#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

[jainydoe]

Delirium

summary: She’s an angel, he’s a dog. Or, the confessions of a white tenured male.

tw: smut, mentions of death, violence

In his dreams are mausoleums. Rows sky high of those he’s trounced. Boys and girls from Schoolyard’s Past. A stranger from a conference who murmured about his adornments - Volkarin is just so … tragically nouveau riche. 

Johanna. With her hair and her laugh, laid dead with a frozen smile.

He keeps them all. Collected. Strolls along the cool, clean corridors and considers their carcasses. Malleable. Under his thumb. Under his spell, should he wish. Ripped from rest and compelled to answer any inquiry that may flit across his mind. He’s built a recent wing. Young men and women and. Taashes. Tucked neatly and filed amongst the masses. 

Then there’s her. 

For her, he’s built an atrium. A private temple where she’s kept in glass. Perpetually moonlit. Preserved. Perfected. In his dreams, he lifts the top of her enclosure open, rushes a breath across icy cheeks. Hours pass and he stares. Confesses secrets. Fears. Wants and desires. He thinks of the different ways she could die and how each would draw and quarter the soul until he’s scattered so distantly, he’d be impossible to make whole. Her, hung in a frozen suspension. Mouth agape and rigor mortis set in. His face would slot so carefully under her breasts, and he’d keep her there, midair, just to ache and sob into her ribs. Or her, burned and charred, body fruitlessly attempting to stay with him. Resisting the path to ash. He’d grip the air, magic rising the fire higher and higher, screaming into its lashings in a jealous rage. That it could consider itself worthy enough to touch her. To take her. Consume her. It takes a few weeks of knowing Rook before he’s begun desecrating the other crypts in his dreamscape. Every gentleman, lady and tramp who accost her with their gaze, with their booming want, earn a place in the Hall of the Damned. He keeps them in an area far from her tomb. The moonlight doesn’t grace their nameplates. When he imagines their spirits pleading in the dark, scared and confused, he sleeps like a babe. 

The waking hours are cruel and unusual. At home, every chapter of the day is one to celebrate. The mornings, ripe with expectation and promises. Brunches. Afternoons of discussion and lounging and napping and laughing and dinners overflown with debate and passion. He misses conversation. The type that leaves you buzzed and amped. He catches it sometimes with Bellara or Neve, but Rook leaves him itchy and ready in a way he hasn’t been since his boyhood. If she were a girl in a club and he were a boy with two drinks, he’d give her that smile that always works and kiss her hand to go the extra mile. He’d tell her he knows a spot in the Memorial Gardens and play the gentlemen who won’t offer to fuck her right away because modesty will have her gagging for it. But this is the real world and he’s pushing fifty. The closest he can get to romance is pouring her wine at the dinner table and laying on the pet names like he’s got plenty to spare. He’s started pampering himself. On days where she’d rather have the company of the boy or the other boy, he spends hours rubbing creams on himself, languidly dressing, steps out onto the balcony in his room and thinks about what she’d say if she saw him in just his dress socks, hair ungelled, five o’clock shadow shading his bone structure in that way he’s been told is haunting. He hopes the look he’d give her would haunt her. Etch itself into her memory and burrow into the marrow, to the point where she couldn’t ever feel pleasure again without thinking of his. Remembering the way he’d whisper her name before coming undone at the seams.

Tonight isn’t anything special - not in the grand scheme of things - but he lets the perfumed oil drop onto the paper-thin dip of his inner wrist, taking a deep, deep pull of the leather-booze-sweat-and-musky combo that he knows will drive her mad. He watches her in marketplaces, eyes running over the twinkling bottles of imported goods too precious to touch. Curved glass, inviting and seductive, begging to lay on flesh. She has caked blood on her chest and makes sure her steps are less heavy, presence less imposing. The salespeople offer, nonetheless, smiles wide and hands outstretched, and he feels his shoulders tighten as she wipes her hands along her armor, picks at her skin, begins the fruitless endeavor of trying to dig the last bits of dirt from under her nails. 

Sorry, I’m afraid we can’t afford anything today. 

A lie, though one she might not realize she’s telling. She’s a scrounger. A scrappy, makeshift trader. He wants to ask how she can keep affording all the sleekest, strongest armor and charming home adornments, things that make their situation less of a shit-fuck and more of a happy-accident, but he knows she’ll never tell. I’ve got to keep some secrets, she’d smile, impish and nymph-like, an invitation for him to peel off all her layers and share a secret he’s kept for this whole entire time. One that’ll keep them whispering to each other all night. In the darkest hours, he lets the mind wander to flushed lips, reddened limbs, reddened teeth from the caked blood he’s licked her clean of. She’d be disgusted and he’d be drunk, covering her in every shiny thing of his he has to offer. 

Marketplaces are a dangerous setting for him. Tempting in their quick releases. I saw this and thought of you, and I saw that and thought of you, I’m practically always thinking of you, do you think of me, how often, how deeply, how about you show me, right here, right now, before either of us have a chance to think twice. 

Wearing the oil is the little thing he allows himself, a pathetic tether to the fantasy he’s let play out. The Rook he’s created from stolen glances, lopsided conversations, dinner jokes and morning tea and midnight-solo-hand-fucks where he can ramble all the things he loves about her and it isn’t unwanted, it makes her cum - that Rook would smell the fact he’s wearing their scent, and make a point of having his sheets smell only of her for the next week. She’d be furious. She’d be deliriously in love. He should make his way to dinner, already. He’s expected. Who will ask questions no one wants to answer if Emmrich is spiraling all on his own?

“So, after all that, what did you do?”

They’re trading adventures amongst themselves, this medley of gritty, young things. Stories of near-death and past lives they’ve left behind - it helps distract from the. Well. Emmrich doesn’t share much because when you work in death long enough, you learn only the other people who work in death care to talk about it. He’d hoped Lucanis would be a shoulder to gab on. He couldn’t have been more wrong. He makes a note to visit the Necropolis soon and only realizes the table has gone silent when Rook is all cheeks ablaze and girlish hair-tucking. Her eyes dance around the table, avoiding Emmrich, entirely. He probably would, too. People who don’t contribute don’t get the benefits of worthwhile attention. A lesson he teaches his students all too well. There are too many other, more important things to fail at here, though. Oil and restriction are the two indulgences he’ll allow, he’s decided. And another glass of wine. Dalish? Huh. Good for them. 

“Well,” she continues, “there’s more than one way to convince a guard you’re better off unchained.”

Harding’s guffaw shakes the table and he almost lights a necrotic pool on her chair. Taash is slapping Rook’s back and Neve is laughing into her glass. By the time he’s back in his body, aware of the room, of his senses, Rook is the only person sitting at the table. He can picture it so clearly. Her, chained. Stretched. Arms above her and belly exposed, a deceptively innocent cross of one leg over the other. A pretty please and an I promise I’ll never commit another crime ever again, I swear. He thinks about gripping the hair at the top of her neck and asking how she can be so cavalier about life, constantly toeing the edge. When she regales the dinner table with stories of old friends, people she used to know, he’d imagine meeting them, bringing a bottle of shockingly Dalish wine, something local and real and so down-to-earth. He’d turn up the charm, make them all laugh and later that night spread her legs, his chest against her back as his fingers dipped down, tracing the edge of her underwear, asking if he’s performed to her satisfaction. It’s miserable. It’s juvenile. The fact that the thing that drives him over the edge is imagining himself as a fixture in her life. Her charming companion. Her smart and funny guy that buys her chocolates and treasures and knows that when he touches her right there, she has to shut her eyes because he’s just too much. He’s taut. He’s on edge. And it’s because he knows she’s lying. 

“Heading to bed, Emmrich?”

He smiles, rising from his chair and crossing over to the fireplace. He reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out the gold cigarette case he’s kept on deck, nowadays. Smoking used to be something he considered a young man’s game, reserved for the insanity one feels only in their twenties. He’s realised that feeling is a long-forgotten acquaintance whose not only decided they’re moving in, but that they’re marrying Emmrich and pregnant with twins - Starvation and Enslavement. It’s too late to do anything about it. The nursery’s all picked out. 

He crouches down on one knee, inching closer to the fire until the flames nearly kiss him and he can puff out a bit, igniting. “Forgive me, my dear. Forgot my lighter on my desk.” He can lie, too. For a moment like this. He knows what he looks like, sharp and wolfish and the fire paints him a dashing devil instead of a foaming beast. This little move is one of the few tricks he learned from the only other girl who invoked The Acquaintance. Come on, Volkarin, don’t be such a coward. Fucking popinjay. “That’s quite a tale you told, earlier. The one with the guard and chains.”

Her eyes are on him as he rises and leans his shoulder against the mantel, controlled and poised like a former ballerina.

“I’ve lived an exciting life, I know.” 

He grins. “Remind me, what did you say you did, exactly?”

She knows he knows. Years of training students keeps one’s finger on the pulse of casual deception. She crosses her arms and lifts her chin in the particular way she does when she wants to appear leader-like. “I blew him. And while he was seeing stars I locked him back in my cell and got away.”

He twitches. His nose burns. “Charming, as always, but I’m afraid that’s not quite what you said earlier. You said,” he uses the cigarette to point at her, “that you took him on your cot and locked him onto it. I remember for two reasons. The first,” he inhaled, “I found it puckish and creative. The second,” he exhaled, letting the smoke twirl away from them both as the tip of his thumb started tracing his mustache, “I know for a fact they don’t keep cots in those jail cells. Too comfortable. A distraction from contrition.” He looks at her shoes. Her hands. Rolls his gaze up to her eyes. “Did you really have to sleep your way to freedom, or was that just a show for our more easily entertained party members?” 

She’s enraged and embarrassed, but not too much to point out the obvious. “I don’t know, Emmrich. For a guy who remembers to bring a handkerchief to battle, I highly doubt you happened to forget your lighter on your desk.” In a flash of nerve and steel, she slaps his chest, feeling into the pocket of his vest and slipping out the matching, gold zippo. “Do you think I’m someone easily entertained?”

He looks at her nose, her chin, the bottom of her eyes, counting each lash as he counts his breaths. Lets himself smile. To relax her. To challenge her. To beg her. “I’m afraid if the likes of prison guards and roguish younglings can keep your attention,” he sighs, tossing the rest of the cigarette into the flames, watching it become engulfed, “then I couldn’t possibly attempt the conquest of your favor.” He knows what he’s just admitted. Feels it in the tips of his fingers as he wills them not to dance along his thighs or itch at his neck. Be calm. Be kind. Be careful. 

“What would that look like? If you,” she’s shivering, “If you did attempt?”

“Likely frightening.” That makes her laugh. He’d do anything to make her laugh again. But he’d really do anything to shut up that laughter, afterward. Spin it into something breathy and relentless. He wonders if this is what it feels like once your mind is lost. Thinks of cellars and bugs and the stench and rot of insanity. He’d look so perfectly appropriate in creamy cotton, pulled tight, all to keep him from the frenzied need to keep touching himself, no matter how much it hurts, because the ghost of her memory is most present when he’s wanton and weak. It’s not a bad outcome. He would gladly take the isolation of the fractured mind, shattered glass reflections all of Rook, 

Rook, 

Rook, 

Rook, 

over the pounding loneliness he’s known all too well. 

He watches as she looks at her hands, dirt chunking from under her nails, and she smiles something light and tempting. Maybe she wasn’t lying about that guard, after all. Who wouldn’t unshackle a maiden so sweet? He doesn’t care if she’s a siren. He’ll hold his breath until he chokes. “Truth be told, my dear,” here goes nothing, “to vie for your affections, I’d probably pester you with questions, act a fool and ignore any indication you might feel the same in the hopes you’d eventually leave me to perish in peace.” It breaks his heart to watch her frown. Don’t pity him. Don’t look at him. He’s not a wilting lily, he’s a dying ember who only needs the air from her lungs to lift him back to life. He was making peace with death, before her. It’s something he’ll never forgive her for. 

She lifts a hand to his jaw, delicate and rough, thumb running under his cheekbones. “Well, if I were to be in a similar position, perhaps I’d darken your doorstep every day, lose my nerve if I catch your eye too long and fashion myself an expert lover in the hopes it’d catch your attention.” 

She wants him and he’s a makeshift dragon tamer. Scrappy. Scrounging for any hint of interest. His desire is an archdemon he’s been holding back with shoelaces. “My dear, if your intentions are sincere, I fear what may become of me.” 

A girl possessed, the blacks of her eyes blow wider as the sharp of her teeth begin glinting in the firelight. He’s choking. “You should be afraid.”

Once they’ve crossed the threshold of his door, she pushes him against the slab, lips shiny and breath shallow. Her fingers are clumsy with youth and he’s bumbling out apologies for the mess, for the cold, for anything that might make her leave. He wants to bring her by the fire, warm her up, take his time with his meal. He hears a rip in his dress shirt and considers offering a proper spanking, but before he can assume the position she declares “Get on the table.” He cocks a shoulder and tilts his head. Smiles. Mind blank. 

“I beg your pardon?”

Her strength should come as no surprise and he regrets his yelp when his thighs scrape against the stone. He’s in briefs and briefly wonders if this is where she kills him. Lets him bleed out, a martyr, her sacrificial lamb. He’d keep his eyes on her as the lights go out, glad he could finally perform to her satisfaction. When she yanks the last bits of cover off of him, the cold much more biting and mocking, he nearly crosses his legs and asks if she’d like to join him for dinner sometime. 

“Lie down and spread your legs.” He laughs. The look on her face says to shut up. 

If she’s impressed by his figure she makes no show of it, stripping herself down and, like a lightning rod, gaining electric power with every item she removes. Once she’s as bitten by the cold as he is, puckered and goose-pimpled, she steps up onto the stone, between his legs, staring down at him. His mouth waters. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you.”

“Tell me you need me.”

“Darling-”

“Say it.”

He feels himself getting harder. “I need you.” “I’m going to kill you tonight.”

“I know.”

“And when I’m finished, you’re going to thank me for it.”

“I will.” 

She wastes no time warming him up. Her mouth is boiling on the tip of him and he angles to scrape the back of her throat if just to put her on the back foot. In response, she grips his hips, nails digging into the bone as she lowers and lowers and lowers until his toes curl and throat tightens. She’s a harlot and a harpy and his heartbeat is pounding through his head. Hands are pathetic and past conquests no match for her pretty little mouth. Her drool is dripping everywhere and he’s parched. “Let me taste you.”

“No.”

She scratches at his inner thighs, the soft little points where he’s hairless and shallow and the chills running down his scalp make him feel almost feverish. Good. He hopes he infects her. He hopes the little bit of poison that’s soon to fill her cheeks will spark delirium, binding her to him, his kiss the only antidote. Her hair is so shiny and he’s seeing stars. “Kiss me.”

She pops off and grips him like it’s a weapon. “No.” The back of his head thunks in anguish. 

“Please, I’ll do anything, I’ll say anything, please, my darling, if I could just,” With a final lick he cums, shiny and sticky on his stomach, matting his hair. She leans over him, commanding and resolute. A demon. A creature of evil. A girl who will haunt him forever. 

“Take me to dinner.”

“I will.”

“Buy me something nice, too.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll fuck you when you prove you’re better off unchained.”

“Thank you.”

That night, he dreams he’s trapped in a glass casket and she sits in the pews, smiling at him. He’s never slept better.

[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. ”

[rei-ismyname]

Resurrection of Magneto Highlights 1

RoM is a book that loses something in the highlight format as the big moments are truly earned and impactful. There's an ongoing narration, dialogue or soliloquy running through each issue tying everything together and to truly give context I'd have to annotate it. Lucky for us, Al Ewing and Luciano Vecchio are masters and every panel serves as a coda for Storm or Magneto from SWORD and X-Men Red. This is easily my longest Highlights yet, there's just so much to say.

I wish I dreamt about Magneto

Ororo has a dream of a full page splash - Magneto, Max, saying 'I was wrong' surrounded by five of his iconic helmets. 3 red ones, bloody and facing towards the world. 1 black, 1 white upright behind his back. It's been quite a while since Uranos the Undying tore his heart out on Judgement Day but it's good to see Ororo has some measure of peace and love on Arakko with Craig of NASA.

She's the deuteragonist of RoM so she chooses to follow her dream and seek Max in the afterlife. Ororo shows up at Adam Brashear/The Blue Marvel's underwater base and asks for help with exactly that. He lampshades how bozos like Reed would deem it impossible and leads her to a portal. He's in the middle of explaining how dangerous it is and requires... we don't hear because Storm takes a running leap and YOLOs into it. Tarn the Uncaring and a who's who of Marvel cosmology are there to greet her. Tarn is insulted that Ororo has come for the guy who exploded his head, but as above, so below - he loves to talk and she outwits him.

Ashake is often obliquely referred to but very rarely directly, so it's lovely to see her magical ancestor here to help. As Ororo pets her black cat, Ashake confirms this is a place of magic. Symbols and metaphors are powerful here - something Mags could use help with in his current state. It's also connected to the Kabbalistic tree of life, but I'm not very knowledgeable about that.

Two redrawn and recoloured keystone moments of Max and Ororo's relationship down the bottom.

She resolved to see this through and her thought carries her towards the Sphere of Judgement. Unexpectedly a bunch of Dominions bar her path, though luckily the two mutants are too small to truly be of interest to them. Still, a single mortal arriving in Overspace is significant and they prompt her to ask questions. The face of Dominions are shown but it's still fairy tale rules. The most important thing she learns is about Enigma, though she doesn't know it at the time.

The Sphere of Judgement is hostile, everything is inverted. Lightning is red, the river is lava, clouds are black, everything is broken. She notices this spot from her dream and the charred frames of Max's five helmets still sit in blood. Magneto has been here for months by choice, bypassing the Waiting Room Wanda built but refusing to move on. He believes he deserves this.

Finally she reaches Magneto weeping blood in front of a wall of names. Everyone he ever killed and he's counting every one, remembering their name. He's judging himself, punishing, and doesn't think he deserves to leave.

He shares his greatest shames, his most recent cruelties. Worst, the ones he convinced himself was necessary. He's overwhelmed by the red in his ledger and in this place of judgement lashes out, flinging names off the wall at Ororo while naming the person. What snaps him out of it is the mention that something happened to Charles, heh.

'The no-place of his heart' 👌

Max turns the judgement on Ororo but she rejects it, calling him out for extending Charles the grace he won't extend to himself plus a little hypocrisy. Magneto has always been prone to drama and that tendency can hurt as much as it heals.

That really gets him going, but he's judging himself more constructively now. Love, friendship, accountability. The things that are keeping some part of tethered to the living world. He pulls one more name down to say the name aloud before he sends it at Ororo - it's his - Max Eisenhardt. Still, he cries 'it's out of our hands.' He truly wants to give up but I think a part of him knows his story isn't done.

Ororo disagrees. Displaying why she's the only person who could assist in the resurrection of Magneto, she covers his eyes and remembers the rules of this place. The wall of the dead becomes its opposite - the wall of the living. Not those he killed but those he saved. It's enough to pull him out of punishing himself. Neither group should be forgotten but he can choose to save life rather than take it - to change.

Torturing yourself in a personal hell might appease some of those dead, but accepting responsibility to the living should be what comes after judgement. Suffering helps no one, and as he says to Logan as he's about to kill Charles much later - 'no more martyrs.' Part of why I enjoyed Magneto identifying Logan Behavior is because he himself is the king of it. Charles too. All three are prone to martyrdom but dying is easy. It's living that's difficult and worthwhile. Secluding yourself from the world, whether it's in the Sphere of Judgement, a mega prison, or with a pack of wolves - is senseless and selfish. Living is better.

Next time - what does that actually mean for both of them and how do they get out of this place? It's not as simple as turning a key. Choosing to live is hard work. Metatextually, change and rebirth requires a tour of all that he is, all that he's done. What's the point of killing a character and then bringing them back the same as they were? Comic books do it all the time, but Magneto's long history is a study of opposites and extremes. He, the writer and the reader all need to deconstruct Magneto so he can be reconstructed as a better person. With the benefit of hindsight we know he succeeds, but what does that actually look like for him? 60 years of his oversized influence on the world is a lot and it only gets better from here.

[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."

[gayhorrorsans]

THIS WAS MADE ABOUT 5 MONTHS AGO, MY WRITNG IS BETTER NOW. I HAVE NOT PROOF-READ OR EDITED THIS. IT WILL BE CRINGEY. SORRY

Initially requested by @dustcrumbs

tw for implied suicide, injury, unrequited love, homophobia and potentially more. Reader discretion is advised

---------------

Love would never work. That's what Phantom Papyrus always told Dust. 'What's the point in trying when no one will love you.' At first it was whatever, Dust coped fine. However the relentless bashing, the constant mentioning that you weren't even worthy of as much as 'Hello' or 'How are you?' hurt. Like being beat across the head with a baseball bat. And this didn't stop, it never did. Even after Dust met Nightmare. It got worse. Any positive emotion Dust felt to anyone, something as little as respect, his brother would berate him for. That's why Dust never talked. He was always having someone in his ear constantly. Calling him every profanity under the sun. Nothing could help. No medication in the world would keep him productive whilst eliminating his brother. He refused to get rid of the scarf, as much as it hurt him it was the only thing that helped him hang on. 

With the addition of Killer the group felt more like a group instead of just a sort of hitman for hire. He, Killer and Nightmare. Killer was the opposite of Dust in some ways. He was talkative, sometimes too talkative. Dust never cared, he'd just let Killer go on. Sometimes he would flirt for the sake of it. An emotionless being had no clue how much his words would impact someone like Dust. From this point Papyrus had only been calling him mean names, and making fun of him, lecturing him as to how no one to ever exist would ever love him. Dust hadn't said a word to Papyrus since a year after the human stopped RESETing. After Dust read upon schizophrenia during his endless time alone he learnt not to antagonize the hallucinations. Whatever, Dust dealt with it in any way possible. If listening to Killer babble on about whatever made him happy he'd do it. It gave him something to focus on besides the red scarf screaming the same things at him. 

With Nightmare and Killer it never really mattered, he had no attraction to them. After Cross joined, Dust had a lot more of Papyrus screaming at him. Nearly 24 hours a day he was moments from tears. Not because the insults upset him. Not because the fact it was Papyrus. But because it was annoying. Imagine trying to sleep, not being able to because all you hear is constant speaking, screaming in your ear all the time. It would never stop. Twenty-Four hours a day. Seven days a week. It got no better when Error became a sort-of member. Papyrus only got worse. The more time he spent around men, the more Papyrus acted up. Whenever he went out alone, or was around some kind of genderbent AU, Papyrus never spoke. It annoyed Dust, what was so different about them? He had a suspicion Papyrus didn't like homosexuality in any way for a while, but had no explicit proof, nor did he have any proof at all still. He had no evidence to back it up. Plus, he still refused to burn the scarf.

The final member joined. Horror. Dust wasn't there when Horror entered for the first time. Nor was he there the day after. But the third day in he was eating breakfast. Papyrus was being quiet. His soul was calm. It was very early after all, before Nightmare would even leave his room. Then he looked up, seeing a larger skeleton, at least a foot taller than him, maybe two, who easily weighed 5 times Dust's size, was making a coffee. His back turned to Dust. Dust's soul skipped a beat. He was enamoured, no, he was. He was. In love. Horror was, physically sculpted. Strong, built, and looked like he could knock Dust out in a second. With every strength comes a weakness of course, Dust was aware that Horror had quite weak magic, barely being able to use bone attacks, with most of his magic going to teleportation and keeping his body alive.

Horror hadn't noticed Dust's stare. He was still waiting for the kettle to boil. Dust immediately pulled the tassels of his hoodie, hiding his face from Horror and anyone who may walk in. He was, silently hyperventilating. His face bright with purple, a deep mauve. Speckled with little bits of dark purple glitter. Like freckles. Each monsters pattern was unique, Dust's wasn't anything special, but still pretty. As he tried to manage the speed of his soul, Papyrus caught on to what was happening. Safe to say he wasn't pleased. But Dust managed to zone him out as Horror turned around with his coffee and sat down. Dust managed to calm down enough to where the purple had faded to a very light dusting, it could be tossed up to him being embarrassed about meeting someone new.

Horror spoke first, stirring his coffee before leaning back and placing the stirrer back on the coffee set. "So, Dust? Murder?... given couple names... f'er you." He spoke slowly and in small bits, easier to process. Dust didn't ask why, nor bothered thinking about it much. He just loved the way that Horror spoke, mesmerising. Everything from his accent, a deep rustic sounding. Not like Dust used to sound. The two clearly had different surroundings after their timeline. He spoke far deeper than Dust, and Dust had a deep voice. Horror was similar to Nightmare in how he spoke, without the distortion of Nightmares voice. Horror was far less formal, colloquialised terms or contractions were stuff that he seemed to used often. "Either. M-mostly address myself as Dust. Murder's more a... formal name." Dust stuttered, he silently cursed himself. How could he just embarrass himself in front of the hottest hunk he has ever met. He hoped the other wouldn't notice. Horror was just staring at his coffee before Dust spoke, but stared at his eyes, morning eyes. Horror had just woken up not too long ago. He was still tired, but the look he gave Dust made him almost squeal like he fanboying over this man. He controlled himself just barely, pressing his legs together to try use some of his energy without Horror seeing.  "Mm. Murder... Nice ring to it." He smiled, taking a small sip of his drink again, looking back at Dust. "Dust... use that then.... f'er now." He chuckled a bit, causing Dust to have to press his fists together under the table, desperately trying to distract himself and not make some embarrassing sound or giggle that would make him sound creepy. Oh God, what if Horror thought he was creepy? Or weird? What would he do? He tried to not focus on that, instead attempting to smile at Horror, failing miserably, his face was still covered in that shadow. "Mm? Early... you go bed?" Horror gave him a reason to excuse himself, Dust nodded, apologising and walked to his room, running when he was out of earshot of the kitchen. He sat down in his room, locking the door and panting as he sat down on his bed. "Pathetic. You've fallen for someone that easily." His brother started to speak. Papyrus clearly didn't approve of the idea. "It's... he's different. Just stay out of it." Dust actually replied to his Papyrus, for the first time in years. He shouldn't have really. That let Papyrus know that this got to Dust. "A fucking man no less. You know you're a man too? Or did you forget that too." Papyrus laughed at himself, Dust didn't entertain it. "I like him. Shut your fat fucking mouth and stay out of it." Even 2 weeks ago Dust would have never dreamed of insulting any, never mind his own, Papyrus.

"Oh I see how it is. You prefer him over me? Let me guess you won't kill him will you. Well remember why you joined here. To get EXP." "No. That's not why I joined." Dust held his head, his breathing getting faster, he was wishing he never responded to Papyrus. He grabbed the scarf and threw it on the floor, rubbing it into the ground under his shoe.

"I try to help you and you ignore me. They will betray you Sans. You're just some low level, nothing faggot." Dust froze. "What." Phantom repeated himself. "I said. I try to help you and you ignore me. They will betray you Sans. You're just some low level, nothing faggot."

Dust stood up and grabbed the scarf. He marched out, unlocking the door and leaving the castle. He walked past Horror who was still drinking his coffee and outside where the group gathered for a fire every now and again. He poured some gasoline onto the scarf, and lit a piece of string which led to it. In a few seconds. The scarf went bursting up in flames. Causing Dust to squint slightly. He walked back a bit as he heard Papyrus scream, slowly. Very slowly, the screams faded. Then silence. He turned around and nearly fell backwards. Stepping back as he had just walked into Horror. How the fuck did he get there without Dust realising? "O-oh- s-sorry!" He apologised. Horror shook his head and held out a single buttercup to Dust. It was tiny in the giants hand. Dust took a moment to understand what was going on, the world began to shake as he heard a laugh. 

"You really thought you could get rid of me that easily? Your own brother Sans." Phantom floated behind Horror, the giant not knowing because it was a hallucination.  Dust immediately bolted past Horror, running away. Horror looked back to see him gone. The brute frowned. His first attempt at showing affection ruined in a mere instant. He teleported back to his own room and gently placed the buttercup in some powder, then some water to grow some roots. At least the plant could live on.

Dust immediately went back to his room. "Why. Won't you. Leave me. Alone." Phantom laughed at that. "I won't let my brother die due to his own poor choices."

Dust tossed a knife in the direction of Papyrus, the knife sticking itself in the wall. He ignored him. Tried to ignore him. He napped, something he rarely did these days. Papyrus screaming at him to stop being lazy and go get EXP. Dust managed to zone it out. Until he couldn't. Nightmare told Horror to go get Dust for dinner, and Horror turned up outside his door. Knocking.

Knocking.

A set of knocks later Horror groaned, he wasn't so gentle this time, practically punching the door, sending a vibration all through Dust's room (and a very loud noise too). That woke Dust up. Just as Dust was about to complain he realised who it was. He got up and exited the room. "Sorry... was asleep." Horror nodded, letting Dust walk in front of him. It was a long walk from where Dust was to the kitchen. Horror paused Dust, holding his jacket with a finger. He could tell Dust was on edge. He crouched down slightly and held his arms out to him. Just a hug, nothing more.

Dust didn't respond nicely. Papyrus' words from earlier really got to him. He, although very pathetically, pushed Horror. Horror didn't move an inch, but Dust ran after he pushed Horror, teleporting to the kitchen as soon as he could. Horror shrugged, walking to the kitchen at his own pace. He did question why though. Why was Dust acting like that? He seemed nice this morning, why was he all angry and moody. Had he done something? Maybe it was the buttercup he had given him. Had it offended him? He wanted to apologise, not over dinner though. The frail skeleton looked like he could faint any minute when Horror saw him. It didn't matter now. Horror approached the kitchen and leaned into the room, Dust was shaking on his stool. The others weren't looking at the moment. Horror went up to him. "'m sorry." He mumbled, crouching near him, pretending to pick something up off the floor. 

Dust barely responded, simply shuffling a bit. No verbal confirmation of forgiveness came from him. Horror didn't need to apologise, and he didn't even tell him that. Dust was being warped and shifted by Papyrus without even realising. Horror shrugged. "Don't getcha." He stated, grabbing his food and walking away. He didn't lose anything he felt for Dust. But the tiny skeleton was being annoying to him. So he just left.

Dust was shaking. He had just upset Horror. He didn't know how to feel. The world was so busy, colours. Bright colours. The kitchen red and blue. Indigo, violet. Night time sky. Bright. Happy. Joy. Yeah. That's right. Joy. Levelling up. Dust was now faceplanted on the table, giggling to himself, to anyone else he looked creepy, but he was seeing everything. Experiences had become sort of 3rd person. He felt like he wasn't in his own body, seeing someone play out his life. Watching them make choices. He watched as he faded in and out of consciousness, barely able to breathe as he made choking noises. The extremely loud noises drew the attention of the others, who managed to shake him back to reality. Not without difficulty. It was like he had overdosed on something, had withdrawals. He hadn't taken anything. What was it. Was he just that fucked up mentally?

He thanked the others for their kindness, apologising as he stood up and went to his room. The world was dull to him now, even the others, their normal brightly coloured eyes, or in the case of killer, his red knives he carried, were dull. Not as in the sharpness of the knives, the colour. They seemed more pale or more dark. It was truly hard to describe, but Dust wasn't sure what it was anyway. He tried to not focus on how bad he was getting by climbing back into bed. Heading back to sleep at a more reasonable time.

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Horror hadn't slept. Not because he couldn't, but because he normally doesn't sleep for very long, and the night prior he had slept for about 3 times as long as he normally does. He had gone out in the night to an AU he quite liked visiting. Farmtale. He was good friends with the Sans from their. He had paid him in advance for a special bouquet of purple iris flowers, verbana and asters. It was expensive, and beautiful. Horror gave Farm a hug, before leaving. Tipping him an extra bit before he did. He returned back to the castle and placed them in some water with some auxins to propagate root growth. Then he returned to his own room to grab the buttercup, which due to the magical nature of the auxins - mixed with some magic of course- had already grown roots. 

Nightmare had a garden near the castle. A little greenhouse in it too. He had given Horror permission to grow any flowers he wanted, so long as they were dull or dark colours. Purples and reds were fine, but the yellow buttercup would have broken the rules. So he used a small amount of plant-safe food dye, and splashed red onto it, making it appear to be a blood splattered plant. He would of course inform Nightmare as soon as he awoke to ask if it was fine, but at the moment, the little buttercup sat in the soil and it was pretty.

Horror had also prepared a new gift, that would arrive in the early morning, around 9-10am. He was unsure as to why, he felt this way towards Dust. Someone who clearly wasn't interested, nor even like Horror. Every time they spoke after the first interaction was barely anything. Not to mention they hadn't met a long time ago, it was only the second day. Horror was, somehow, determined to try and win Dust. Although deep down he knew, it wouldn't work. 

He sat in the kitchen, the bouquet of flowers in front of him. He waited for Dust. He presumed the skeleton would expect him to be up at a similar time as the day before. So Horror believed Dust would try come an hour before to get his breakfast. And so Horror waited. And he was right. He was sat there with his coffee as Dust walked in. "Morn' Murder." 

Dust froze up. Despite him allowing Horror to use the name, it still shocked him. Not to mention how he didn't think Horror would even be up. He tried to ignore him, giving in further to his Papyrus. He grabbed some bread and toasted it. He buttered it and sat down at the opposite corner of the table from Horror. Not even looking at him. He knew Horror could snap his neck if he wanted to. He should be thanking him, but again, didn't.

Horror slid the flowers to Dust, smiling as he drank his coffee, finishing it. He watched as the other looked at the flowers, examining them. Then finishing his toast. Horror had placed the flowers in a beautiful vase. It looked as if it came from royalty. It wouldn't be surprising to hear it to be one of Nightmare's old antiques. Dust grabbed it. And threw it back at Horror. Hitting him square in the forehead with it, the glass shattered. Horror didn't move for a moment. Dust froze as well. Horror moved his eyes to face Dust. And Dust was gone. Teleported away immediately. Horror twitched his skull a bit, groaning as he reached his hand deep into his skull through his eye, grabbing a few glass shards that had landed in there. He felt his eye go a bit fuzzy. The glass must have hit and cut it. He stood up and started to clean up the mess. He grabbed a sweeping brush and collected all the glass into a pile, then shovelled it into the bin, taking the bin outside and placing into the larger outdoor bin they had. They would then take that to whatever AU to dump it there or recycle it. But not now. Horror walked back inside and finished cleaning. He looked at the bouquet and sighed. Whatever. He grabbed it and went back to Farmtale.

He walked into Farm's barn, despite it being 3am in that AU. He went to Farm's room, knocked and entered. Farm slept very little through the night anyway. He silently gave Farm the bouquet, handing him another small amount of money to apologise for wasting his time. He then left  after immediately, not allowing Farm to say anything. He finished wiping down and drying any water that was on the floor or counter and it looked like nothing had happened. Horror then walked towards the garden again. He sat down, catching a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the greenhouse. He looked and, didn't react much verbally, but he was seething. Dust had shattered a bit more of his skull, which wasn't the main thing that annoyed him. It was now, the crack has expanded so much, it was now connected to his eye socket. That's probably why Dust ran away so fast. 

He kept his cool, not expressing his anger in any way. He watched the plants move about in the wind a bit and smiled. When he was angry back in Horrortale, he often went to Farm. He did work, but when Farm screamed at him to stop working - or else he would be drastically overworked - he would sit down outside, often with the flowers. Red spider lilies. Farm told him how they signified death to some people, Chrysanthemums too. Horror remembered always questioning him, they were all such pretty flowers. How could someone assign such horrible attributes to a flower? It didn't make sense to Horror, but they fit with Nightmares garden. And they were more than beautiful. They fit so well. Horror looked more out of place than they did. He stayed there for a few hours before he heard someone shout his name. He got up and packed away the chair, folding it up and sliding it into the greenhouse. He slowly followed the sound to the kitchen. 

Dust and the others were sat down, everyone besides Dust were eating breakfast. As Horror walked in, everyone was caught staring at him, besides Dust. Horror looked badass, but that doesn't make a difference when he should have died about 10 times by now with how large his crack had grown. He was flooded with multiple questions, he shushed everyone, saying he would explain to Nightmare shortly, and to everyone else when he saw fit. He turned to Dust after everyone had calmed down slightly, seeing him have a look of sheer horror on his face. Horror shrugged, turning back to the front door as he checked the time, the delivery was due, he waited outside for the delivery. Mail Sans, a nice sans, quite generous and laid back. One of the only people who wasn't scared to deliver things to places like Dreamtale or even Dusttale. Horror tipped him, not a custom to do with delivery services but Horror felt like it. And with how this next thing would go, he wanted to at least have someone happy.

He walked inside and waited for everyone to leave besides Dust. He sat down at the table. He handed the parcel over to him.

Dust was confused, why was he still trying. He didn't like this fool... he didn't... he did. No. He didn't of course he didn't. He wasn't gay. He wasn't... no. Horror wasn't good enough for him. He knew that now. Horror was pathetic, cheap EXP even someone like Dust could feel bad for. Despite that, he felt like... he didn't know. But every time Dust came close to feeling sympathy for Horror, or even love. Papyrus would speak, quickly changing Dust's mind. Like a puppet. He opened the box, finding a knife set. It was, beautiful. Some of the most expensive, high quality knives he had ever laid his eyes upon. There was 5 sets of knives. One was for Dust, it even had a little personalised note on top. A cute little illustration of him and Horror. Each of them had one, but his was dead centre and looked to prettiest. Dust looked at it and opened the knife set for himself. Inside were 8 knives. From small knives, to a decent sized knife Dust would most likely use, to a bread knife and a carving knife. Expensive. Each knife looked pristine, easily worth £150 each. Dust examined the knife. And in an almost robotic motion, felt the handle, grabbed it, and threw it in the direction of Horror. 

Horror would have taken it but dodged to prove a point. He snatched them back off Dust, then grabbed him by his shirt, lifting him up to eye level. He stared at him. His eyes not tired, lazy, nor attractive anymore. They were aggression. Pure aggression. Horror dropped him, turning away and letting Dust do whatever. He grabbed the knife sets and put them back in the box. "never asked.... for love... you could have.... said no." He walked away, directly to Nightmares room. He was uninterested in Dust now. He had tried. Little things like hugs. He had even gone into Dust's room when he wasn't there for the first few days to try introduce himself. Each time with a small box of chocolates. Dust was never there. Horror had tried these past few days. Each attempt was met with refusal. Even non-romantic things. A hug. Dust ran away from a hug. Whatever.

Horror approached Nightmares room and knocked, once he was granted entry, he handed Nightmare a knife set. The same one Dust got, a similar illustration too. It was to thank him for allowing him to come here. He assured Nightmare this wasn't some kind of last minute thing before he quit. However, he sat down and spoke. He wasn't good at speaking, so he signed by pointing at certain things to get most of his words out. He pointed at his crack, specifically the part where Dust had injured it. He then pointed at a vase with some flowers in, then signalled that he gave Dust the vase, by pretending to give Nightmare one, then stood up, in place of Dust, and threw the pretend vase directly where he was just sitting. "m... just wanted... to at least... be friends.." Nightmare nodded in response, thinking. He stood up and thanked Horror for the knife set. He apologised for Dust, insisting he would not only keep a close eye, but were he to personally witness anything, he would do the exact same thing Dust did to him, but 10 times, and with 5 times as much force each time. Infighting in his group was something Nightmare despised. For his own selfish reasons of course, but you can't run a group with constant fighting. Horror accepted the response and bowed his head towards Nightmare to signify respect, then left. 

He walked quite a while to get to his next destination. Nightmares room was very out of the way from everyone else's. He eventually found his way to Cross' room. He knocked on the door, and entered. He smiled as he greeted Cross, handing him a knife set, with the same little illustration of Horror and whoever was handing it to. He sat down on the floor for a quick second, reorganising the box as he had placed all the loose knives in the box, so he didn't want to stab himself, so he placed them all at one side. He also did the same thing he did with Nightmare. Although, didn't mention name, or hinted at who it could be. He repeated this with Error and Killer. Error would have less use for a knife set compared to someone like Killer, but Error could use them for cooking.

After doing this with everyone, he went back to the kitchen, packed up his knives and went to his room. He tossed the box on the bed and immediately went to Dust's room. He knocked on the door. Nothing. That was all he needed to know. Dust didn't feel anything, no remorse, no sadness, nothing. As much as it hurt Horror (and it did), his attraction to Dust, was just that, an attraction. Dust's attraction to him, was an obsession. Horror didn't even know Dust liked him, he had a slight suspicion at the start from the others faint purple blush but whatever. It didn't matter now. It won't ever again. It won't ever be the same. Horror grabbed the knife set, and teleported out. He went to Farm. It was the only AU where he felt comfort. He walked into Farm's kitchen, knowing he would be there. It was nice.

"Hey big guy, how are y'all a-doin'?" Farm chimed, walking up to Horror, who handed him the box, with the knives left stray. Horror got down on his knees and hugged Farm. 

"'m sorry...." He mumbled into the others shoulder. Big ol' softie he was. He could be anyway. He apologised for the knives not being in a proper box and just the crooked old cardboard from the delivery. He apologised for there only being 7, not 8. The 8th was ruined when Dust threw it into the wall.  "Hey hey, you're fine. Ay promise ya." He gently patted Horror's back, this wasn't what he expected today, nor was it last night. He gently looked at Horror, leaning back to do so. He smiled softly,  rubbing his face, "y'er eye?" Horror nodded, he tried to mumble what happened, but couldn't do it coherently, as he kept getting overwhelmed emotionally each time he did so. He mumbled, crying a little, then stopping himself. Farm thought for a second. "Ya tell anyone else?" Horror nodded. "Bring em 'ere, or we go to them!" Horror thought for a second. The only person he had said the name to was Nightmare. Whilst Nightmare didn't exactly dislike Farm, they had no positive feelings with each other. 

Horror grabbed Farm's hand and teleported to Cross, who was able to more coherently say what happened than Horror was, after they left, Horror was able to mumble who did it. Whilst the answer wasn't surprising, it still was slightly shocking. Dust had appeared to be getting better. With his very few interactions with any of the Bad Sanses he knew that Dust was more sane and safer to be around. Clearly not. They returned back to Farmtale and Farm let Horror know that he could stay here any time he wanted, which Horror immediately took the offer on. 

Throughout the week he had numerous missions to complete, none with Dust. Nightmare didn't put them on the same one. But that week showed how strong Horror was. Not only was he just terrifying, which inflicted negative emotions on their own. He could work his magic in multiple ways. Being able to haunt people at night in their AU's by hiding in a crack between their mostly closed curtains, making them paranoid someone was watching them. He could hide under some peoples beds, breathing at times they weren't to make them uncomfortable, which would eventually grow into absolute fear. Eventually Horror finished his first full week. Nightmare was very impressed.

One person who wasn't. Dust. Dust had slowly started to realise that Papyrus was acting that way out of selfishness. Dust was fine and could perform well with a relationship. He, was prepared to apologise to Horror, but because he almost never slept their during the week after what he did, he was unable to. 

------

A few weeks had passed. Dust had seen Horror a few times, but the larger skeleton never even looked at him. It slowly started to dawn on Dust that, he had lost Horror. The person who he was literally head over heels for. He had lost him. All because. He listened. To a hallucination. Dust had lost the man who would have been his lover, if he had common sense. If he accepted Horror's advances. He laughed at himself. No this couldn't be true. It was a dream surely. It was all just a dream. He pinched himself, poked himself, hit himself. It wasn't a dream.

It wasn't a dream

It wasn't a dream

It was real.

He had lost Horror.

No. No, Horror wasn't with anyone. So, over time they could build a bond back up. Right? He grabbed onto his jacket and tried to control his breathing, barely being able to at this point. He tried to bring himself to a more sane position. Papyrus had gone. Once he did his damage, he went. And Dust certainly believed he would never come back. He didn't know why he thought this, he just did.

He paused. He was in the kitchen. Horror had just walked in. He was about to get up. Go apologise. He had finally built up the courage. He was finally going to do it. He didn't expect forgiveness, but he wanted to try. He approached Horror an-. Horror wasn't alone. He was with someone. With another AU. Farm. Of course. I mean, why would Horror wait for Dust to apologise. There were always better options for him. Dust was one of possible hundreds. He was easily in the bottom third of the pile while Farm was easily top 5. And now, he had lost his chance.

He loved Horror. No, he needed him. He had never felt like that with someone ever. Not one other person gave him the same feeling that Horror did. No one could ever make him as happy as Horror. No one could bring him to his knees quite like Horror. No one could intimidate him like Horror. Horror was the best in everything to Dust. And, someone else gets that now. He's happy for Farm, sure. But, were it not for him still loving Horror. He would plunge a knife down his throat in seconds. He doesn't want to hurt Horror though. He wanted Horror in every way. And Papyrus prevented that. Dust went to the garden, pulled a flower out. And went back to the kitchen.

"H-Horror..." He spoke, attracting his attention. Dust held the flower behind his back as he spoke. "I've been... horrible. That puts it extremely lightly. I don't expect anything. But." He pulled out the buttercup that Horror had tried to give him at the start of this entire experience. The suspense was killing him. It felt like he was waiting hours for Horror to respond. Horror did wait a bit, but 5 seconds felt like 2 hours to Dust. Horror reached, and gently grabbed the buttercup. He looked at it, smiling. It was as beautiful as he remembered. The red splatters on it had faded slightly but it was still pretty.

Dust had his eyes closed, not ready for the response. He opened them slowly, met by Horror crouching down slightly. He held his arms out to Dust. To which Dust collapsed into them. He wasn't expecting forgiveness. In a way it hurt more. The love of his life forgave him for something. He wasn't the perfect partner he wanted to be. He wasn't going to end up with him. Bittersweet. He had forgiveness. That was good enough. To want more would be greedy right?. And so, Dust hung on for as long as he could, before Horror gently let him down. He rubbed the little guys head and thanked him, going to sit down with Farm. Dust nodded, and walked outside. He sat down on the steps. He had nothing to say anymore. He found his purpose. And lost it. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself that 'everything would be okay'. It wouldn't be. He was happy, for Horror. He loved him. But, a friendship isn't what Dust wanted. He went to his room, grabbed a pen and paper.

He wrote a note to each individual member of the group. Then he wrote to Horror.

'To My Love. 

I, am sorry. I can't explain to you in words, on text or pages what you mean to me. I feel like until I met you, I lived in a world where I was blind, cold and deaf. When I met you, I could see, hear and feel warmth. Obviously not literally, but that's what it felt like.

You are, the most important thing to me. But being friends isn't going to help me. Do not feel guilty. I am a horrible person for what I put you through. I can't even bring myself to say your name. Hence why this letter is not addressed to you. I'm sorry. I can't say it enough really. I ruined my only chance of happiness in life. I won't have a chance to redeem it. I'm happy for you and Farm. I really am. But, to say I am jealous is to tell a blind person they need glasses. It's nowhere near the truth. I'm sorry for dumping all this on you at once. I let my hallucinations control me.

You, are the best thing that has happened to me. The few moments we had together in happiness were maybe just moments to you, but to me it was a new beginning. I would sit here now and tell you I would do anything for you. Be yours. Be a toy for you. I wouldn't be lying either. However I don't want to disrespect your relationship. 

All My Love, Murder.'

He sent that letter to Farm's house, a red splatter on the back to signify it was for Horror. He did similar things with the rest. He walked out the front door. And kept walking. He walked until walking became too slow. Then he ran, until that became too slow. Then he teleported. He got as far away as he could from Nightmare's castle. He returned to Dusttale, and wrote 2 words on a piece of paper. 

'Thank You.'

He left. He didn't know where he went. He just kept going until he was in a place where no one was. No one, not even Error had probably been this far. He stayed. He really did mean those words.

Thank 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.

[yippeeometer]

u said send u ships so I offer IndiBama if u have anything

indi is my beautiful little princess i want nothing more than for him to be happy. however it is not my fault his taste in men is godawful so we'll just have to work with what we have.

i just think neither of them are particularly functional so it would take the combined efforts of the west, south and midwest to force them together and it would still take months.

bama could be on one knee proposing and indi would still be texting illi like 'r u sure he likes me'. indi could be like 'i need u carnally' and bama would still relay it back to tenn and geo like it was just a normal conversation between friends.

they have so many bets on when they'll actually get together and they always go wrong. the Great Easter Crisis of Ohio being when they found indi and bama all curled up together and ohio thought he'd finally won the bet, only for indi to say 'were such best friends' and him to lose his shit.

oh and when they do get together. dear god they become worse. theyre the most insufferable couple youve ever met i mean that.

like misery comes to indi upset about his most recent situationship. indi its just like oh.... have u tried telling him ur sad.... forgetting of course that not everyone has the gift of magical puppy eyes and a weak boyfriend. misery is unable to contain himself

and thats why theyre disgustingly healthy in a world full of lunatics screaming and yelling at each other. indi says whatever he wants and bama just goes w it bc his boyfriend is super cool who's he to bring a king down.

and i think the toxic masculinity u built there will be breaking soon pal. bama thinks hes well adjusted until indi calls him pretty one time and he has to go lie down in a dark room for a while to recover

super insanley healthy behavior it makes me unwell. theres communication and everything. theyre a rare breed in the world of the statehouse considering everyone else is commicating through petty revenge and attacks.

like they suddenly have been married 80 years? and theyre making pie? what the fuck is this

[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💕

[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

[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.

[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.

[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.