thighs glided across your tender skin. She was soft but her skin felt sticky. 

"You're going to be a good slut for me? You better be you ungrateful drunk whore." She spat out pulling her dress over her head. She threw her dress on the floor exposing everything. Her full breasts were pierced with black jewelry. They became instantly erect as the air touched them. 

"Oh god-...Wanda please no..." Your head moved around left and right thinking maybe it was a terrible dream. 

"Oh no? No? You don't have a say in this matter. You deserve to get what I'm giving you. Slutty drunks need to be taught how to act in public." Her eyes glowed red again as her hand dangled between her legs. A red sparkled cock appeared attached to her mound. You twitched trying not to cry. Your entire body tensed up knowing what was going to happen. You didn't want this to happen like this. Hell, you didn't know you'd end up like this tonight. 

"You'll love me inside you once you calm down. Be a good fuck toy for Mommy hm? " Her hand dropped down running her fingers roughly through your folds, and finally found your clit. You thought you didn't want this? So why in the hell are you wet? 

“N-no please…not like this Wanda…I didn’t want it to be like this.” You begged thinking your cries may move your capture.

“Not like this huh? How would you want it? You don’t realize I went through your search history…” Wanda’s finger traced along your breast, her nail dug into your nipple. Your face was heated knowing what she was talking about. “I saw all your porn searches, you like to watch European girls dominating and tying up other girls huh? So you’d like this then?” Her hand flicked with a red mist wrapping around your wrists and legs. The grip felt like cement around your skin. 

“Isn’t this what you imagined Y/n? A European woman dominating you? Fucking you? This Sokovian wants to teach you a fucking lesson. You’re such a dirty little slut.” Her pinky fluttered wrapping her mist around your throat tightening the grip all over your body. Wanda's index and middle fingers spread your center. "La naiba, fetița...all open for mommy." You felt the object part your folds, and you winced rightfully knowing you couldn't escape. Her hips slowly leaned in, eyes burning red. You whined sucking in air between your teeth. Her lip curled to the side smirking at her good work. "You were such a drunk slut, thinking you can just cozy up to Romanoff like I wasn't fucking watching! You're such a perfect fit Y/n. You were made for me. Just me." Wanda's hips bucked thursted out pushing back in. You whined again and came out as a moan. 

"Ah-..." Your hands twitched trying to move your fingers. Your toes curled finally feeling the pleasure overcome you. The painful sting went away, it was a calming sensation. Like Wanda let her guard down while she was inside you. You read it on her face. Her brows weren't furrowed, and her teeth were bitten into her bottom lip with her eyes closed. You let out your moans fully noticing the red around your throat turning a lighter shade of pink. 

"Oh, you like that huh? See. You are a dirty little whore." She hummed watching her strap fill your tight pussy. Your breathing was ecstatic, your drool was all over your chin dripping down your throat. "Y-yes! I'm a dirty whore. I'm a slut! P-please fuck me! Harder please!" You panted seeing her hands grope your free breasts. 

"It's good you see it my way. I'm pumping detka." Wanda's hips hit harder, the sweat from her inner thighs hit your bare ass. The friction from her skin onto yours was causing blotched burns every shade of red. 

You asked to be fucked harder. Harder she did. Every thrust into your pussy felt like it kept slipping in and out. A huge pool formed in the sheets underneath you two. You were reaching the top of your climax ready to crumble like a ton of bricks. Wanda was too, her magical strap made her feel every movement. She was cumming too. Wanda's head went back climaxing without you. You weren't that far behind, however. Seeing Wanda cum made you tip over. You screamed out as you came. 

"S-s-shit!"

"Fuck Y/n! Fuck!" Wanda screamed sliding herself out making the twitching strap disappear. 

All of her mist disappeared also freeing you. You leaped up onto your knees. Wanda's back was turned to you. "What are you doing detka?" She ran her fingers to her scalp pulling out the elastic. Fluffing out her brown locs to take out the kinks. "I'm going to show a western custom." You kissed her shoulder, you grabbed her shoulders pulling her down into her bed. Getting on top of her. "What in the hell are you doing?"

"Come cuddle with me, please?" You wrapped your arms and legs around her torso like a spider monkey. You buried your face into her chest. 

"Îmbrățișa?" Wanda's voice was confused like she didn't know what you were talking about. 

"Da. Îmbrățișa.We cuddle afterwards." Your cheek rested on her as Wanda's fingers interlocked with your hair. She huffed breathing in. 

"Fine. This is a weird custom Y/n."

[beetlebug-bii]

Part 3 of feral mc but with Belphie being released from the attic. Just imagine Belphie trying to kill mc and they just bite him. Not even Barbatos could handle the child so I highly doubt Belphie could either lol.

Feral Child Mc (part three)

MC Gets Betrayed & Bombastically Side Eyed Their Way To Beating A Bitch.

A/N: I like my writing to be nothing short of silly goofy, i also wrote this at like 4am two weeks ago and was so surprised to see it in my drafts. Did i proof read it? No.

Enjoy anyways💕

Now, you have been a menace since you've arrived

Only truly unstoppable by Diavolo, Lucifer and Barbatos on a good day

Today

Was not one of those days

No

Not at all

You see

Late in the night after being very snuggly tucked in

And then duck taped to the bed

And then your pajamas stapled to the bed

And then tied to the bed

In their defense

Not a single brother has gotten a single decent night of sleep

Not since Mammon awoke one night to see your little face peeking out from the vents

You screamed at him and launched from the darkness, stealing his sun glasses before scrumbling deep into the walls

no one has ever heard Mammon scream so loudly

Needless to say they were pretty fucking done with your scrumbling

Besides, they tied Satan to the bed and look at him! A totally chill and normal member of society :D

Anyways you were built different and managed to escape

You had to check on your little friend in the attic after all, it had been a few days

Upon going in, you glared at eachother for exactly three minutes and fourteen seconds

Before he started the whole sweet act on you

"Awh hey, you can let me out now right? You can do that? Whose a good little human?"

Offense taken

You werent a dog

though you wont lie and say you havent growled back at Cerberus before...

No you know what

Who does this man think he is?

You are a child with 6 of the deadliest pacts in the world!

...

...

...

Wait a second

Who thought that was a good idea

Genuinely

You are feral

A monster

The other students at RAD cower before you

You made the Angel's cry

YOU CHOKED BARBATOS WITH A SHOE LACE

WHO IN THE 7 CIRCLES OF HELL THOUGHT IT WOULD BE A GOOD IDEA TO MAKE A PACT WITH YOU OF ALL PEOPLE

well whatever it's not like this is gonna come back and bite you

But you werent gonna release the bitch from his kennel

Not without a price

Mammon would be so so proud of you!

It took a lot of back and forth, but he promised 12 firecrackers, a new plushie, and a trip to the candy store

Hell yea candy

Open up oh magic lock

Oh he fucking kicked you across the room

Well that's not fucking candy

Lying prick

So this fucking incel loser started ranting about something or other

To be honest you didnt care

In fact you decided he didnt get a monologue

You were pissed off

You freed him

Were you the embodiment of capitalism while doing so?

Maybe

But that doesnt mean he can just hit you

Like

You have such a cute face

He's just mad that you're the baby of the family now

And that thought gave you a great idea!!

"I'm telling Lucifer"

Would have been your final words

Had you not been

Well

You.

Next thing you know he's chasing you down the stairs, grabbing you and choking you out

Which

Not gonna lie

Was a bitch move

So you kicked him square in the jaw and started screaming, just like papa lucifer taught

Stranger danger kids

Dont release strange men from the attic in exchange for candy

It's not worth it and they are lying

So obviously you pissed off what's his name

You're pretty sure its bitch boy

Anyways so you pissed off bitch boy and he started trying to stab you with a chair leg

Which was like

So rude

And the others were like bro stop

Except more panicked you're pretty sure but you werent a crybaby bitch like this loser so you know

You had to go for the knees

You slid around him, kicked him in the back of the knees

This wasnt your first rodeo

Apparently

Because you climbed on the demonic cow and grabbed the horns man

You were holding on for dear life before you just bit into his head

Like

I dont think he even knew what to do at that point

You ruined his WHOLE SPEECH

THEN FOR SOME REASON YOU GOT MAD AT HIM

gee I wonder why

THEN HIS BROTHERS SHOWED UP

THIS WASNT SUPPOSED TO BE HOW IT WENT AT ALL

PRICK

Recounting this tale now, a few months later, you'd like to think that he was just being the most frfr brother out of everyone

You two had to be torn apart like a pair of summer popsicles

You were kicking and screaming

He was kicking and screaming

Mammon was kicking and screaming, somehow his leg got caught in between you two

It was a warzone

The hallway was destroyed

Multiple bedrooms? Just gone

The brothers?

So

So tired...

None of that fake shit

Deep down you know you would've won though

You still call him bitch boy💕

[littlelostmabari]

Day 22: Templar

Characters: Carver Hawke, Cullen Rutherford

Word Count: 1k

CW: Lyrium, initiation, brief references to bodily fluids

A/N: Carver and Bethany are alive in One of the Good Ones, Carver joined when Bethany was taken. I wanted to explore what his vigil might have been like, knowing how much rage Carver had in Kirkwall.

The candle was quickly burning out, but he wasn't quite through this recitation of Transfigurations. A lay brother or sister, dressed in dark and nondescript clothes as not to distract his eyes slid into the room behind him to replace it. They murmured a small prayer as the flame flit from the melted one to the fresh wick.

My Maker, know my heart: Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.

It was the sixth time he'd repeated this verse, because it was the only one he could reliably remember. The others took longer to recall, which meant his mind seemed to wander away from the candle to topics that this vigil was meant to wash from him. Instead, his lips moved over words the same words he had been praying since he was a child.

A memory burbled up. He tried to let the fire burn it away, focusing on the first droplet of wax as it dribbled down the side and solidified a third of the way down it's length. Unfortunately it grew and grew and grew until he could feel the warm breeze across his face and heard the laughter of his sisters as his father chased them around the great tree in front of their house pretending to be a monster. He palmed the wooden sword in his hand, and pointed it at his father and crowed a warning with a grin on his face. His father turned and mimicked a wound, falling to the ground and moving only when the children piled on top.

His mother called his name, and when he turned and saw her silver hair and the wrinkles at the edge of her eyes and it was sandstone behind her instead of wood and the great tree and the grasses of the place that used to be their home… Then he was in the stone and plaster room where his vigil took place, and he had been distracted from the candle and Transfigurations. "My… My Creator…"

My Creator, judge me whole: Find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval.

His sister, younger than him by an hour, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and told him it would all be okay as the candle passed the quarter mark. She held him as he watched the men in steel and red cloth take her by the elbow and force her to her knees. She held him as he watched them squeeze her fate around her wrists as chains of lyrium, and she held him as she did not cry like their mother did and like he desperately tried not to.

Their mother cried harder when he packed a bag of only the essentials and screeched at her that he would never let his family be alone in that Circle. He cursed at his older sister as she arrived just in time from her adventures to see their family torn apart and permanently affixed to the city she had brought them to. He spat that she had made her choice when she chose that dwarf instead of her family.

The rage of that memory was too fresh, it built in him until he was burning with the same fire that he had wished on his older sibling, and suddenly it was gone in a wash of purged magic. He seized, breath shoved out of his lungs as they were crushed against his spine with the strength of the Maker and his Light.

He had not eaten in twenty-four hours, so the contents that he spit up onto the stone floor at the base of Andraste's feet was nothing but bile and acid. He coughed through it, shaking and digging his fingertips into the carpet under his knees. When he finally felt strong enough to sit up, he looked up into the eyes of the Knight-Captain who stood over him with his lips pursed into a tight line.

"The vigil is a delicate thing, recruit. During this moment, you are as susceptible to possession as a novice mage." The Knight-Captain stepped back into his watch position. "I do not know what drove you to such rage, but do not lose yourself to emotion again."

The recruit pressed himself back into a kneeling position, sitting back on his feet and ignoring the spot of his embarrassment and failure on the floor that he knew that lay-person would need to clean later.

O Maker, hear my cry: Seat me by Your side in death. Make me one within Your glory. And let the world once more see Your favor.

He did not know how much time passed between his indiscretion and the ungloved hand landing on his shoulder. He looked up into the face of the man who had watched him all day and all night, and his mind was so empty that he hardly recognized the face that had chastised him before.

A vial was pressed to his lips, and he drank.

The blue tasted of syrup and herbs and something that he could only describe as a blanket made of a sorrowful lullaby. It was thick and thin, blue and clear, sweet and bitter, and he knew in that moment that there was no life without it. It was the light that swallowed his entire world.

The Knight-Captain lowered the man in his care to the ground gently, and held him as he seized so his head would not strike against the cold stone. The boy's body shook and the scream it wanted to make was stifled into a groan. When he finally settled, the Knight-Captain lay his head on the carpet and rose to open the door.

"Ser Barnier. Ser De Mora. Take your new brother to the infirmary."

He watched the Knights take the boy out of the room with the gentleness they received at their vigil years ago. He glanced back at the room with its fourteen burnt out candles and the evidence of the grueling process of rending a soul from it's shell and preparing it for what came next.

"Welcome to the Order, Ser Hawke."

For You are the fire at the heart of the world, And comfort is only Yours to give.

[snowflakesstrawberrymatcha]

Midnight Melody

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

Montague x fem!reader

A/N: Look at the beautiful night while writing is awesome!

Requests: None

TW: None

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

It was during my first week at the hotel, as the evening sun dipped behind the mountains, that I stumbled upon Montague. He stood by the grand piano in the lounge—a stark silhouette against the gentle radiance of candelight. His dark gray-blue coat hung on him like a shadow, and his heterochromatic eyes, one brown and one blue, radiated a peculiar warmth under the dim lights.

“Ah, a new face!” he said, flashing a smile that lit up his features, even as his hair danced with the colors of dusk: black and white intertwined. I introduced myself shyly, aware of the churning storms in my chest. He invited me to join him at the piano, and though I knew little about music, something compelled me to stand closer.

“Do you have a song?” he inquired, his eyes holding mine with a depth I found disarming. I hesitated, staring at my reflection in the polished surface of the piano.“Only fragments,” I confessed, my heart racing as I sensed his curiosity ignite.“Fragments can be beautiful,” he replied, a smirk teasing his lips. “Would you show me?”Despite the churning in my stomach, I nodded. I started to hum an old lullaby that my mother used to sing, my voice barely above a whisper. The melody escaped me as if set free from years of confinement, and Montague filled the space around us with cascading chords that wove a magical tapestry. It was simple, but something deep within me resonated with the notes, pushing me to sing louder, to let the melody expand like petals of a blooming flower.

As my voice floated through the room, I saw his expression shift. There was an intensity in his gaze that made me momentarily forget I was singing in front of one of the most enigmatic men I had ever encountered. The song reached its climax, soaring into an ethereal realm, and in that moment, I felt a connection—a bridge forged between our souls.When the last note faded into the air, silence enveloped us. Montague’s brown and blue eyes sparkled with unshed emotions, as if he had been spellbound. “You have an extraordinary voice,” he told me softly. “It carries the weight of a thousand nights.”The nights that followed were steeped in music and companionship. Our evenings became a ritual; I would sing, and he would play, losing ourselves in melodies and sweet harmonies like star-crossed lovers dancing in the embrace of the moonlight. Montague, with his ensemble of stunning compositions, managed to coax my timid heart out of hiding. We talked of dreams and fears, hopes and regrets, sharing tales as the snow fell softly against the windows, creating a blanket of silence around us. The mountains glinted in the moonlight, and the air was crisp, almost intoxicating. As we leaned against the railing, the world beyond seemed to vanish. He began, gazing into the distance. “I wonder if I’ve also built walls around my heart. I never expected someone like you to breach those fortifications so effortlessly.” My heart fluttered at his words, wondering if the flicker of hope dancing during our evenings had ignited something deeper between us. “What would you have me do?” I asked, my voice steady despite the turmoil within.“Let this be our secret,” he replied, his eyes glistening under the stars. “The melodies we share, the silence we create together, they belong to us and us alone.”I nodded, entranced by the idea, but a nagging doubt lingered in my mind. What could a man like Montague—the owner of this grand hotel, the guardian of dreams—want with someone as ordinary as me?

The days turned into weeks, and our connection deepened, yet a chasm of uncertainty loomed in my heart. Montague would often glance at me with a longing that twisted my insides, and though I thrived in the warmth of his presence, I could feel the gravity of my own insecurities pulling me down.One fateful night, after a particularly haunting melody we had conjured together, he drew closer, his breath mingling with the winter air. “There’s something I must tell you,” he whispered, his voice low yet clear. “You’ve woven your song into the fabric of my existence. I’ve fallen… deeply, irrevocably in love with you.”Those words struck like a bell tolling through the deepest valleys. I stood frozen momentarily, my mind a whirlwind. How could he offer his heart so freely when I felt so unworthy?“Montague,” I started, my voice trembling. “I—I don’t know how to fit into your world.”“You already do,” he said, his gaze unwavering, filled with so much sincerity, it was overwhelming. “Love is not about fitting into each other’s lives; it’s about creating a new one together. You’ve become my midnight melody—the quiet strength that inspires me to break down the walls of my fortress.” Tears stung my eyes as my resolve began to melt away, revealing the vulnerabilities I had hidden for far too long. I stepped closer, feeling the warmth radiate from him. “I’m afraid,” I confessed, my voice barely a whisper.“Don’t be,” he replied gently, wrapping his arms around me.

“Together, we can face the fears that haunt us.”In that moment, I surrendered, not just to him, but to the love we had nurtured, fragile yet beautiful. The Grand Glacier, with all its grandeur, faded into the shadows as I pressed my lips against his, sealing our promise under the starlit sky.We would walk through the trials of life hand in hand, composing our own symphony, our midnight melody echoing through eternity—a love story etched, where heartbreak had shattered and harmony had finally bloomed.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

The Silver Dragon (31/?)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Word Count: 4559

Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.

Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

Chapter Summary: Arianwyn asks for an audience with her uncle Viserys. He has not woken since the family dinner two nights before, and she is not sure that he will even hear what she says. She is not even sure what she wants to say. Still, she needs to say it.

Warnings: None

Series Masterlist

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The King

Arianwyn had only ever visited the King’s chambers once. But she had been a babe then, and her memories were faint. She could vaguely recall the sheer size of the model of Old Valyria and the magnificent white stone domes and towers that adorned it. Though, she was unsure whether that was truly a memory, or only an image she had conjured from all the times Aemond told her of it.

Aemond had always so admired his father’s creation. It was one of the few subjects Arianwyn could always rely on to get him talking, even on his quiet days. He would go on and on about how accurate the King had been in his design, how it had been necessary for each tower to be precisely the right size and carved in excruciating detail, or else the magic of the spectacle would be ruined.

He would empty entire shelves in the library to explain to her what each building was, the purpose of each tower, and the magic that had helped to build them. Of course, Arianwyn already knew most of the information – they had discovered it together. But listening to him, basking in the excitement he so rarely showed, never got old.

Despite his enthusiasm, Aemond had never been invited to work on the model with his father. Alicent had tried to console him by emphasizing that it was the King’s ‘personal’ endeavor and that he shared it with very few people beyond the stone masons and other artisans who completed the actual craftsmanship.

But then the King had called Jace and Luke – and only Jace and Luke – to help him assemble one of the Blood Mages’ towers.

After that, Aemond never mentioned the model again.

Perhaps it was the memory of the heartbreak in Aemond’s eyes when his nephews told him why they were late to sparring practice that horrible day, or maybe it was simply the low light in the room. Still, when Arianwyn set eyes on the model, she could hardly stand the sight of it.

It had all been carved of the same white stone, as if the entire city had risen simultaneously from the earth. But there was no truth in that.

Valyria, like the Freehold itself, had been built over hundreds and thousands of years from stones brought from across the known world. It had been even more than stone, with some buildings said to be hewn from massive crystals, grown from the earth itself by many years of taming vines and trees, or even made of pure Dragonglass.

Compared to the vibrant and extraordinary Valyria that lived in her imagination, the model seemed small and mundane.

Alicent caught Arianwyn’s gaze lingering on the model and stepped around it. “Before we were married, I used to sit with Viserys while he worked on it. He enjoyed having someone there to listen to the history, or perhaps just to look impressed.”

But the words only drove the pain deeper into the girl’s heart. How Aemond would have loved to sit at his father’s side and listen to him tell the story of their shared ancestors.

Fortunately, the Queen saw the pain and regret in Arianwyn’s silver eyes and stepped away from the model to take her hand and lead her into the bedchamber.

The light there was even dimmer, with only a single oil lamp lit by the King’s bed. Arianwyn had to look quite closely to see his chest rise and fall. He was still breathing, if just barely.

His golden mask was gone. Instead, the decaying side of his face had been covered with clean strips of cloth, making it easier to look upon his face. The memory of him at dinner two nights ago had been thankfully drowned out by the whirlwind of events – both good and bad – that had happened since, but it still haunted her.

“The Maesters tell me that he may yet be able to hear us, even if his body will not allow him to respond,” Alicent explained, gesturing to a pair of chairs next to the bed. She let Arianwyn sit in the one nearest the King, taking the further for herself. “There have been times when he can say a word or two. Or move his hand, or smile.”

Arianwyn looked to the Queen, “Have you been with him often since he fell asleep?”

Alicent grimaced. “Not as much as I would like. But… it pains me too much to see him like this. There is only so much I can bear.”

There was nothing Arianwyn could say to ease that pain, so she simply looked back to the King.

“Hello, uncle,” she said.

The King gave no indication that he heard her. She had been warned that it was likely, but it still caused her heart to clench.

“It’s Aria,” she continued. Then she remembered, the last time he had used her name, it had been at Driftmark, and he had not called her ‘Aria.” She leaned forward again. “It’s Arianwyn. Your niece, do you remember me?”

The Queen also leaned forward, speaking with careful enunciation. “Arianwyn arrived several days ago. With her father, Prince Daemon, as well as Rhaenyra and all the rest from Dragonstone.”

At the mention of Rhaenyra, the King whined softly, turning his head toward the women.

Of course, Arianwyn thought. It was always Rhaenyra.

Alicent pushed past that particular hurt and continued, “Aria has some wonderful news to share with you, my darling.”

At the Queen’s signal, Arianwyn looked back to the King, trying to force a smile to her face. “Yes, I do. Well… Aemond and I have been married. We are very much in love.”

Again, the King was still.

It broke Arianwyn’s heart. That just the mention of Rhaenyra could rouse him from his sleep, but not her, not Aemond, and not their marriage.

Once, she had thought the King cared for her as if she were his own daughter. Of course, he was distant, as he was with his children by Alicent. But whenever he saw her, he offered a smile. When they found themselves seated next to each other on the ramparts of the training yard, he would ask her thoughtful questions about her studies or her progress with Emrys. And he had always given her sweet gifts on her nameday.

But now, as she recalled each fond moment, Arianwyn wondered whether it was ever really her that he was so fond of, or whether she had only ever been a substitute for her father. Just like she was to Rhaenyra.

In their eyes, she would never be anything more than Daemon’s daughter.

Though her face was as still as the stone Valyria that sat in the next room, a tear ran down her cheek, stinging her skin as it mingled with the cool air.

“May I speak with him – alone?” she asked the Queen.

Alicent wiped the tear away as she stood and did not speak until she reached the door. “I will stay nearby.”

Then she closed the door, and Arianwyn was alone with the King.

She did not know what to say. Words and memories raced through her mind too fast for her to catch. Her tears continued to fall as she felt the world spin around her.

“I always hoped you would be the one to escort me at my wedding,” she blurted out, hearing the words for the first time as they left her lips.

For a moment, she fell silent as the admission sunk in.

“All my life, I knew my father did not care about me,” she said, allowing her mind to simply spill over. It seemed safer than agonizing over her words until they split her skull. “I knew he would not want to escort me, if he even bothered to attend. So, I wanted it to be you.”

The King took a deep, shaky breath but did not reply.

“Ser Criston Cole did it instead,” she explained. “Even if we were not so hurried, I think it would have had to be him, anyway. Or perhaps Aegon – no, actually. Not Aegon. It was almost painful to watch you walk to the Iron Throne. I don’t think you could have made it to the Weirwood tree.”

Arianwyn blinked, forcing herself to stop talking and take a breath. “Oh, I have not told you that. We were married under the Weirwood tree, not in the Sept. It was my idea. I was scared, and I wanted the protection of not just the Seven, but of the gods of my ancestors – my Royce ancestors. Obviously, the Targaryen gods are of no help anymore.”

She laughed at her pitiful attempt at a joke, made even more so by the fact that she was still endeavoring not to cry. Beyond the first, no other tears had fallen.

“I have not told you that either, that I was afraid,” she fought the urge to take his hand, crumpling the fabric of her skirts in her fists. “I was terrified. I was so sure I was going to die. That Daemon was going to kill me. He almost did.”

Arianwyn lifted her hands to her throat and her bruises. The markings had reached their darkest stage. To anyone looking from a distance, it would look like she was wearing a deep plum scarf or perhaps a necklace. But the King could not see it, for his eyes were still closed.

“Did you know?” she asked, lowering her hands. “Did you know what he was capable of when you sent me with him? How much he hated me, and the memory of my mother? Did you know what he did to her?”

She had to take a breath to calm herself so she wouldn’t scream.

“You must have had some idea, especially after Gerold and Lady Arryn came to speak on my behalf and Aemond showed you his note. I never thanked you for forcing his hand when it came to Emrys. He was my only escape on that gods-forsaken island. But even with him, and Brynna, and everyone else from Runestone, it was miserable.

“The isolation in that little tower was bad enough. But then they made me eat dinner with them every night, and they would never talk to me. About me, yes, but never to me. Jace and Luke – and Baela, sometimes – took it as a game. They would take turns saying mean things. About me, about Runestone and the Vale, and even about Aemond, sometimes. They wanted to see if they could get me to break. To snap and make a fool of myself. To scream and curse them, or something.

“But I never did. I think they thought it was because I was weak. In truth, I was just afraid of what Daemon would do if I did react. And I guess I was right to be afraid, I finally did snap a few days ago, and he threatened to kill me.”

Though she knew she was safe now, the memory still sent a shiver through her.

She grimaced, “Eventually, they gave up. What fun is it to mock someone who doesn’t react? Jace continued to tease me, but never at dinner. He learned that if Daemon wasn’t there, I would fight back. It amused him. Luke never did, not after he saw Emrys.”

That particular memory brought a quiet laugh, but it soon faded.

“As horrible as it was, I do think that Aemond had it even worse than me.”

If Arianwyn had not been keeping her eyes locked on her own hands, she would have seen the King frown slightly and furrow his brow in distress.

“No one has told me much in detail, especially not Aemond. And I don’t hold that against him. I know if I ask, he will tell me. But I think he was very, very sick, so I am not sure I really want to know.”

She looked back up at the King after his previous expression had already fallen back into one of pained sleep. “Did you know? How sick he was? How hard it was for him to adapt to the loss of his eye? Did you ever visit him as he healed? Do you know how much you hurt him?”

No reply.

“Do you know how it hurt him to know how much you didn’t care – don’t care? Do you know what it does to someone to know their father does not love them?”

She had to take another calming breath before she continued. “He could hardly believe it when I told him I loved him. I actually don’t know if he does believe it, not entirely. That is what you did. When you brushed what Luke did aside simply because Aemond called them bastards – which I know you know they are – and when you did not rebuke Rhaenyra for calling for his torture –!

“By the gods, she was serious, uncle! She was willing to torture an already mutilated boy in order to maintain her lie! A lie that no one believes! That is the woman you want to be Queen?” she scoffed.

“You took away his ability to believe he could be loved. If his own father had such disdain for him, why would anyone else feel any different? Even if he became the greatest warrior, the best scholar in the world, the most dutiful son, he could never feel worthy of anything beyond the indifference you showed him.”

Arianwyn leaned back, tilting her head to the ceiling to try and stop her tears from falling. “The Stranger is close. I know you’re supposed to forgive people when they’re on their deathbeds… but I can’t.”

She looked back at her uncle, not seeing the broken, dying man that lay before her, but the man he had been on Driftmark. The man he had been when he brushed Aemond aside, when she first began to hate him.

“You broke him, Viserys,” she cried. “So thoroughly, I don’t know if I will ever be able to fix him.”

Lacing her fingers through his, ignoring the chill that went through her at the feel of his cold, papery skin, she continued. “But I will try. If it takes all my life, I will not stop until he is whole again. I promise it.”

Abruptly, she stood, wiping away her tears and smoothing her skirts. She looked upon the King’s hollow face one last time, watching him take a slow, shaky breath.

“There,” she said. “A deathbed promise. That’s better than forgiveness, isn’t it?”

Though she knew it to be futile, she waited for a reply. But, of course, it did not come.

“Goodbye, uncle,” she said and turned away.

She left the room so quickly that she did not see his fingers uncurl as he reached out for her. The sound of her own crying was too loud for her to hear him whisper.

“Aria, I’m sorry.”

Next Chapter

[valkyrie-rolls]

Introducing 'Character 1', AKA Luck Truelove

Narrator: Oh, you guys want to know about 'Character 1'? He's probably my favorite out of all 4 of the options you had. Yes, I'm pretty fucking biased, but at least my profiles are mostly facts rather than more subjective things.

( ^ Credit for the image used - Check out this picrew guys, it's legitimately amazing.)

(Warning! Long post below!)

Name: Luck Truelove

Age: 295, though this depends on the universe. In most, he's either a vampire, cursed, or a shapeshifting blood dragon.

Pronouns: He/Him Sexuality: Bisexual with a preference for men.

Current Occupation: Private Practice Doctor/Healer (Several specialties.)

Previous Occupations: Military/Royal Guard. Construction before that.

Powers/Magical Abilities: In most instances, he has the ability to sense heartbeats, as well as (sometimes erratic) control over a person or creature's blood upon physical touch, including his own. He gained this ability in different ways, depending on the world. > Vampire? He gained the ability shortly after his late wife died, when he was turned. > Cursed? He gained that ability when either: -> He got the bad end of a desperate deal with a fae to try to save his late wife's life. -> He was gifted the ability by a deity of affection or devotion. > Blood Dragon? He had that ability from birth. -> In this AU, when in dragon form, he can only sense heartbeats with this ability, due to the limited touch one can get through layers of scales. -> However, when in a humanoid form, he can use the full extent of his abilities. These abilities came with a sharp learning curve, as well as limits. > He cannot make his abilities work through thick fabric (or any material leather or thicker.) -> Skin to skin touch yields the most precise results -> Example: If he's attempting to help slow a bad wound's bleeding or correct internal bleeding, he needs to directly touch the person or creature he's trying to manipulate the blood of. > High emotions, such as stress or fear, make this ability harder to control. -> Example: If he's angry for any reason, he often slides on leather gloves, so he doesn't accidentally make anyone's heart skip a beat. Or stop working all together. He has gotten much better at keeping his emotions in check through time, but he can never be too careful. > He has learned over the years the precise blood pressure needed to make a person pass out while causing them minimal heart problems. Other Facts: > This 295-year-old man could burn water, and would accidentally set his house on fire making toast. He usually eats out. > Luck has a journaling habit. He writes at least half a page of a self-insert smutfic each night before bed. He keeps all of the pages since he first started the habit, grouped in file folders and sorted by month and year, with color coded sticky tabs for what particular smut he wrote on a given page. > He lives in a mansion that he built, with very little help, for his late wife. The process of building it initially took roughly 5 years. -> What was going to be her sewing room now lies mostly untouched, but for a very careful and respectful dusting and upkeep every two weeks... or a comforting place when he needs to clear his mind, and get a new perspective on his troubles. -> His house is LINED with bookshelves. Mostly romance, or nonfiction medical-related books. Except for those that contain his self-written smut collection. > Even in his much younger years (In realistic/historical fiction AUs), he often read independent authors, especially any of them making LGBTQ+ or otherwise diverse content. He would help them at least get their books written and in a physical book form, even when no one would publish. He keeps the author's names and "About Me's" written down, so that even after their lifetimes have passed, their works can be immortalized.

[mondstaub1]

Fanfiction idea JaceLuke

Jacerys is a prince and a warrior and after winning a major battle he is given a beautiful prisoner

Prince Jacerys sat in his tent after having sent his generals away. They won the battle and with that the war against the greens was as good as won. Suddenly someone came towards his tent. "Hey Jace the guys and I found something you might enjoy", it was Doltan Greyjoy. Jace raised his eyebrow in confusen but backend him in. The older man came into the room with a few other men who were dragging a beautiful boy behind them. The boy had soft features, choclate brown hair, green eyes and fair skin. He was struggeling against the men and crying. "What's going on here Greayjoy?", Jacerys asked. "Your plan led us to another victory, it's time to enjoy you spoiles of war my prince.", the sailor answered, "we found the pretty one hidding from our group. We thought he might be your taste." Jace eyed the boy, only now did he notice his rather femal figure. "My taste?", Jace asked unsure. Greyjoy grinned a wicked grin. "Sure Prince", he procided to pull out a knife and turned to the boy, "You do like Valyrians, don't you" with those words he cut the boys shirt off revealing small breasts. The boy screached in panic, struggling harder against the laughing men trying to get free but without success. "Let me go! Let go! Please!", he cried but it did not help him against Dalton who then turned to cutting the rest of the boys clothes off but Jace stopped him. "Greyjoy that's enought! I appritiate your gift, you may leave us now." The man still grinned wickedly before leaving with the rest of the men leaving him alone with the boy who was now desperatly trying to cover himself up, tears screeming down his pretty face.

Jacerys sight, Dalton had been right the boy was his taste, more then that even. From the way he was built the boy was of Valyrian decend which meant that he or his offsprings could inhearit the magic such blood was said to posses. After the doom Valyrions because extremly rare, Jace family being one of the last in the known world. Moreover Jacerys still neaded a valyrion wife to keep his bloodline pure. His ex fiece Baela had become a shieldmaid and had sworn off ever having children after the death of her own Lady mother in childbirth and Baelas sister was promised to his brother Aegon. Jace looked up at the boy hands and arms covering his bare chest shaking in the cold night air. The prince took off his clock and walked towards his guest/prisoner but the boy fliched away. "Hey don't be scared", Jacerys reasured him, "I mean you no harm. Here take that to cover yourself." After a few moments of hesitation the boy took the fabric and quickly rabbed it around himself. "Thank you", the boy mumbled, "your Highness?". The last part was said like a question and Jace realised that the boy had no idea who he was, well beside the strager who had just led an army into his home. "I'm prince Jacerys Targaryen", he intruduced himself before asking, "and what do they call you?" The boy bit his lip before he replied in a quite voice barely loud enough to hear: "Luke your Highness", he hesitaded for a few secunds, "Luke Waters". Ah there was the reason for the hesitation, the boy, Luke was a bastard. Likely the bastard of a Lord considering most people did not bother with last names.

"Well Luke it's nice to meet you", Jacerys said, "I apologize for my mens behaviour. Please sit down make yourself confortable." Luke looked around shyly before sitting down on the chair, eyes looking everywhere but him. Jace hummed and said: "So tell me about yourself Luke." The boy finally looked at him "What do you wish to know your Highness?" Jacerys hummed once more: "Don't know, let's start with how you ended up here" Luke remain silent for a while before speaking: "I - I was on the way home from work, I was there when you - you and your men came and couldn't get away before, when that man saw me, he-he wanted to talk but I-I didn't. Bu-but he did not stop and the he-he touched me. Whe-when he felt my ... ", he glanced at his now covered chest before continuing, "well when he realised, he brought me to you. Said you would like me." The following silent was heavy but Jace wanted to know more so he asked: "What to you do for work?" The question seemed to confuse Luke or that he was asking but he answered anyway: "Wood crafting. I am still learning though." Interesting, Jace had to admit. A usefull skill either way. "And home? Where do you live? Any family?" The question got Luke to look at him with a suspiouses look as if he expected him to go to his home and burn it down but after a while Luke still answered: "The outskirts of the city. Can't affort more. I've got a little brother, got to bring food in, no one else will." Jacerys felt a bit guilty about how happy those news made him, gave him better chances of convincing his new "friend" of the offer he was about to make. "Your brother, does he have the same... hmm let's say built as you?" Luke tightend the hold on the fabric still covering his nude body but answered anyway: "No", his tone showed his protectiveness but that only gave Jace more information which could be used to convince Luke.

"Well Luke I have a proposal for you", Jace said, "You see valyrian blood such as ours is pretty rare and hard to find. So hard to find in fact that I have not found a wife yet." Luke pailed but nodded. "So here is my proposal," Jace offered, "You come with me, to Dragonstone. Your brother can come as well, he will be under my protection of course and he will be well cared for." For a while both sat in silents till Luke spoke up: "Do I have a choice your Highness or are you telling me what is going to happen?" "If I didn't want you to choice then I wouldn't tell you. I could just take you with me and be done with it." Jace pointed out. Luke nodded before asking: "Can I talk with my brother about it. I-I don't want to leave him and I can't just force him away. Please your Highness." Jace nodded: "You have till next morning. Come back at dawn with your answer." Luke agreed and fled the tend. Jace let himself fall on the bed wondering if he did the right choice by letting Luke go and if he would ever see the pretty boy again.

The next day at dawn a man came to him saying there were two kids asking for him and there they was Luke and a small boy who looked almost exectly like him.

[calisources]

GAME OF THRONES: HISTORY AND LORE -MAGIC. all sentences are taken from a mini-web series of hbo's game of thrones with different characters narrating different aspects of the world. this specific sentence memes is made from various videos related to magical aspects of the world (r'hallor religion not included) change pronouns, names and locations as seen fit.this is a long post.

Wargs and the Sight.

When my turn came,  I would ask Old Nan to tell us of magic and monsters.

Long ago, the world was new,  the children of the forest sang the song of the earth and the earth listened.

Magic was strong in those days and the children could commune with all the beasts of the forest.

The greatest of them could even leave their bodies to hunt, swim and fly in the skins of animals.

Then the first men came with fire  and swords, they burned the way woods and cut down the children 

After peace came, the two races shared the land and the children's gods for thousands of years.

Nobody knows how or why but the magic of the children began to emerge in men.

maybe one child in a thousand would be born a warg, fewer still would be born with the sight.

With it the children could know of events far away and even though still to come, some say the sight was the children's most powerful and terrible secret.

It helped turn the tide during the long night.

Magic has since fled our world.

How can you tell if the man is wearing the beast or the Beast is wearing the man.

I don't like scary stories anymore, because I'm in one.

The Night's Watch and the White Walkers.

I am the sword in the darkness, I am The Watcher on the walls, I am the shield that guards the realms of men.

I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch for this night and all the nights to come.

Legend tells of a winter that lasted a generation and of a vast and terrible darkness that fell across the land.

It came to be known as the long night in the midst of this darkness.

The White Walkers emerged from the far north with their armies of the Dead. They waged war against the living, laying waste to villages and old fasts leaving terror and destruction in their wake.

After years of brutal conflict and unbearable loss an alliance of the first men and the children of the forest managed to drive the walkers and their minions back into the frigid northern wastelands from whence they came.

To prevent another invasion, the first men erected the wall a massive fortification 700 feet in height stretching from the frostfang mountains

It was a structure unlike any ever built indeed, some Montaigne acknowledged having been completed with the aid of Giants or using the powerful magic of the ancient children of the forest.

Men were required to guard and maintain it and thus the Night's Watch was born a sworn Brotherhood tasked with defending the realms of men against the dark forces.

The White Walkers have yet to return.

Dragons.

Fire made flesh. such as the nature of dragons.

Fire consumes leaving nothing at its end, nought but ash.thus the fate of the Targaryen and their dragons thousands of years ago.

valerian stumbled on the first dragon eggs in the mountains of the 14 fires 

cannot imagine shepherds could hatch dragon eggs and bind such creatures to their will but whatever aid they must have had is lost to history.

 what is left of Valyria is a smoking wasteland ash in time.

 Aegon Targaryen and his sisters brought their three dragons who had escaped the doom to Westeros perhaps thinking to regain his people's lost glory 

He proved that armies were no match for dragons

 His first act to order, his dragon balerion the black dread to melt the soles of his beaten goes into his new Iron Throne

their skulls used to line the throne room of the red keep in order of birth.

The oldest, Balerion, could swallow an ox.

The Targaryen never stopped trying to revive their dragons.

Aerion Brightflame drank a draught of wildfire and burned to death.

 The young Daenerys Targaryen has hatched three dragons far to the east.

 If she were to be so foolish as to march on Westeros she will not find as her ancestor Aegon did seven disparate kingdoms frightened by strange beasts.

We have known of dragons now. We have seen them die.

[thana-topsy]

1,6,8,11,17 for the ask thing!

Answered #6 in this post, and #8 in this post!

A fanon characterisation that you love

Oh, this took some thought. I went scrolling through my AO3 bookmarks for this one. But at the end of the day I have to go with my good friend @nientedenada's interpretations of Elenwen and Ondolemar in her Q&A style fic: "The Dominion is Here and They're Answering Your Questions" - her take deeply influenced the way I wrote both of these characters in "Hollow Men" as well as just helped to shape the Thalmor into people in my mind, as opposed to stick man villains.

11. Recommend a fic with an unusual/original headcanon or characterisation that you loved

Accidental Double Thalmor Post, but I'm going to have to recommend "Evil is Made of Us" by LeviathansEyes on AO3 for their masterful interpretation of the Thalmor. It's a purely OC-driven fic that's technically a sequel to a much longer fic, but I think it can be enjoyed on it's own easily enough. I had already finished up my own Thalmor-centric fic (Hollow Men) by the time I was reading their work, but I was still SHOOKETH by the end of that story. It was an unflinching look at how "evil" manifests itself, but also how, at the end of the day, people are just people. "Evil" is a concept within the framework of an institution.

17. Something you love that you don’t often share because you’re worried what others will think

Hmm... well, for the most part I'm pretty shameless with most of the stuff I share. I put myself out there in good faith, and generally expect that my work will be taked in good faith in return.

I think, maybe, if I want to be vulnerable for a minute, I'll admit that I tend to meme on Neloth publicly a lot to cover up just how deeply I've been impacted by writing his character. More below the cut, because this turned into a bit of a ramble...

I write Neloth as a low-empathy individual who arguably has a personality disorder (I won't throw around specific labels, as I don't think there is a specific one that I had in mind when going into his stories). My love for Neloth runs incredibly deep because I've been working with this fatally flawed, deeply damaged character who has built his own defences up so impossibly high over hundreds of years that even he is unsure of where his own walls end and the core of himself begins.

And then, to pair him with Teldryn, (which I think most people who only see the ship art or the memes think I just picked two characters and smashed them together for fun or because Hee Hoo Gay, which... isn't a lie, but it isn't the whole truth either). I write Teldryn as an endlessly compassionate person beneath the armor he's been forced to wear (literally and figuratively) over the years. The Nerevarine Prophecy left him questioning his own place in the world with a terrible case of impostor syndrome, and then the Red Year absolutely ripped out his heart (no pun intended??) and left him feeling that everything he did amounted to nothing. So he's cynical and jaded, he's hiring himself out as a merc, he has every reason to hate the gods and the life that's been thrust upon him. And then, for whatever reason, when I put him and Neloth in a room together for long enough, they somehow managed to crack through each others' shells. And it wasn't pretty at first, and, hell, it wasn't even romantic. But it happened. And sometimes, writing can be magic like that.

So here's Teldryn, a literal hero, giving this (by all accounts) terrible person a chance to show that he's capable of both receiving and giving love, actually. And that love can look a little different in everyone. And augH GOD, I HAVE A FUCKING CHARACTER TYPE, OK???

Anyways, tl;dr -- Neloth is actually more than just my special little meow meow babygirl blorbo, he is my shadow self, my darkest reflection, the opposite of everything I strive to be and everything I fear becoming. And I think, by writing him as still being worthy of love and companionship and joy, I'm writing to let myself know that I am also worthy of such things.

[villainsandvictimsalliance]

I had this dream where Achilles was just a teen living at the beach and the father was a scientist who invented a machine that helped you change forms.

It was not an accident when Achilles went inside the machine and started changing shapes. That machine had been built by a loving father with the purpose of releasing the beauty that threatened to burst his kid's body. And oh, how Achilles flew across that bruising sky among rainbow sparks chasing the trail the shapeshifting body created. There were wings and hooves, hair longer than the Earth, smiles wider than a mountain ranges. Achilles changed and changed, the body burned and burned. The features of that face were the ones of a lover, a child, the lady you passed down the street, the soldier weeping on the battlefield, the bird reaching its nest, the waves riding the wind, every surfer Achilles was friends with, every classmate, every teacher. Achilles was and was, 'til she landed in laughter and hit the arms of her father and used her boyish hands to clean the tears in her cheeks.

Do you think joy has a gender?

Achilles room had an aquarium on one wall. He liked to surf in the afternoon. If he climbed the aquarium and fell in it, the other side would be his father's lab. All the windows faced the sun and the sea. His father entered the machine a few minutes each day 'cause he wanted to look like a celebrity. They'd sit, his father showing Achilles men from magazines. I want his nose, he'd say. The father never faltered in his speech, no matter the form of his kid that day. Do you feel an adult yet, Achilles? Today are you just a little girl?

I dreamed Achilles got scared suddenly. The body returned to its caged form so fast, he reduced in weight and hidden under one of the lab tablets, Achilles cried.

Have your body ever ached with the strength required to keep all of you inside?

Have you ever felt the need to change who you are for the satisfaction of others.

Life can pressure you into your body or out of your body. I think both things are bad enough.

Some people want to gain muscle or lose weight or get bigger boobs or a straighter nose so they can correctly breathe or get a penis or change the color of their hair or get pointy ears or correct their vision or—

We are always ourselves. I am Achilles, because I don't know how to drive just like a kid, but I have my own bank account like an adult. I cry watching anime, I'm writing a thesis on linguistics. I dyed my hair, I removed my wisdom teeth, I am not my body, my body is me.

I woke up thinking "hey, the father started having fun, but soon the expectations of others and the standards strange to him pushed him on a path of self-destruction" and "although the machine is not the answer to Achilles' problems, it's the magical vehicle that gives the kid the strength to face the world and search for what he needs. Similar to a magical kiss that breaks a spell, there's real love in fairytales, so why there's wouldn't be real hope for us and our bodies?"

It's the closest I've ever been to explaining why I am agender. Where the concept should be, there is a void I don't know how to dive in. I am more than my body, my body is mine, I like my body, but it is not all there is. How do I feel?

I'm Achilles. I'm not sure there is a name for what I am or a term that can describe me (it's my first time living, you know). For now, I just want to fly in this sky and burn.