#watch it intensify my kin feels

[pikagatogirltits]

Welp, since it's on the Switch as part of the membership I already have, I decided to give the Pokemon Mystery Dungeon series a try with Red Rescue Team.

I'd say I hope this doesn't awaken anything in me but...I think we're a little late for that.

[donatellawritings]

thoughts on best friends dad!rafe!

introducing bfd!rafe & dolly!reader

there was pathetically sick part of rafe that got off on knowing that he still had it — especially with such a young girl like you who was an absolute knockout, absolutely eager and willing to bend to his every whim. he had watched you bloom into the young woman you were today, but the moment you turned eighteen, you became a bit more forward with your intentions. from wearing skimpy bikinis whenever you joined his sweet son on family trips, to the thin satin dresses that tented with your hard nipples on thursday dinners — you made sure to always look your best for mr. cameron.

but what made rafe melt was the way you were so immersed in him, you completely dismissed how his son was head over heels in love with you — and you can call rafe a sick man, but he always craved being the center of attention, no matter the costs. his little boy would just have to move on, not that he ever stood a chance against his overpowering and domineering father.

so, when rafe’s son asked if you could spend the summer at tannyhill, rafe was eager to oblige, masking his reasoning with ‘wanting his next of kin to be happy at home’, despite his true intentions of having you surrender all of yourself to him, now running rampant is his tainted and somewhat deranged mind.

on the first night of your extended stay, you found yourself sat beside your best friend’s father, your tooth-achingly sweet and doting best friend seated directly across from you, completely oblivious to the way his father stared at you with that same sense of longing and desire.

you liked mr. cameron — he was always so sweet to you, he bought you the finest birthday presents, complimented your girly, but borderline inappropriate outfits, and he always seemed to know exactly what you needed at any given time.

and maybe, just maybe there was a part of you that knew he felt the same way about you too.

carelessly leaning over the dining table, you fought back a knowing smirk as your swollen tits bulged against the hem of your sleeveless romper, the ribbed fabric clinging to your warm frame as you reached for a piece of bread, “thank you for having me, mr. cameron,” you sang, your sweet voice all light and airy as you glanced at the older man, your heart jumping as you caught his eyes stuck on the fat of your plush ass cheeks that managed to swallow the romper.

masking his faux pas with a forced clearing of his throat, mr. cameron licks over his lips with a smile, “well — ahem, f’course, my wife and i really appreciate how good of a friend you’ve been to our boy, isn’t that right, honey?”

rafe knew exactly what he was doing, his trained blue eyes carefully taking in the way your plump smile faltered into a brief frown and how the sparkle in your eyes dimmed. your bubble of security had been popped in that very moment as you tugged on the top hem of your romper, your nailed fingers lightly grazing over the baby pink bow that had been sewn between the valley of your breasts.

your oh so pretty and fake smile only intensified as mrs. cameron sauntered into the dining room. you absolutely hated how your shared likeness towards mr. cameron had soured your perception of the clueless woman who still viewed you to be the daughter she always wanted.

placing a manicured hand atop of mr. cameron’s shoulder, you watch as the woman leans down to capture rafe’s lips in a quick kiss, “mhm. you know that we love having you over, sweetie. you keep us on our toes, dolly” she laughs, gently nudging the apple of your cheek as she makes her way to her seat, directly across from mr. cameron.

dolly — the dear nickname that you’d been given by mr. cameron, you’d always been so wet behind the ears, dainty, and entirely too vulnerable. but, it didn’t feel right coming from her.

answering with a short nod, you are a bit too eager to change the topic of discussion, a silent huff of stress leaving your faded plum stained lips as your best friend furrows his brows at your standoffish behavior, “y’okay?” he mouths, softly nudging your shin with the tip of his converse.

“i’m okay,” you mouth back, a soft smile on your pillowy lips as you steal a quick glance at mr. cameron who catches your sneaky gaze, sending you a quick wink as he takes a sip from his glass of chilled red wine.

licking over your dry lips, you swallow thickly, popping a warm and fluffy piece of bread into your needy mouth as mr. cameron’s long and slender leg brushes against yours. fighting back a smile, you remain silent as mrs. cameron enlightens the table about her new endeavors at cameron development, your eyes glazed over as you quietly hook your leg over his firm thigh.

honing your focus into chewing the piece of bread in your mouth, you watch from the corner of your bambi eyes as rafe inconspicuously slides a large hand over the smooth skin of your waxed leg.

now lost in the sensation of mr. cameron’s hand gently kneading soothing circles around your ankle, your eyes widen as rafe’s voice cuts into your dazed state, “y’seem pretty sleepy over there, dolly — everything a’ight?” he questions knowingly, his buzzed head tilted to the side as his pink lips part in anticipation of your next words.

feverishly nodding, you send rafe a forced courteous smile, “yes, mr. cameron — just sleepy,” you answer politely.

returning his attention to his son and wife, rafe keeps a tight hold on your small ankle, the cold bite of his wedding band digging into your warmed and bronze skin. you always loved to prance around tannyhill barefoot, you’re pretty pink toes on full display, ever since your younger days.

and rafe was painfully reminded of that, a feigned smile of interest on his handsomely structured face as he gave your cute little toes a gentle squeeze, every now and again.

all while his poor son and unsuspecting wife sat and ate their overly priced steak dinner.

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Malicious Daughter Is Back! - 7

Character : Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: It's just a business marriage. Bucky thought it would be easy until he encountered the stepsister of his fiancée. She turned his world upside down.

The Malicious Daughter Is Back! Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || Support : Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

Victoria wanted to scratch your face with her long nails and pull your hair. She put down her wine glass and stormed toward you, her heels clicking angrily against the floor.

How dare you take her place?

Even as Bucky's official fiancée, she never had the chance to hold him like that. He always pushed her away.

But you… She hated the fact that you were able to stand beside Bucky like that.

Her eyes burned with fury as she approached, her hands clenched into fists.

What did you do to make Bucky look at you like... like he's in love with you? How he looks at you is so different from how he looks at her—as if she's not essential to him.

Victoria could feel the coldness from him but with you? She could sense the warmth in Bucky's gaze toward you, even from afar.

"Wasn't Bucky's fiancée Victoria?" one guest whispered.

"Shhh," another guest hushed her friend.

The judging eyes of the guests felt like needles pricking her skin. She didn’t have to look at them to feel their scrutiny.

Victoria's face contorted with barely suppressed rage with every step closer to you. Her hands shook, her nails biting into her palms as she struggled to maintain her composure.

"Don't do anything," her mom said, grabbing Victoria's hand.

Victoria whispered angrily, "Why?" What reason could her mom have for stopping her?

Genevieve didn’t say anything, just tilted her head slightly toward Jonathan. He was also watching Bucky and you, but his expression was calm, unlike the two women’s.

That means he knew. He knew you were coming.

Victoria stormed over to her dad despite Genevieve's attempt to stop her.

"Why is my fiancé walking with her?" she demanded in a harsh whisper.

Jonathan looked at his younger daughter, who was already panicking because things weren’t going her way. He sighed his expression a mix of frustration and patience.

“Victoria, calm down,” he said firmly. “There’s a reason for this, and it’s not what you think. Bucky has his reasons, and you need to trust the process.”

Victoria's eyes narrowed, her breath quickening. She glanced back at you and Bucky, the fire in her eyes intensifying.

"Trust the process?" she hissed. "This is humiliating. Do you have any idea how this looks?"

Jonathan's gaze hardened. "This isn’t about looks, Victoria. It's about something much more important."

Genevieve, still holding Victoria’s arm, squeezed gently. “Listen to your father,” she urged. “We’ll handle this, but not here and not like this.”

Victoria clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she tried to regain control. She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

He sighed inwardly. What was wrong with his kin? None of them had inherited his calmness. Jonathan was a heartless man, and he embraced it. His lack of empathy was the reason the company thrived.

Not wanting to embarrass herself, Genevieve said, "This will ruin our business with the Barnes family."

Jonathan smirked. Failure was not in his vocabulary.

"Did you forget why the Barneses agreed to give their only son to us?" he asked, his tone icy.

Genevieve fell silent.

Victoria, who had just overheard this, looked confused and concerned. "Mom, what is Dad talking about?"

Genevieve hesitated, searching for the right words to explain. She wanted to protect her daughter from the harsh truths.

Flashback Start

After Genevieve suggested the idea of an engagement between both families, Jonathan initially thought it would be impossible. It wasn't a bad idea, but the Barneses were like royalty in the business world.

He didn't expect Bucky's father to agree. However, there was a condition: “If my son has second thoughts before the marriage, he can end the relationship.”

That was the truth of the engagement. Jonathan had told Genevieve to remind Victoria not to get too attached to Bucky.

He had prepared for the possibility that Bucky might want to end the engagement. Even though Jonathan was a cold father, he saw at the engagement party that there was no spark between Bucky and Victoria.

But he never thought Bucky would come to him and ask for you.

His first daughter was wild and always going berserk. How in the world could Bucky be interested in you?

Nonetheless, Bucky still chose someone from the Sinclair family.

Flashback End

Victoria fumed. "Outrageous. This is adultery."

Jonathan sipped his wine calmly. "There's nothing between you and him. Even a blind person could feel it."

"But..." She couldn't deny it.

Genevieve interjected, "Bucky is supposed to be with Victoria." Her plan was for Victoria to marry Bucky. She wanted her daughter to have the best. But you have ruined everything.

"Silence," Jonathan commanded.

That single word from his mouth silenced both women. They could see the unyielding determination in his eyes.

"It doesn't matter as long as he's with someone from our family. Don’t forget, she is still my daughter," he said, giving a warning look to his wife. His voice was low and firm, leaving no room for argument.

He knew everything she did to you. He didn't help you because you told him you didn't want anything from him, so he obliged.

The way you despised him also made him ignore you more.

But now, seeing you and Bucky together, he knew he had to give you more attention.

Genevieve went pale because this meant that Jonathan had acknowledged your position.

The three of them went silent.

In contrast, your heartbeat was racing because everyone's eyes were on you.

You gripped Bucky's arm tighter. “I don't fit in here.”

Bucky felt it too. He gently patted your hand and said, “Don't worry. It's time for you to claim back what's yours.”

He was right. You used to dream of this moment. It seemed impossible, but now you're here because of Bucky.

You got this!

Author Note: I learned it too late that I made Bucky's mothers name is the same as the reader's grandma. Lol. 😂 So, I changed Bucky's mother's name to Juliana, while the name Cassandra belongs to the reader's grandma.

Taglist:

@thezombieprostitute

@thetravelingtyper

@scott-loki-barnes

@mostlymarvelgirl

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Author Note: Hey friends,

If you've been enjoying the content, I've set up a Ko-fi account.

Your support through tips would mean the world and help me keep creating.

Only if you feel like it!

Here's the link: Ko-fi

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[queenshelby]

Our Little Secret (Part 12)

Pairing: Dark! Cillian Murphy x Virgin! Reader

Warning: Infidelity, Brief Mention of Stillbirth

Notes: This will not be a love story. It will be dark, twisted and kinky. Cillian is portrayed as totally off cannon.

You didn't have time to think or react as she lunged towards you, grabbing your hair roughly and yanking you close to her face. Her venomous glare sent chills down your spine, piercing straight through your soul.

"You little slut!" she shouted furiously, enraged beyond reason while Cillian crumbled to retrieve his briefs from the floor. 

"You are going to regret this," she warned before grabbing your hair once more, twisting it cruelly in her grasp as you winced in pain. The harsh pull dragged you closer to her snarling features, causing you to whimper in fear.

"Why do you keep messing with us?" she screeched viciously, raining kicks upon you while you desperately tried to defend yourself.

"Stop, you are hurting me," you cried weakly, recoiling from another blow aimed at your ribcage as Cillian tried to shield you, only partially succeeding until, eventually, he managed to put himself between you and his infuriated wife.

"Danielle, please calm down." he begged earnestly, hoping to defuse the situation peacefully.

However, Danielle remained unfazed, livid and fueled by jealousy. Her eyes blazed with hatred as they bore into yours, leaving no doubt as to how angry she truly was.

You took a breath as Cillian had stepped in, allowing you to gather your clothes while he restrained Danielle by holding on to her wrists tightly. 

"I want this whore out of my house," she yelled and you could see Cillian's conflicted look. The pressure intensified, and soon, you felt suffocated underneath the weight of these events.

Taking advantage of the momentary silence, you turned to address them, seeking resolution amidst chaos.

"Look, maybe we should talk about this later when everyone has calmed down," you proposed, attempting to find common ground where possible. However, your proposal fell flat, as Danielle continued to rail against you bitterly before she finally managed to push past Cillian and throw you down the stairs.

"Danielle! What the hell is wrong with you?" Cillian exclaimed, horrified and bewildered by his wife's violent behavior as he raced towards you, seeing that it was clear that you had sustained a concussion from falling down the stairs.

Danielle seemed unrepentant, continuing to verbally assault you as you lay there bruised and battered, struggling to comprehend the situation. 

"Call a fucking ambulance, Danielle!" Cillian panicked, watching helplessly as blood trickled down your forehead. His earlier protective instincts returned full-force now that danger threatened the object of his obsession as he cradled you up in his arms.

"Can you hear me?" Cillian asked frantically, placing a hand on your trembling shoulder. You nodded feebly, still struggling to catch your breath and maintain consciousness due to the impact. Seeing your condition worsening, he quickly decided to call for emergency services instead of waiting for Danielle to act.

As he dialed the number and, soon enough, the sound of sirens grew increasingly audible outside. Panicking, Danielle walked off, leaving the house in a haste and Cillian did not attempt to stop her, staying by your side.

Soon, paramedics arrived and carefully carried you to the ambulance which then drove away rapidly. Once inside, the medical professionals began examining your injuries and monitoring your vital signs closely. They administered some painkillers to ease your discomfort before asking Cillian some questions regarding the incident. Trying hard to recall the sequence of events leading up to the accident, he explained the situation and they then queried as to whether he was her next of kin.

"No, I am just a friend," he responded truthfully, feeling an unexpected sense of guilt for contributing to her present predicament. 

As us arrived at the hospital, the medics advised Cillian to wait outside as the tests would require privacy.

Feeling anxious, Cillian paced back and forth nervously outside the emergency room, occasionally peering through the glass window. He couldn’t believe what happened – he knew he shouldn’t have allowed things to escalate to such dangerous levels. But somehow, the sexual tension between them proved too strong, consuming their rational minds entirely. How could something so passionate turn so brutal in the blink of an eye?

While awaiting updates on Y/N's condition, flashbacks flooded his memory, reminding him of those tender moments spent between the sheets but, just as he thought about the good times you had, your mother Sarah and Cillian's brother Frank arrived at the hospital.

He greeted them hesitantly, unsure if they knew about what had transpired and it wasn't a big surprise when Sarah started yelling at him.

"You disgusting piece of shit, I don't want you anywhere near my daughter ever again!" she screamed, her anger evident as her hands shook violently in front of her. Meanwhile, Frank, though also upset, maintained a comparatively calmer demeanor.

"Leave, Cillian. Please. Danielle called and told us everything," Frank said coolly, trying not to let his temper get the better of him.

Cillian grimaced at the mention of Danielle's name, sensing yet another potential source of conflict. Turning to Sarah, he apologized profusely, promising that he wouldn't allow anything like this to happen ever again.

"Your apologies mean nothing right now, Cillian," Sarah retorted sternly, pointing accusingly at him. "You forced yourself on my daughter when she clearly stated multiple times that she wanted none of it." As tears welled up in her eyes, she added quietly, "It sickens me to know that someone whom I trusted could be capable of such malice and you will hear from the police..." before being interrupted. 

"I did what now?" Cillian interjected in confusion, caught off guard by Sarah's accusatory tone. "Is that what Danielle has told you?" Cillian questioned, surprised by the gravity of the allegations leveled against him.

"She witnessed every bit of it firsthand," Sarah replied vehemently, her tone leaving no doubt that she believed every word Danielle had said.

"I did not force myself on Y/N, Sarah. We were intimate but all of it was consensual," Cillian argued stubbornly, clenching his jaw. 

"She is only nineteen, Cillian," Sarah countered sharply, drawing attention to the age difference between them and the power dynamics involved.

"Yes, she is, and I am not saying that I didn't fuck up, but please consider the context here," Cillian pleaded desperately, trying to explain his perspective, his heart racing anxiously. "She wanted this as much as I did, Sarah. Don't mistake our mutual desire for coercion!" He continued, aware that his argument might fall on deaf ears but unwilling to give up without making his case.

Frank listened impassively, trying to remain neutral during this confrontation despite his wife's obvious distress. Yet, even he found it difficult to ignore the glaring inconsistencies in Cillian's account compared to what Danielle reported. 

After all, how else could Sarah possibly justify Cillian's indiscretions, especially considering his high profile status within the acting community. She held onto this skepticism firmly, determined to seek justice for you but just as she was about to yell at Cillian again, the doctor emerged from your room, allowing only one person to enter.

"She is conscious and only slightly dizzy. She had a mild concussion and needed a few stiches above her left eyebrow due to the impact," announced the doctor as he approached them. "We did not find any internal bleeding and, well, the rest is confidential information," he concluded noncommittally, unable to avoid the topic but reluctant to divulge more specifics before leading Sarah into the room, at which point Frank urged Cillian to leave.

With great difficulty, Cillian obliged, turning around to exit the ER, already beginning to contemplate the future - one that held uncertainty, shame, and regret for having indulged in their forbidden love affair.

Meanwhile, behind closed doors, Sarah sat beside you and patiently waited for you to regain composure.

"Danielle told me what happened, sweetheart," she whispered gently, reaching over to stroke your hair comfortingly. Her presence alone instilled calmness throughout your body. 

"What, she told you that she pushed me down the stairs and punched me in the guts?" you said as you tried to sit up, groggy from the drugs.

"She said it was an accident," Sarah reassured, stroking your head tenderly. 

"She is full of shit. She threw me down the stairs on purpose because..." you began but stopped, too afraid to reveal the truth to you. 

"Because you slept with her husband?" Sarah guessed correctly, furious upon learning the true nature of your relationship with Cillian. 

"She said that he forced himself on you and she tried to intervene...but failed," she explained haltingly, her voice filled with anger and disappointment. 

"What?" you gasped, astonished and confused by her revelation. 

"No, Cillian didn't...oh my god..." you began to say, raising your concern. "Mum, he didn't force me to do anything. In fact, I was the one today who initiated our encounter," you confessed, feeling weary and defeated, finally admitting the truth aloud. 

"So, you are saying that this has been going on for a while and that it was consensual?" Sarah questioned incredulously, attempting to reconcile the information provided by Danielle with yours. 

"Yes, it has been going on for about a month now and absolutely all of it was consensual," you confirmed softly, cringing internally at the idea of hurting your parents further. However, knowing that the truth must come out sooner rather than later, you pressed on. 

Sarah's face turned paler as she processed the disturbing reality. The very notion of her beloved daughter engaging in illicit affairs with men old enough to be her father infuriated her beyond measure and she was furious not only with Cillian but also with you.

"I can't believe your audacity, to think that you would betray your own family like this. Cillian is not only a man with a family, but he is also Frank's brother!" she exclaimed bitterly, her voice trembling with emotion. "Didn't I raise you to respect and honor others above selfish desires?" She demanded, struggling to maintain her composure amidst her raging frustration.

Stung by her harsh condemnation, you cowered under her wrath, feeling guilty for bringing shame upon your family. 

"I am sorry, mum. I made a mistake," you admitted painfully, looking deeply into her eyes. "This entire situation sucks, and my decisions weren't exactly smart," you conceded but your honesty no longer mattered.

"Once you recover, I expect you to move out. I cannot have you living with Frank under these circumstances, nor do I wish to see Cillian again either," declared Sarah resolutely, her words carrying weight. You nodded silently, understanding the severity of the situation and acknowledging the need for some distance both physically and mentally. Your relationship with Cillian had become absolute, and your bond with your mother seemed strained too.

"But where am I going to go? I am about to have exams," you asked, suddenly struck by the sudden change in your life's course.

"You are old enough to sleep with a married man, so you are old enough to look after yourself. You will figure it out," Sarah stated bluntly, her tone lacking compassion. Unable to argue back, you agreed submissively, accepting responsibility for your mistakes. But deep inside, fear consumed you – the kind of fear that leaves a pit in your stomach and makes you feel hollow. 

With this fear consuming you, soon after your mother left, you called your best friend Emma for support. She always knew when something was wrong since childhood and when she found out that you were in hospital, she raced over immediatly.

Emma arrived at the hospital breathless, her frizzy red hair disarrayed around her flushed cheeks. Clutching a bouquet of flowers, she burst through the doorway and ran straight to your bedside, unmindful of everyone watching her.

"How bad is it?" She asked anxiously, her blue eyes brimming with worry. Without waiting for an answer, she squeezed your hand tightly, sending a silent message of solidarity and friendship. You gave her a weak smile, grateful for her loyalty.

"Not too serious, thankfully. Just a bump on my head and some bruises. Plus they put five stitches near my eyebrow," you explained briefly, not wanting to dwell on your injuries too long. Emma nodded sympathetically, placing a gentle hand on top of your cast.

"At least it wasn't worse, right?" she offered tentatively, attempting to lighten the mood. You smiled faintly, trying to forget the incident but Emma wanted to know what exactly had happened to you.

With a heavy heart, you recounted the events surrounding your relationship with Cillian and how it came crashing down. When you finished, she looked at you in horror, taking in the magnitude of the betrayals committed against you. "Oh, Y/N! Fuck!," she exclaimed, visibly upset on your behalf

Your tears threatened to spill over once more, but you managed to hold them back, knowing that expressing sadness openly would make you seem even more vulnerable than you already felt. You remained stoic, hoping to demonstrate resilience instead.

"So Cillian and you, it's over?" Emma asked thoughtfully, carefully studying your facial expressions. You paused momentarily, contemplating whether to admit another facet of your involvement with Cillian. Ultimately, you decided to disclose everything, trusting Emma's ability to handle sensitive matters responsibly.

"Yes, we're done," you answered honestly, meeting her gaze with sincerity. Emma frowned, clearly troubled by the gravity of the situation.

"You fell in love with him, didn't you?" she ventured, sensing there might be more to the story. Feeling exposed, you hesitated briefly before confirming her suspicion.

"Yes, I fell in love with him, Em." Your voice quivered, a mixture of sorrow and defiance coloring your tone. "It wasn't supposed to happen this way, but it did."

Her expression grew grim, mirroring your own feelings. She reached over and placed a gentle hand on yours, offering a token of sisterly support. "Look, maybe it won't turn out so badly after all. We could work through this together, help you get past it."

"I wish it would be that easy. My mother just kicked me out of the house, all this shit is probably going to end up in the tabloids and, well, there is something else..." you let out a long, exhausted sigh, running your fingers through your hair.

"I am pregnant," you blurted out, unable to hide the fear etched across your features any longer.

Emma's eyes widened in shock, her lips parting slightly in surprise. For several moments, neither of you spoke, absorbing the enormity of the revelation.

"How the fuck did this happen?" Emma asked in disbelief, still processing the news. "When did you find out?" She queried, concerned about your well-being both physically and emotionally.

"Just earlier, when they were running some blood tests," you replied quietly, glancing away momentarily. A single teardrop escaped your eye, trailing slowly down your cheek. 

"Does Cillian know?" Emma questioned gravely, her brow furrowed with concern.

"He doesn't and he won't need to. I am not going to have a baby right now," you responded solemnly, feeling immense guilt about concealing such crucial information from the person responsible for creating this predicament.

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[hotdfic]

A Daughter For A Son

A/N : ahaha sooo dark content, blades, blood and more !

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The dim torchlight flickered in the narrow passage beneath the Red Keep, casting long shadows across stone walls that had seen secrets and whispers for centuries. Daemon Targaryen’s cloak whispered against the damp stone, his steps steady and determined. In the darkness of a forgotten corner, a small figure awaited him, half cloaked in shadow—the ratcatcher of King’s Landing, men as elusive as the rodents they hunted.

“You know why I’m here.” Daemon’s voice was low, just above a murmur.

The ratcatcher’s eyes gleamed with something between fear and intrigue. He inclined his head, the grease-stained cloth hood slipping back to reveal a face more familiar with grime than sunlight.

“She’s kin, isn’t she?” he ventured, a hint of disbelief coloring his words. “One of your blood, the second youngest targaryen of viserys and queen alicent.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, the violet depths becoming cold as ice. “She’s a threat to all that I seek to build. My kin, yes. My blood… perhaps. But loyalty? Hers has never been clear.”

The ratcatcher’s fingers twitched at the mention of betrayal. His knowledge of hidden passages and secret exits made him one of the most dangerous men in the Keep—not because of his strength but because of his reach. He looked up, waiting.

“If I choose this path,” the ratcatcher whispered, “it must be with precision. The girl is young… fragile, as I’ve seen.”

Daemon’s gaze held steady. “She’s weak. And weakness, when unchecked, can rot the entire tree. You are to approach her subtly. No blades, no noise… only shadows. Fear can be as potent as any poison.”

The ratcatcher nodded, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Consider it done, my prince.”

As Daemon turned to leave, the ratcatcher’s voice followed him down the corridor. “You may find her weak, my prince, but even the weakest rat can bite when it feels threatened.”

Daemon’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Then make sure she never has the chance.”

-

Back inside the Red Keep, Lyanna’s hands trembled as she walked through the corridors of the Red Keep. She could feel something watching her, something unseen and insidious, a shadow waiting just out of sight. For days, she’d been plagued by a growing unease, the weight of eyes she couldn’t place, footsteps that vanished the moment she turned her head. But tonight, the walls themselves seemed to close in, and every flickering torch cast her shadow longer and darker.

Her chest grew tight, a cold knot settling in her stomach as the breath escaped her lips in short, shallow gasps. She had thought herself strong—resilient, even—but tonight, the very air felt thick, suffocating her as if it held secrets it dared not reveal.

“I… I’m safe,” she whispered to herself, hugging her arms close. Her words barely broke the silence, her voice trembling. “There’s nothing here. It’s just the dark… it’s only shadows.”

But the comforting words she forced upon herself only seemed to echo mockingly in her ears. Her vision blurred, and a heavy wave of dizziness washed over her. She stumbled against the wall, clutching at the stone for support, as the world spun around her.

A dark figure lingered in her thoughts, the silhouette of someone with eyes sharp as daggers. She tried to shake it off, to ground herself, but the thought persisted, burrowing deeper until it clawed at her mind like a feverish dream.

“Daemon,” she murmured, the name slipping out before she could catch it.

A shudder wracked her body as she slid down the wall, knees pulled to her chest. Her breathing became more erratic, the sounds around her intensifying—the creak of floorboards, the hum of distant voices. She was trapped, drowning in the very corridors that had been her home. She didnt know what was happening but she could sense her uncle,

She clamped her hands over her ears, trying to block out the haunting whispers that seemed to linger in the shadows, whispers of secrets she feared to know, of dangers she couldn’t bear to face. The pressure in her chest mounted, tightening like a vice.

Tears began to slip down her cheeks, mingling with the chill sweat on her skin. She was lost, adrift in the suffocating darkness, unable to find a way out of the terror that gripped her heart.

-

Daemon returned to his chambers, a heavy silence settling around him as he shut the door. He poured a goblet of wine, letting the sharp taste linger on his tongue as he considered the delicate web he’d woven. The Red Keep was filled with those who could whisper secrets, but it took true skill to turn those whispers into fear—something to gnaw at a person’s very spirit.

Lyanna had always been a complication. Young, innocent, and unpredictable, she stirred sympathy among those who found her weakness endearing. But for Daemon, the price of compassion was too high. He had no room for softness in his plans. His gaze fell on the map spread across his table, a map of Westeros littered with marks indicating power plays, alliances, and—of course—threats.

She was small, a single piece on the grand board, but if she fell… it would send a message.

"Blood may bind us, but loyalty binds us stronger," he whispered to himself, fingers tracing the edge of the map.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. He strode across the room, nodding to the silent messenger who handed him a folded slip of paper. The seal was broken—no doubt by the ratcatcher himself.

“Her mind is weakening,” it read in scrawled, hasty ink. “Queen Rhaenyra will earn her throne.”

Daemon crumpled the note, his satisfaction marred by an unusual pang. He was a Targaryen, after all, and the family’s legacy was as precious to him as his own blood. Yet his pride and ambition told him otherwise: Lyanna was a risk to his wifes throne he could no longer afford.

-

The silence in Lyanna’s room was shattered by a faint creak. She opened her eyes, heart pounding as the familiar dread seeped into her veins. There, standing beside her bed, was a ratcatcher, a wicked glint in his eyes and a dagger gleaming in his hand. This time, he wasn’t lingering in the shadows or playing games; he was here to finish it.

“Stay quiet, princess,” he murmured, his voice like oil sliding across stone. He brought the dagger closer, the tip hovering just above her throat.

Panic surged through her as her hands gripped the bedsheets, knuckles white with terror. She tried to stay silent, tried to keep calm, but her instincts screamed otherwise. With a sudden, fierce defiance, she took a deep breath and let out a scream—loud, piercing, enough to cut through the stillness of the night.

“HELP!”

The ratcatcher’s face twisted with rage as he pressed the blade closer to her throat, his eyes flashing with a dangerous gleam. “Shouldn’t have done that,” he hissed. “Now you’ll be—”

The door burst open, and Ser Criston Cole stormed into the room, his sword already drawn. His gaze swept the scene, taking in Lyanna’s terrified expression and the ratcatcher’s weapon raised against her.

“Step away from her!” Criston’s voice was low, deadly. The ratcatcher hesitated, his grip tightening, but before he could respond, another figure appeared in the doorway.

Aemond.

His eye blazed with fury as he took in the sight of his sister, held at knifepoint by a man who dared to lay hands on her. In a blur, he unsheathed his sword, the steel gleaming with lethal intent as he moved forward.

“You’ve chosen your last target, you coward,” Aemond snarled, his tone as cold and sharp as winter’s edge. His eye never left the ratcatcher, his steps deliberate and deadly.

Trapped between two armed men, the ratcatcher’s confidence wavered. He tried to shift his grip on the knife, pressing it a fraction closer to Lyanna’s skin in a desperate bid to maintain control. But in that instant, Criston lunged, his sword slicing down to knock the dagger from the ratcatcher’s hand. The blade clattered to the floor, and before the man could react, Aemond was upon him.

Aemond’s fist collided with the ratcatcher’s jaw, sending him sprawling backward. The assassin scrambled to his feet, but Criston blocked the doorway, his sword leveled and ready. The ratcatcher glanced between the two, realizing too late that he was trapped.

“Did you think you'd get away after murdering my sisters children? And now my sweet sister?” Aemond’s voice was deadly calm as he advanced on the man, his sword pointed at the ratcatcher’s heart.

Lyanna’s breaths came in shuddering gasps as she scrambled away, watching with wide eyes as Aemond and Criston cornered her assailant.

The ratcatcher’s face twisted with defiance as he spat at Aemond, his voice laced with venom. “This was never about you, princeling. Your sister is the one who threatens the plans of those far greater than you.”

Aemond’s expression darkened, the fury simmering just beneath his calm exterior. With one swift motion, he drove the tip of his blade just close enough to graze the ratcatcher’s chest.

“Who sent you?” Aemond demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

The ratcatcher sneered, even as his face paled. “I serve loyalties that you would never understand,” he muttered, his gaze defiant.

Aemond’s eye narrowed, and for a moment, it seemed as if he might drive the sword through the man’s heart then and there. But instead, he nodded to Criston, who stepped forward, grabbing the ratcatcher by the collar and dragging him toward the door.

“We’ll get answers soon enough,” Criston said, casting a reassuring glance back at Lyanna. “You’ll be safe now, princess.”

As the door closed behind them, Lyanna’s fear slowly began to ebb, leaving behind a sense of shock and exhaustion. Her heart was still pounding, but she looked up to find Cristons’s gaze fixed on her, his face mimicking a worried father.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his tone gentle as he knelt beside her.

She shook her head, swallowing back the tears that threatened to fall. “No… no, I’m fine,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper. “Thank you, Sir Criston..”

Aemond walked out with blood dripping from his sword, approaching Lyanna he brought his sister into a hug and kissed her forehead.

[questionable-intimacies]

What really happened the night Beacon fell

The red of Adam's blade mirrored the fire around him in what used to be a grand hall. The flame swooned as the great sword whistled through the air. The heat intensified as Adam cleaved single-handed through the defense of the lone Huntsman, like the applause of a watching crowd. The search for sustenance paused as blood flowed free, and the scent of the roast showed the fire's pleasure at their champion's offering of death.

It is as it should be, Adam thought as he flicked the blood off his sword and watched the Huntsman, a tall male in a white uniform, burn. But when the flames, never satisfied, inched closer to Adam. He swept the flame back with a furious slash of his sword across the floor.

As if I would let you so much as touch me! Adam thought, be content with the scum, and know your place!

But as the fire's feast reached his climax, Adam saw the image of a woman. With the hair of the abyss, dressed in the fire's iridescence, and ambition's emptiness in gold for her eyes. A reminder. To feed the fire, or be consumed by it.

Know your place, Adam Taurus.

A presence. Familiar. A shadow turned to steel. Followed by a slash from Adam's blind side to his left. As she was taught. A cut that would expose the throat of a lesser opponent when he flinches.

But Adam was a Faunus, and Faunus do not flinch.

Like a bull Adam turned his horns into the cut. The blade's tip whistled past his head and scraped a chip off the bull's horns peeking through his red hair. Adam's response came in wide and ended in a hug.

"Blake, thank the Gods you're here!"

The brief feeling of warmth. The sense of comfort from a good memory. It faded as all good memories do. In a cloud of black smoke, followed by reality crashing down on everything.

"What have you done?!"

Adam turned towards the voice. Towards Blake Belladonna, standing behind him with her blade pointed at the black breast of his suit. A little taller then Adam remembered. The raw edge of youth, rounded by a maturity which created the feeling of innocence tempered with a wisdom that Adam could not give.

"What we vowed to do, a long time ago." Adam said, "but none of that now, Blake. Please, I need your help."

The sound of debris being kicked across the flame-blackened floor mirrored the derision in Blake's voice.

"My help?!" Blake said, "You're a murderer, Taurus!"

Adam stepped forward. Blake retreated. The distance between the two was just a step, but to Adam, it felt like Blake was getting farther away.

"Humans are the murderers, Belladonna!" Adam said, " the blood of our brothers and sisters are on their hands!"

"Not on every human's hands!"

"And you're siding with those that watched, hands in their pockets, as our kin were slaughtered! If not by the sword, if not by the bullet, then by inaction and cowardice. Are they guiltless, then? Are their hands clean of our blood?!"

Blake advanced. But Adam's sword. Longer and steadier, knocked aside Blake's sword with a casual flick of his wrist. A warning. One did not see Adam's swordplay unless he let them.

"Our kin, our brothers and sisters, were murdered by humans," Adam said, "More will be murdered if you do not help me save them!"

Blake walked closer, and Adam lowered his blade so that he wouldn't mar the pale tapestry of Blake's skin with blood.

"You brought the Faunus here!" Blake said, "You put them in a fight they did not need to fight. Because of what you are doing," Blake placed her hand on Adam's sword, "Faunus are being shot, and stabbed, and hurt."

"It is not by choice that I'm here," Adam said while he pulled his hand away from Blake's, "But it is by choice that I'm speaking to you. The White Fang, your people, are under the control of someone evil. Someone I cannot name right now. I'm trapped, but you could reach out and get help. For the Faunus."

Blake's eyes were gold, just like the woman in the fire. But there was no emptiness there, just a brilliant belief that could never be shaken from what was right. But when Blake reached up to Adam's face, and Adam flinched away, that brilliance dimmed. As if a cloud had covered the sun, and denied Adam any hope from it.

"I won't fight you, Adam," Blake said, "but I won't help you. If you really think the Faunus need help, then surrender."

Blake turned away. But before she could leave, Adam's hand gripped Blake's arm.

"Belladonna! You can't turn your back on your own kind!"

Someone screamed. Incoherent. Furious. Adam pushed Blake aside as he turned towards the sound, leading with his blade. No one see's Adam's swordplay unless he lets them. Not even Adam himself, at times.

"Yang? YANG!"

Blake was running now. Running toward a tangled mess of gold hair and limbs, out of which a mangled bloody arm Blake grasped in her hands as she started to sob. Another human had fallen to Adam's blade, but what was the point?

With a growl, Adam stabbed his sword into the closest fire before he tore the huge black bow from Blake's hair. As black as the woman in the fire's, but it was the black the twilight instead of the depths of oblivion. Dragging his sword from the flames, Adam then kicked Blake away and shoved the gleaming blade onto the cuts on this 'Yang's' arm.

Once again there was the scent of searing flesh. Nauseating and oily. But as Adam tied Blake's bow around the cauterized wounds, Adam felt like he had taken a step somewhere. He was not sure where, but when Blake's terror gave way to relief when she saw the bandaged wounds, Adam was certain that Blake was the only one who could help him.

"Adam," Blake said as he turned to leave, "why?"

Adam didn't look back as he said.

"I brought this to you, Blake. My hands are not clean."

[ironwoodatl01]

What REALLY happened the night Beacon fell

Summary: The true account of what transpired between Adam and Blake, that night during the Fall of Beacon. Why Adam met Blake, and how Adam took Yang's arm.

Pairings: Adam Taurus x Blake Belladonna

Warnings: Pro Adam Au. Noble Adam. Death.

The red of Adam's blade mirrored the flame feasting around him on what used to be a grandly furnished hall. The flame swooned as the great sword whistled through the air. The heat intensified as Adam cleaved single-handed through the defense of the lone Huntsman, like the damning applause of an audience to a slaughter. The flame's hunger was paused, sated briefly, as blood flowed free and the scent of the roast being the flame's pleasure at their champion's offering of death.

It is as it should be, Adam thought as he flicked the blood off his sword and watched the Huntsman, a tall male in a white uniform, burn. But when the flames, never satisfied, inched closer to Adam. He swept the flame back with a furious slash of his sword across the floor.

As if I would let you so much as touch me! Adam thought, be content with the scum, and know your place!

But as the fire's feast reached his climax, Adam saw the image of a woman. With the hair of the abyss, dressed in the fire's iridescence, and ambition's emptiness in gold for her eyes. A reminder. To feed the fire, or be consumed by it.

Know your place, Adam Taurus.

A presence. Familiar. A shadow turned to steel. Followed by a slash from Adam's blind side to his left. As she was taught. A cut that would have drawn the rich blood from the throat of a lesser opponent when he flinches.

But Adam was a Faunus, and Faunus do not flinch.

Like a bull Adam turned his horns into the cut. The blade's tip whistled past his head and scraped a chip off the bull's horns peeking through his red hair. Adam's response came in wide and ended in a hug.

"Blake! Thank the Gods you're here!"

The brief feeling of warmth. The sense of comfort from a good memory. It faded as all good memories do. In a cloud of black smoke, followed by reality crashing down on everything.

"What have you done?!"

Adam turned towards the voice. Towards Blake Belladonna, standing behind him with her blade pointed at the back of his suit. A little taller then Adam remembered. The raw edge of youth rounded by a maturity which created the feeling of innocence, tempered with a wisdom that Adam could not give.

"What we vowed to do, a long time ago." Adam said, "but none of that now, Blake. Please, I need your help."

The sound of debris being kicked across the flame-blackened floor mirrored the derision in Blake's voice.

"My help?!" Blake said, "You're a murderer, Taurus!"

Adam stepped forward. Blake retreated. The distance between the two was just a step, but to Adam, it felt like Blake was getting farther away.

"Humans are the murderers, Belladonna!" Adam said, " the blood of our brothers and sisters are on their hands!"

"Not on every human's hands!"

"And you're siding with those that watched, hands in their pockets, as our kin were slaughtered! If not by the sword, if not by the bullet, then by inaction and cowardice. Are they guiltless, then? Are their hands clean of our blood?!"

Blake advanced. But Adam's sword. Longer and steadier, knocked aside Blake's sword with a casual flick of his wrist. A warning. One did not see Adam's blade when it strikes. Unless Adam allows it.

"Our kin, our brothers and sisters, were murdered by humans," Adam said, "More will be murdered if you do not help me save them!"

Blake walked closer, and Adam lowered his blade so that he wouldn't mar the pale tapestry of Blake's skin with blood.

"You brought the Faunus here!" Blake said, "You put them in a fight they did not need to fight. Because of what you are doing," Blake placed her hand on Adam's sword, "Faunus are being shot. Stabbed. Hurt."

"It is not by choice that I'm here," Adam said while he drew his blade away from Blake's hand, "But it is by choice that I'm speaking to you. The White Fang, your people, are under the control of someone evil. Someone I cannot name right now. I'm trapped, but you could reach out and get help. For the Faunus."

Blake's eyes were gold, just like the woman in the fire, but there was no emptiness there. There was instead a brilliant belief that could never be shaken from what was right. However, when Blake reached up to touch Adam's cheek and Adam flinched away, that brilliance dimmed. As if a cloud had covered the sun, and denied Adam any of the sunlight he needed in this darkness around him.

"I won't fight you, Adam," Blake said, "but I won't help you. If you really think the Faunus need help then surrender and stop this madness."

Blake turned away. But before she could leave, Adam's hand grabbed Blake's arm.

"Belladonna! You can't turn your back on your own kind!"

Someone screamed. Incoherent. Furious. Adam pushed Blake aside as he turned towards the sound with his blade in the lead.

Sometimes no one, not even Adam himself, is allowed to see his blade strike.

"Yang? YANG!"

Blake was running now. Running toward a tangled mess of gold hair and limbs, out of which a mangled bloody arm Blake grasped in her hands as she started to sob. Another human had fallen to Adam's blade, but what was the point?

With a growl, Adam stabbed his sword into the closest fire before he tore the huge black bow from Blake's hair. As black as the woman in the fire's, but it was the black the twilight instead of the depths of oblivion. Dragging his sword from the flames, Adam then kicked Blake away and shoved the gleaming blade onto the cuts on this 'Yang's' arm.

Once again there was the scent of searing flesh. Nauseating and oily. But as Adam tied Blake's bow around the cauterized wounds, Adam felt like he had taken a step somewhere. He was not sure where, but when Blake's terror gave way to relief when she saw the bandaged wounds, Adam was certain that Blake was the only one who could help him.

"Adam," Blake said as he turned to leave, "why?"

Adam didn't look back as he said.

"I brought this to you, Blake. My hands are not clean."

[clouds-rambles]

Hey bestie may I request diluc,childe,zhongli,and venti having a bad nightmare over their s/o wanting to break up with them and when they wake up their s/o isn’t there but really they’re in another room or something if that makes sense!! Thank you 🤑

Hi bestie positively evil... i love it <3 nobody question why zhongli and the reader are married in all my headcanons thanks lmao

Pairings; (Seperate) Diluc, Childe, Zhongli, and Venti x reader

Warning(s); panic, nightmares, hurt/comfort, injury mention

Keep reading under the cut!

Diluc

Diluc wakes with a start, his brows furrowed as he takes a moment to arrange the events of his nightmare in his head

Both you and he had a particularly explosive argument after he had come back injured from a night protecting Mondstat 

You had left the winery after exclaiming that you refuse to date someone who has such a lack of regard for his own life. In the long run you’d be saving yourself from further heartbreak if he ended up dead on the front porch

Diluc wonders if dream you could be right...

The red-head finally notices the cold side of the bed you should be sleeping on. He more than remembers going to sleep with you

Panic sets in at the bottom of Dilucs stomach. He must be imagining things right? You’re probably just in the bathroom

A beat passes

Then three

No, you’re not in the bathroom. He would have heard you by now...

What if the dream was actually what had happened last night. A breath catches in the mans throat as he gets out of bed and throws a shirt on

If he couldn’t find you in his home has he truly lost you?

Diluc speedily walks through the halls of his home, checking the spare rooms, the study, the library, the living room, the dining room, the

Diluc opens the door to the kitchen his heart threatening to break out of his chest at the pace it’s beating when he finally spots you drinking a cup of tea, in your pajamas

Thank the archons it was just a dream

“Diluc, honey, are you okay?” you ask getting up from the table in the kitchen to your sweating, hyperventilating partner

Diluc says nothing but opts to hugging you, his head bowing to your chest as he breaths you in

“Diluc, you’re worrying me” you tell him returning his embrace and rubbing circles on his back

“You weren’t in bed” is all he offers to tell you. You don’t push him on the details of why he is so panicked

“I couldn’t sleep so I came down for a herbal tea” you explain kissing the man on his bed of fluffy hair “I have a cup left in the kettle, I can pour one out for you” you offer

“Please” he breathes, but doesn’t move to let you go from the embrace, you can stand to hold him and tell him sweet nothings for a little while. Tea can always be reheated

Childe

It would only be right, and he suspected as much. You had told him that because of what has recently transpired in Liyue you cannot find yourself to love a brutal harbinger

Maybe its for the best. Childe concludes not paying much attention to his weeping heart. Maybe, you’d be happier not to be under the constant eye and scrutiny of the Qixing, the Milleth, and the watchful eye of Childes own fatui informants

Without much pause form Childes last thought the man finds himself waking in his room, unsure if the dream was reality or his mind playing tricks on him, he feels your side of the bed and notices a distinct lack of warmth... and you

He cries

Childe curls himself up in a ball determined to not get caught by anyone showing such an extreme and out of character emotion, he let himself cry. He’s pretty sure he’s sobbing loudly but he doesn’t care. It’s just him in the house anyway. The one person that he doesn’t mind seeing such emotions has left him

That’s until he hears the distinct click of the bedroom door open “Oh my archon Childe, are you okay?” you ask quickly making your way to the side of his bed and placing a hand on his shoulder

The man looks up to you, he isn’t sure if you’re real 

“I thought-” he starts “I had a-” he tries to find his words without seeming like a crazed person “You weren’t-” 

“It’s okay babe, I’m right here. I’m not planning on going anywhere” you console “I just had an epiphany in my dream and I had to write it down” you add explaining your absence. Childe nods along 

“Stay” he tells you as you wipe the tears out of his eyes. You nod and hum

“Of course” you lay onto the bed and let Childe wrap himself around you

You hum him to sleep and whisper sweet nothings

Zhongli

‘I can’t love you anymore Zhongli, I feel obligated to come back to Liyue after every adventure, it’s starting to take a toll on me’

‘But our vows, [name] we made a contract at the altar’

‘To love each other, yes? Zhongli there’s no love left in this marriage, you sleep in the spare bedroom whenever I’m back, we sit in silence over dinner, I don’t think I’ve kissed you in months. The lack of love itself is the breach in the contract’

‘But I-’

‘Think about it, do you really feel the same love that you felt on the day we got married?’

‘[name]-’

Zhongli wakes up with a start, his heart beats a little fast for a second. The man convinces himself it’s just a dream he had, but the coldness of your side of the bed seems to speak otherwise

In all fairness, Zhongli should have rationalised his dream before he started wondering the house like a mad man. The only time he sleeps in the other bed is when you’ve suffered an extreme injury, dinners are often spent with jolly laughs and conversation. And Zhongli prides himself on the amount of affection he gives you around the house... and in the bedroom

But most things aren’t making sense in his head right now

“Zhongli my love” you call him upon noticing him in the hall. You had just come out of the bathroom after a midnight toilet break “Are you okay darling?” you ask placing a hand on his shoulder

The tenseness in Zhongli’s shoulders dissipate as soon as you initiate the touch

“I love you” he tells you, the declaration is out of nowhere to you. But you smile at him and embrace him

“And I love you too” you pause bringing up your hand baring the ring that sits on it “And this ring is a reminder of our vows and my unyielding love to you” you tell him with a smile

Zhongli chuckles at you and returns your hug “You seem to always know how to comfort me my dear”

“It’s because I’m a mind reader” you jest matching your spouses chuckle

Venti

Disappeared. So much so that the thousand winds could tell Venti that you were in fact not in Mondstat and had travelled to Liyue from the time Venti was playing music in the tavern to when he knocked for you early the next morning

The only trace you left was a letter. Unmistakeably written by your hand

‘Venti, writing this in a letter is much easier than saying this to your face. I am quite simply tired of your antics, no matter try to talk to you, you seem to always brush me off. Be it the nights you spend at the tavern, my general concern when you disappear for days at end just to tell me you were at the thousand winds temple, stormterrors lair, or windrise, no matter how much I tell you I checked all three. Being in a constant state of concern isn’t good for me, it’s emotionally draining and I’m terrified of finding you dead somewhere, despite your archon blood. By the time you read this I’ll be in Liyue where I’ll be staying with a friend for a while. Tell me I’m going somewhere you can’t follow, and I’ll tell you this is how I have felt many a night. I wish I could have kept loving you, [name]’

A harsh way to break up Venti admits to himself rereading the paper a few times before waking up

A dream?

Venti holds his chest, surely a dream couldn’t conjure such a horrific sinking feeling that makes him want to just vomit

Looking to your side of the bed for your comfort the sinking feeling intensifies when he doesn’t see you

So it wasn’t a dream? Venti doesn’t want to call on his kin, the thousand winds, again just to be told once more that you’re currently in Liyue sipping tea with this cousin you had mentioned in the letter 

The archon sits up in bed and takes deep breaths, he doesn’t want to explain to anybody that he had a panic attack over your horrific breakup letter, no no

After calming his breaths Venti steps out of bed with a shaky few steps before walking downstairs to engage in the typical breakout routine. Snacking. Maybe when you left you had elected to ignore some of the snacks you love to litter about your abode

When Venti walks in to the living room towards the kitchen he sees you nursing your head on the couch

“[name]?” he asks in almost disbelief

“Hm,” you answer before looking up to Venti “Oh hey love, sorry I’ve got a headache” you greet properly after a moment. Venti grins at you which causes you to tilt your head. Why is your headache so grin worthy? Weird...

“Would you like some paracetamol?” he asks walking beside you, you shake your head

“I just took some” you reply looking up at your partner “Though I’d love to rest my head on your thighs” you add. Venti more then obliges and settles down on the couch

“You know I had the strangest dream” Venti tells you after a prolonged amount of silence, you hum to let him know you’re listening “You left me” he says bluntly

Oh

Damn

You bring yourself up to Venti’s face with a smile and give him a kiss “I love you Venti, I wouldn’t leave you for even the prettiest lyre” you half console half jest

“That’s because the prettiest lyre is mine” Venti chuckles and you nod pressing another kiss to Venti’s lips

guys it’s 2.42am I’m so sorry if there’s grammatical errors, my brain isn’t catching up rn

[kinkandkreep]

Frost

A/N: Surprise shawteh! It's ya girl Ari, here wit some Final Fantasy 7 content. Once or twice a year I rewatch the absolute gem that is Advent Children (the Complete version) and as I sat through it this time, I was suddenly struck with the inspiration to write something for our dear ole' Sephy-kins. So here it is! This one's a heartbreaker, so be mindful of that, but otherwise, enjoy!

Trigger Warnings: MCD

The Lifestream. 

That’s what we call the river of life that flows through our planet. 

You can feel its gentle pull already, a stark contrast to the unforgiving solidity of the ground beneath you, and the frosty, forlorn gaze of the man who put you in this state. 

Sephiroth. 

You can’t say with certainty that you didn’t expect this betrayal. 

After all, you always knew his mission was bigger than you, bigger than your life. 

You understand now.

You were…a liability. 

Only going to hinder his forward movement. 

The luminescent emerald of his eyes dulls slightly after a moment, before the fire is seemingly reignited within Sephiroth’s core. 

You can see his resolve return, and the realization of what he’s just done settle into his expression. 

He just killed you. 

He tries to think thinks little of it. For every man kills the thing he loves. 

Sephiroth is undeniably no different. 

As the murky gray of the sky begins to fade into black and shades of brilliant Harlequin and jade , you remember the moments leading up to your demise. 

“Sephiroth please, listen to reason!”

The man continues his trek forward, stern and unyielding in his steps. 

“Sephiroth!”

It’s almost as though he can’t hear you, though you’re fully aware that he can. 

“Sephiroth!”

Finally he stops, perhaps because of the absolute desperation and frustration lacing your tone. 

Running up to him, you place both hands on his chest, willing him with everything in you to just stop.

“Sephiroth please, don’t do this. I know,” you sniffle, throat clogged with mucus and eyes damp with unshed tears. “I know you think this is right but you’re wrong. This isn’t…this isn’t-...!”

Before you can continue, you feel one of Sephiroth’s leather sheathed hands lift to caress the warm skin of your tearstained cheek.

Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, a very brief moment, you can believe that your words, however sparse, have gotten through to the man before you. 

“Sephiroth, I love you. And I couldn’t bare to see you do something so awful. Please come back to me, with me, please!”

The tears rush forward and spill downward, soaking your face and Sephiroth’s chest. 

He’s yet to speak, and as you lift your head once more to gauge his reaction, you find, to your utter surprise, that his eyes have misted over as well. 

“Sephi-roth?”

Without a word, Sephiroth’s lips crash into yours, his grip on your chin harsh and sharp teeth biting into the soft, sensitive flesh. 

This is nothing you’re unused to, however, and so you return the kiss eagerly, thinking for a moment that Sephiroth has chosen you over his outlandish ambitions. 

What a foolish mistake. 

You feel the pressure before the pain begins to seep in, and with a shudder you part from Sephiroth, who levels you with a look full of regret. 

You’re almost afraid to glance down, but once you do, the pain intensifies a thousand fold as a portion of the blade of Sephiroth’s sword lay buried inside your abdomen. 

“Se-...Sephi-ro…oth…”

He catches you as you fall, laying you as gently as he knows how on the pavement beneath your feet. 

And now you find yourself back in the present time, watching as the man you love turns his back on you a second time. 

“My love, I ask not for your forgiveness, but please, grant me your understanding.”

The words barely make it to your ears, so muffled and hushed they are. 

“Our separation is only temporary. For you shall join into the Lifestream, and once I have harvested its might, we will be together again, in my new world.”

With this, Sephiroth continues his trek forward, stern and unyielding in his steps. 

You are left to fade in his shadow, as an unknown voice beckons your soul into the light.

[lady-o-ren]

The Dig

You can read this on ao3 // HERE //

Suffolk, England

1939

“What's going on in Sutton Hoo, then that has you in such a hurry?”

James Fsaser reluctantly looked up from where his head had been braced on his leather satchel, clutched atop his knees, and gave the old ferryman a one-eyed stare.

“I've a job. Digging,” he swallowed, trying mightily to keep himself from retching as the wee boat he was in bobbed up and down like a mad carousel.

“You came all the way from Scotland to dig like a dog?” He laughed hoarsely, hawking up a wad of phlegm into the murky river water as he swung his oars.

“Ipswich,” Fraser muttered, turning a bit more green.

Ipswich Museum to be exact.

He'd been hired to help excavate a centuries old burial site located at a rural estate in Sutton Hoo, overseen by the archeologist, Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp. A woman much admired (or envied depending on the man) for her keen mind and boundless curiosity (and unrivaled stubbornness that often spiraled into outright defiance according to those same particular men) that had her uprooting half of Great Britain in pursuit of the secrets hidden beneath the mossy plains. And more often than not her instincts were right and another antiquity would be dusted off to be reborn again.

Fraser wasn't sure what he'd done to earn the right to work by her side but Christ, he wouldn't question how lucky he was.

The boat then suddenly coasted to an abrupt stop against the rivers side.

“Here we are, Mr. Fraser. All in one piece. And I thank you for keeping me boat and boots tidy,” said the old ferryman with a wink.

Fraser didn't bother with a retort, he was just happy that the world had blessedly stopped spinning and hopped onto wonderfully solid land.

Smoothing the wrinkles from his attire and fixing his father's old grey cap atop his head (taking special care to tuck in his dark ginger curls that always peeked out from just under the rim), he made his way down the brambled path that the old man said led to the big house. After a brief introduction with the owner of the estate, he was then directed to where he'd be working, and trotted past the trees and sprawling country green to an open field.

From afar, Fraser could see three burial mounds jutting from the earth, grassy topped with yellow dandelions sprouting all over.

But what made his breath catch was the sight of the woman he'd been so eager to meet.

She was surveying the site with her hands on her trousered waist looking like a general on the cusp of conquest. Sensing his approach, she turned away from her prize and future glory, her short curls bouncing and gleaming a rich shade of earth in the dewy sunlight, and met his gaze with her own.

Sharp with intelligence. Kindled with mirth. Shimmering like molten gold.

"A Dhia," Fraser whispered to the fragrant spring air, and took off his cap, twisting it between his hands that ached to trace and memorize every curve of the archeologist's face.

She waved him over seeing him linger and a terrible heat sprang to the young lad's face at having been caught staring at the beauty like a halfwit, and forced his legs to move. Prayed he didn't fall flat on his face.

"Hullo there," she greeted, and clasped her small hand to his, but there was nothing dainty about its grasp. Fraser could feel the years of hard-earned experience chiseled in her palm that held his hand firmly, letting him know exactly who he'd be working for.

It sent a thrill down his spine.

"I'm Dr. Claire Beauchamp. And you must be the very late Mr. Fraser I've been waiting for."

"Aye, and I beg yer pardon for that, ma’am," Fraser replied in earnest, detecting a subtle spike of irritation in her voice, seeing the annoyed flick of her brow. "The morning train was running late.” By three hours! “ Then I had to wait for the ferryman to take me across the river -" He'd been taking his "tea" in the pub " - all a lousy excuse, I ken, but I promise ye it willna happen again."

Beauchamp crossed her arms and tipped her head to the side giving Fraser a scrutinizing once over that made his throat bob and the blood in his heart to palpitate.

"Good," she smirked, nodding her approval from his noticeable discomfort. "If you're anything like how the stiffs at Ipswich Museum described we'll get along well."

He clenched his jaw at the mention of the museum, the cantankerous men who worked there. Especially a certain Dr. Randall, who valued a good cigar over the work of a “farm boy”.

"And what do they say of me, if I may ask?"

Beauchamp bit her full bottom lip (wonderfully pink Fraser bashfully noted), quirking wryly.

“Quite a lot depending on who you ask. From what I've gathered you're hardworking, painfully intelligent and have an innate knack for reading the earth. But that you're also highly unorthodox, difficult and the most insufferable Scotsman ever to step foot in Ipswich. So naturally I had to work with you."

He let out a tightly held breath and chuckled softly.

"Weel, who am I to argue wi' a reference like that. I'm passionate about my work and little else, apart from food and kin. And while I've never been disrespectful to reason, I haven't the patience for men who think a title is deserving of my unquestionable fealty."

"And why should you? The conviction of a Viking is something to be admired not belittled,” she praised, making Fraser glow. "I only wish I could've been there to witness how you earned the ire of half the museum.”

“I'm merely in the right and they the wrong, more often than not,” he shrugged.

“I'm just as terrible,” she proudly grinned. ”But I know we'll make a good team. We'll have to if we want to tackle this lot.”

She motioned her head at the site looming tall, brimming with excitement that spoke to Fraser's own spirit.

"If that's so then it'll be an honor working wi' ye, ma'am."

He shook her hand once more and thought he felt her thumb move against his knuckle, light and curious as a brush stroke.

//

Working with two assistants from her previous digs (the studious Jeremy Foster and the wide-eyed youth Elias Pound), Fraser and Beauchamp made great strides in plowing the core of the mound that was the larger of the three, even when logic argued that the dip in the middle meant thieves of the past had already plundered it's horde.

But Fraser's gut and bones told him that there was something different about this one.

Beauchamp had thought so too.

"There's something grand and marvelous here begging to be found. Don't you think? Can't you feel it?"

The deeper they dug only intensified that feeling.

As had his attraction to the irrepressibly brilliant Dr. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.

However, after a fortuitous streak of good weather, the air started to blow with the sweet scent of rain and the leaves of the oak trees that dotted the lush clearing turned toward the skies, parched and longing.

"We have some time, I think, before the rain comes," said Beauchamp, gauging the skies westward still clear of thunderclouds.

Fraser leaned against his shovel in the hollow of earth he stood in, his dirt stained sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and could see the mad impulse to defy mother nature flash in her eyes.

"Usually I'd agree wi' ye, ma’am, but yer hair -" his mouth flicked upward in unbridled appreciation. "Is curling like a tumbleweed."

She pressed a dirt-flecked hand near her temple and felt the wild frizzy pushback of flyaway curls fallen loose from her twisted bun, springing around her face like a mane.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” she huffed. “Have I been like this all morning, Fraser?”

"Pretty much," he grinned, enjoying how her usual regal self pinked across her freckled cheeks and the wee scrunch of her nose.

But Fraser's smile faltered, catching himself for a fool, and averted his attention down to the soil where his heart had fallen. Writhed. Burrowed with the worms and roots.

For what use was it for a man like him to yearn for a woman like her?

He swallowed the hopeless lump in his throat.

"Shall we go for lunch then, wait for the weather to clear?"

Hearing the word lunch, Foster and Pound looked up from their own end of the excavation with hunger in their eyes.

"Did that on purpose did you?" said Beauchamp, throwing an accusatory glance at the ginger lad while trying to gather her wayward curls back to partial respectability.

He gave her a half smile.

"The Almighty is the one making it rain, ma’am. Take it up wi' him."

She sighed and her hands fell to her waist as she took one last disappointing glance above.

"I would if He ever bothered to listen,” she frowned, then gave the other men a nod that made them hoot and holler.

“Numpties,” she mumbled, though did so fondly, and puffed at a rebellious forelock flirting with the wind.

After covering the ditch with a tarp secured to the ground, the men headed for the local pub raucously singing an old drinking song with a few choice words changed.

Our Lady must have been an Admiral, a Sultan or a Queen

And to her praises we shall always sing

A pint for our Lady Beauchamp who fills us up with cheer

A pint for our Lady Beauchamp . . .

Their lady laughed and rolled her eyes, before waving the lads off with a promise to catch up to gather her things, and headed to the shepherd's hut that had been provided by the estate.

Fraser glanced back watching her go, and after a moment's hesitation where he reasoned it would be rude to leave without her, he too told the others he'd forgotten something and went after Beauchamp.

Cursing himself an "EEJIT!" every step of the way.

//

Inside the hut was a small curtained window softly lighting the room from the back and two wooden scuffed chairs positioned along the side wall with a table snugly fit between them. Beauchamp herself was crouched by the table legs where Fraser had left his satchel but it was now laid open on its side, contents spilled over.

At his unexpected appearance that shadowed the doorway, she turned his way with an apologetic expression.

"I'm sorry, I was just grabbing my bag when I tipped yours over and . . ."

She held up his small green fieldbook opened at the first page.

And white-hot panic flooded Fraser's veins.

"The writing caught my eye," she continued on, seemingly unaware that the poor lad was gripping the doorway for support. "I didn't know you spoke gaelic beyond the odd phrase here and there. That you can even write it too is something of a feat,” she said, impressed by the words secreted on the page.

“Aye,” he managed to breathe, relieved that she hadn't seen a thing. Not a thing! “I don't get much practice living away from home so I speak it in my mind and heart, write letters to my family when I can.”

“You've spoken of a sister, if I'm not mistaken. Older or younger?" She prodded, as if he were a new discovery, and he answered in hopes to distract her from what she still held in her hands.

Felt a fluttering warmth overtake him that she recalled him having a sister.

"Jenny,” he said, as he moved to kneel down beside her to stuff his scant belongings back in his bag. “She's older and feels the need to remind me of that fact whenever we see one another.”

“And you're the brat aren't you?”

Despite his predicament, Fraser couldn't help the grin spreading across his face.

"I was the devil's spawn, aye, but Jen was no angel. We once got into a terrible stramash about our chores on the farm, the way wee bairns do, and I ended up telling her she had a face uglier than a coo, smelled worse than one too. Next I knew, I was being tackled to the ground wi' my face shoved into a ripe pile of coo shite and my sister above me laughing her wicked wee arse off.”

Beauchamp broke into laughter and it made his stomach do a flip.

“I'm sorry, that must've been awful for you, but I think I may love your sister for that.”

“Everybody says so. Not sure it was worth it in the end myself . . .” said Fraser, his voice suddenly trailing off at the end seeing her attention turn back to the page.

His mind spiraled into action.

"But we really should get going before the rain catches us. It looks to be a downpour, a terrible one.”

“Well it's a good thing we're under a roof then isn't it?” She countered, eyes sparkling through her long lashes. “ Besides I'd rather have an impromptu lesson in gaelic on what,” she paused, squinting down at the book opened on her knees. “Baa-mia-’bruu -” means.”

“Bha mi a ’bruadar mun bhròn mhòr,” he begrudgingly corrected, wondering how rude it would be to just snatch his own fieldbook away. But then Beauchamp smiled as if charmed by his voice and echoed back his words with near perfect silky inflections, looking pleased as punch as she did so.

Endearing herself even more to the young Scot's already smitten heart.

“Verra good,” he hummed softly.

“Absolute luck,” she grinned, tapping her fingers atop his writing. “Now tell me what does it all mean?”

He shook his head embarrassed. "You'll think me daft, ma’am."

"I promise I won't."

She said it in such an earnest way, Jamie knew she spoke true. But then a deep rumble of thunder sliced through the air, enough to give Beauchamp a jolt that made her forefinger on the page slip and Fraser's stomach to rip and plummet to the old wood floor.

There, drawn on the page, was Beauchamp's face staring back at her.

“It’s nothing but some wee scribbles,” he stammered to explain, reaching for the book only for her to angle it away.

“You're right about that,” she agreed, her fine brows furrowing as she traced a slim finger to her pencil drawn cheek. “You've made one of my eyes bigger than the other, my nose a dash too long and -"

Her eyes went comically round as she pressed the pages to her chest, a sudden thought coming to her.

"You don't have anyone posed in the nude here do you?"

"O-Of course not! I'd never. I- I'd -"

"Breathe Fraser, I was only teasing you," she nearly giggled, but then her face softened with regret seeing his own face take on the horrible color of a split beet left to shrivel in the sun.

“But really, why bother with me?”

He had no answer but the one that pounded from his heart, a noise like a thousand drums that all struck the same adoring note. She could see it beaming from his face and a hushed silence fell between them as the rain finally came down, hitting the rooftop in a pitter-patter that enveloped her quietly spoken -

“Oh.”

That single utterance had Jamie wishing the rain would flood and swallow him up but it was now or never to speak his heart. No matter that hers would never be his to cherish.

Looking down at his hands, anxiously wringing the strap of his satchel, he spoke.

“There was never any helping it, me liking you. I'd never seen a sight sae fair as you, stubborn as you, nor wonderful as you. And I could never get ye out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried, but ye were always there like the sun and air."

He lifted his gaze to her likeness on the page.

"And then I just started filling my fieldbook wi' pictures of you if only to have something to remind me of you for when the job ends and we part ways. But I'm none so good as ye can see. I never could capture the grit and fire of yer spirit, the way yer curls bristle in excitement or the way yer eyes glow like a match to a candlewick . . . "

His heart tightened as his words faltered while Beauchamp remained quiet. Then like a blow to his chest she flipped through the small book once more, her face unreadable as stone. She looked through his sketches, one of her curls drawn like the ripples of the tide, another of her hands digging through the earth, and of her lush determined mouth curved into a beaming smile, bitten with impatience, beneath a perfect speckled nose.

And threaded between her gestures, her features were more bits of gaelic.

 A bòidhchead . . .

Tha pian orm . . .

Tha cho teann sa tha a ’bhriogais gam iomain

"I told you I was no good. I ken I should just rip up the pages -” Fraser began to miserably say, but Beauchamp hushed him by taking his hand in hers and softly stroked her thumb against the work-hardened skin. 

"You have a fine hand, Fraser. Especially for making my nose look as delicate as Garbo’s,” she smiled, cheeks touched lovely in pink.

Then in a moment that made it hard for Fraser to breathe, she simply said . . .

“Ask me for a drink.”

He blinked, thinking he misheard her, mouth agape. But there was no mistaking what brightened her eyes to shine like whisky.

“Ask me,” she repeated impatiently, almost laughing, as she squeezed his hand. 

Fraser inhaled sharply and tentatively squeezed her small hand back.

“Will ye join me for a pint, ma’am?”

“Claire,” she grinned, and coyly tilted her head . “And of course I will. Took you long enough to ask,” she winked, making Fraser stare at her in charmed disbelief.

And then Beauchamp closed the distance between them, hand light as a feather against his chest.

“But first you ought to kiss me, Fraser. It's still raining and I might catch a chill from all this waiting."

Still staring at her mesmerized, with questions that could wait another day flitting through his mind, Fraser wove an errant bonnie curl around his fingers and smoothed it behind her ear. Letting his thumb drag against her cheek.

“It's Jamie,” he murmured, in a brush of his lips to hers. 

And on and on it went.

//

Bha mi a ’bruadar mun bhròn mhòr. . .

I dreamt about the mourning. The deaths of great men. Terrible men. Old and young. Of Kings lost in battle buried beneath us. They cried out to me and the Earth came to life and twisted her roots around me, dragging me inside her womb. Dark and cold, breathless like a cave. But I wasn't frightened. I saw lights rushing around me, bright as the twilight sky. The souls that lie ahead. Surrounding us.

They brought me to you.

//

A/N: This had a ton of notes and explanations so you can read all those on ao3. But for sure I’ll say here this is very loosely based on the movie The Dig.

[tribus-mantodea]

[ Memories of the discarded. ]

I’ve been holding onto these but uhhoohogh it’s time for some awkward headcanons again!

Today’s session brought to you by: tentative thoughts centering the Mantis Child.

(In which for me, she was born pre-traitor arc.)

With mutual respect and consent came her^TM, but it was an ultimately loveless cause. Nothing more than a simple bond between two strong(?) mantids. Well. That said, he’s not a bastard and had taken due care of both partner and child when the time came (where the sisters had also doted and loved her).

I will add that while he did betray his tribe at some point for various reasons while still keeping enough of his mind, she had the choice to either stay or go. Feeling it wrong to do otherwise, she had reluctantly left with him and the defectors on her own volition. In part to see it through, and in knowing and being warned that the associations would be... gray, so to speak, if she did stay. So she couldn’t really be considered part of them anymore after choosing beasts over the village.

-

(...and the phrasing is the Traitors’ Child, rather than Traitor’s.)

Thereby, I enjoy implying that the mantises are fairly cool-knit with each other internally — at least up to an extent, or perhaps in some idea that any offspring of a Lord would be considered part of the tribe/everyone’s.

In turn. Though she did not take the infection like the outcasts had (they respected her will, at least — it was more than enough that she came with them anyhow), they treated her just like how they did when they were not traitors: as if she were their own.

And it’s quite the fun thought, really, to imagine her tiredly and quietly watching her kin slowly accept more of this sweetly foul thing and be more aggressive than they normally would be. Though they held familiarity and a degree of kindness in the initial phase of their exile, she still felt an uncomfortable uncertainty she couldn’t place. Where interactions grew a bit more sternly, hinted with resentment at the existing reminder that they all chose to take the infection even when the Daughter held on her own (albeit not without struggle).

-

It’s equally fun to imagine that as soon as she died, they started their downhill collapse into the unhinge.

Rather than have her die at her own father’s hands by some whacky rage/misunderstanding, I like to think that at some point they kind of... well, being influenced by the Radiance, I’d like to think that their disdain for anything regarding Hallownest intensified, resulting in them defiling and ransacking the gardens of the Queen since Man She’s Right There (and if not that, then just a hint of a whisper directing them to said area that so happened to be her domain) and their thoughts had grown more swayed.

So she didn’t have to accompany any battle, really, and she especially had some conflict when her own lover admitted her allegiance to Hallownest and here she was trying to keep things under wraps. But she still remembered how fondly she was treated, and so came the feeling of obligation to go.

One thing led to another, and she fell by Dryya’s nail, quickly noticed by the Traitor Lord after she was thrown to the side like she were any other mantid that had clashed with the fiercely loyal protector. And she does remember the brief tell in passing from the other knight, “Che’ found fondest affection for a mantis, different.” Remembered after hearing the roar that halted their fight, where the Lord swung back one of his own kin when they did not seem well enough to heed the order out of both insanity and rage.

The traitor tribe had a screaming headache that they were to kill and continue onwards, but their Lord held on enough to deny them of that. Had managed to get across to the despicable knight following lies that he would — will — bury their beloved Daughter before returning to conclude. It was in no way advantageous to say this and actually follow through in a brief retreat, but he did brush off the hint of appreciation that her corpse wasn’t outright dismembered (somehow).

So right after they could complete said burial in a place they suspected to be most frequented by her (and perhaps another) alongside the surface precaution of thorns, well...ya know. They lost their reminder, their reason; at that point, it was easier to mentally influence the traitor tribe with all the nonsense that came along with the infection. Hallucinations, loudening suggestions, muddled thoughts, the works.

They are led to believe at this point there was no going back and that their tribe would certainly not take them back, so they gave in entirely and lost rationality where not even the Lord himself could remember where the grave they made was at some point (aside from a memory that it’s within these very gardens).

-

(Miscellaneous | Mantis Lords)

I’d like to also think that the sisters had kept some sort of tabs on the traitor tribe, though they did not directly see to them. A group of scouts here, a hunt to check there; they at least had a vague understanding of where the mantid and beasts had taken territory to. 

Concerning the grave, I would like to assume that they do know, but as for how they know... I’d want to say either by word or by an unfortunately-timed and poor impression of meeting Ze’mer, stuck in mourning. It isn’t as if all of the Lords could go and see it, so it’d be a rather one-by-one basis just to acknowledge the fact, if at all.

Also I double-like to think that they could demolish the fourth throne entirely if they so wanted to, but they kept it to serve as a reminder of failure/what could come to their tribe (and in an unspoken yet vain hope). Fun memories/regrets for the whole kin! :D

or something. um

okay listen I already said my interpretations might be a bit too indulgent on the family-loving side, but I hope that makes sense enough? haha ooohg...

I just want a bit of happiness here and there before it turns outright Bad. I figure the dude’s got good intent and lots of thought behind his decision(?) in being infected rather than the straight up “you know what’s sexy? strength. alright. i think i’m going to go batshit now.” and while I love, I would also spontaneously combust at the thought of him killing his daughter (at least for my interpretations), especially if it’s over just somethin’ small like “you love a NOT-A-MANTIS?!” due to that one outsider-honor dream dialogue from a mantis warrior makin’ me wonder otherwise.

(for that my thoughts is more Ze’mer: the Hallowed-of-nest Knight? -> Radiance as Infectious Influence: “Oh. That bug sucks. You hate Hallownest? That bug’s going to totally leave your daughter to rot.”)

I can explain about this stuff more but maybe... maybe I leave that for another post before I babble on hsdflkhj

[dantevhell]

what are your top 5 insane amphibia episodes :o

Oooh thats a though question bc I never thought abt it. But well let's go!

Warning: this will be a big ass answer sor- SIKE I HAVE NO REGRETS!!

5 - BATTLE OF THE BANDS - ok it was a simple somewhat fluff somewhat angsty amphibia ep a really calm b4 the storm kinda of thing but made it was well made! Observing sasha's more profund mentality of "I need control, they won't want me if I am not in control, they won't need me if I am not in control" towards her girls and realizing that deep down all that she wants is for her girls to be happy, for them to succeed, God that was heartwarming. Toadie was the perfect and most unexpected character to teach her that but hey it was welcome!

This two pictures here made me insane.

JUST LOOK HOW LOVEY DOVEY SASHA IS LOOKING AT MARCANNE I WILL COMBUST AND-

4 - BARREL'S WARHAMMER - I remember being genuinely SICK genuinely CRAZY genuinely DEPRESSED after this ep bc I never related to sasha so hard b4 and my kin on her only intensified on this ep! Seeing and confirming that sasha was insecure abt being left out of marcanne's life and feeling like she needs to have control for them to want her oh boy that was delicious and what a ep to make the fandom crazy with metas!! Seeing sasha beggining to realize that her actions were what was leading for the others to abandon her and she's the only to blame for her decisions.... only for her to fall into that trap of self destructive behavior MAN that sure was something that changed my brain chemicals HELL YEAH!!

3 - THE THIRD TEMPLE - I was really excited for that ep bc we would not only get the girls SOOO waited reunion in amphibia after 2 YEARS but also we would gain a flashback when their first meet so i remember I spend the entire week only thinking about it! I really wanted to see how their dynamic would work as a trio and I was really excited to see if my predictions were correct (they were!). The tension of sasha and anne unresolved conflict and their long waited 2nd reunion, marcy finally encountering sasha after months without seeing each other, sasha and anne being unaware of marcy's plans with the king, MAN, THE TENSION WAS PALPABLE!

Also seeing sasha showing regret over her past actions with anne but unable to stop her already on motion plans was sure a good angst hoooho boy!

2 - ALL IN - it was way more that I expected it to be! Anne's speech about her how she didnt loved herself, her fight with andrias and sasha's fight with darcy, andrias reading leif's letter, andrias and marcy flashback, marcy escaping her dreamscape!!! WOOF THAT WAS A ROLLERCOASTER OF EMOTIONS REAAAALLY WELL ELABORATED!

I think if the story ended there and we didn't had that stupid "suddenly the moon is the enemy bc the prophecy is too literal" plot and we just skipped to them saying goodbye and having the timeskip I would have been happier but that's content for aaaaanother post.....

1 - TRUE COLORS - hands down the amphibia ep that made me the most INSANE AND MENTALLY ILL. Nothing will top true colors for me bc I spent months making theories with my friends only for it to be almost all throw away and the plot twists blow my mind! I genuinely didn't see marcy's reveal coming or her agreement with the king being going to other worlds so jesus! What a time! Marcy's speech was really impactful, andrias revealing his "true colors" was satisfactory in a way that was really anger inducing, sasha fight with anne and the begging of her redemption arc was soooo cool to watch and the animation in Anne's calamity form !! Wooooo I genuinely didn't know how to react after this ep I was feeling anesthetized a good few days!

[fandom-space-princess]

The Game of Us

Rating: T (gen, no warnings)

Chapter 3: Raphael

Raphael watches, impassive. “Our pain is not weakness, Michael. This grief... it took some time, but I did eventually come to understand. Why I awoke here, that is. You met Gabriel at the Styx? Fitting. Judgement always was her burden to bear. But this... this is mine."

Read below the cut, or on AO3

************************************

With Gabriel gone, the shades begin to dissipate, and soon Michael finds himself alone once again.

It doesn’t last long.

“Well done,” comes a voice from behind him. The tone is the same as before, but now the words are spoken aloud. The entity’s form has shifted. It wears a body that, while still indistinct and hazy, appears far closer to human than it had previously done.

Michael scrambles to his feet. He can feel his own form shifting as well, physical appearance undergoing continental drift atop his roiling grace.

“You took her. Gabriel. What have you done with her?”

“Please try to keep up, my boy. I took nothing and no one. The messenger is safe and well, merely—well, let’s call it offstage, for the moment. And she came quite willingly, as you saw for yourself.” The entity folds its hands neatly in front of it. “I see that she has given you much to consider. I trust your time together was informative?”

“That’s—one way of phrasing it.” The entity moves away, beckoning, and Michael doesn’t fight the impulse to follow. At the termination of the crevice, just outside the circle of crumbling stones, he is unsurprised to see that the path continues deeper into the forest.

As they walk, low-hanging branches catch and drag at his hair, his clothing. Michael feels as though he might be leaving snippets of himself behind, like fur snagged in brambles along the trail. He thinks of Gabriel’s wispy audience with sorrow. “So much of the Host, dead and gone. So many shades. I knew, of course I knew. But seeing them there... it’s not the same.” Regret swirls within him, settling as a tightness around his eyes; he can feel it there, performing the subtle work of reshaping the image he wears.

Into what, though—he doesn’t yet know.

The being at his side nods, curt. “You must understand where your actions lead. Not solely for yourself, but for others. You cannot abdicate your duty to your nature by refusing to choose, any more than you can by making choices.” He gets the impression that it raises its eyebrows meaningfully in his direction. “In your brief period of freedom, you knew the state of Heaven, and yet you turned your back on your responsibilities. On Earth, with that human—that wasn’t choosing. You were hiding.”

The words dig at him, slivers of ice working their way into the center of his grace. Adam. “He needed me. And I needed to keep him safe.”

“That’s a partial truth at best, and I’ve no interest in coddling self-delusion. Try again.”

Being dead, he is discovering, has a way of making it harder to lie to himself. Shame flares low in his stomach. “I... I should have done better by them all. They were my family, and I failed them. I couldn’t face them. Couldn’t face—”

He stops. The path has led them to the edge of another river. Crystalline and clear, smooth as glass, it burbles quietly past their feet. It winds away in lazy curves, disappearing into the deeper shade of the trees.

Michael looks down at his reflection, and his Father’s face looks back at him.

A hand on his shoulder. “I am not without sympathy for your pain,” the being at his back says, gently. “But running from it is no solution. The realm of Heaven is in disarray. Without you and your kin, it will fall, new God or no. And then—whatever it is you love, whatever it is you fear—then there will truly be nothing left to salvage.”

Michael crouches down, touches fingertips to the image of Chuck’s face. Tiny ripples distort the surface, rebounding off each other, spreading and fading away. “This isn’t the Styx. None of this should be here at all. What have you done to the local reality? And to what purpose?”

“Ask your next brother. They always were the wisest of you.”

This time, Michael doesn’t need to turn to know he is alone.

************************************

He follows the river further into the wilds, meandering gradually down the mountainside. The underbrush thins with the change in altitude, and the straggling trees grow steadily sparser. Before long he finds himself among yet more ruins, though these appear considerably more modern than the last. The river glides through the bones of a forgotten city. He picks his way along streets of stone dwellings adorned by grand archways, airy courtyards, monolithic houses of worship. Mist twines in and among the silent remains of civilization, and everywhere he looks he sees the incursion of the forest: trees growing in cracking walls, moss overhanging low rooftops.

Near the center of the city, both buildings and trees grow abruptly denser once again. A thicket of olive trees and creeping ivy, solid and unassailable, tangle up through ruined foundations and collapsed walls. The river seeps between the roots and disappears under a wall, alongside a single narrow entryway into what must once have been a church. It is barely wide enough to permit him entrance.

He pushes forward, through the vines.

An uneasy aura pervades the air within, musty and stifling, heavy across his shoulders and thick in his lungs. The further in he travels, the stronger it becomes. As it intensifies, he realizes that the feeling is not solely physical; a heady and potent psychic residue that he recognizes as grief only when he finds himself choking back a sob, without understanding quite why.

Down an overgrown corridor, and as suddenly as the vegetation had closed in upon him, it clears. He finds himself in an interior courtyard, roof all but gone, open under the sky.

“So, I get to see you again, after all. Hello, Michael.”

He looks around, confused, for a moment unable to identify the source of the words. Then, all at once, he sees.

In the quiet grove that has sprung up to consume this once-thriving city stands a sparkling pool, the termination point of the river’s above-ground course. Here the water stagnates, swirling deeper into a reservoir carved through foundation and bedrock to disappear into the earth. A stand of trees grows about the edge, roots worming deep down to seek the water through cracks in the floor. What he had originally taken for a statue carved into that living wood shifts minutely. Raphael meditates among the trunks, limbs now gnarled branches, head crowned by thick twisting ivy.

They are, he realizes, the source of the pain imbuing this place. He circles the pool and seats himself beside them, back bending under the onerous weight of their distress.

“You’ve taken His face,” they observe. Their voice holds neither scorn nor approval. Only sorrow. “Don’t take this personally, but I don’t think it suits you.”

“I’m not so certain of that,” he replies morosely. He brushes his hand lightly over the back of one of their own, firm and warm as olive wood. “And you’ve given up on a human form at all. I didn’t realize you held any fondness for dryads.”

“I needed—a change of perspective.” There is, momentarily, a hint of wry smile in their voice. Even on their worst days, he reflects, Raphael always held a spark of gentleness. It makes him ache for them; warrior and healer both, the only one among them as truly skilled in restoring life as taking it. They had never needed his protection, but he should have done more to uplift and support them, still. “Hamadryads have no skin to stitch. No bones to set. They neither bleed, nor do they break. They put down roots, and they grow, and they watch the world pass. It’s a peaceable enough existence.”

“Brother, you—you do realize where we are.”

Raphael rolls their eyes. “I’m dead, Michael, not blind.” They shake their head, ivy tumbling back and out of their face. Michael realizes, abruptly, that the ivy is a deep emerald green; like the blindfold Gabriel had worn, it is the only point of color against the otherwise monochrome environment.

“Then maybe you can enlighten me. I was sent to find you. By... well, I still don’t really know by who.”

“Don’t you, though?”

“I don’t,” he replies, adamant. “I can’t see the purpose to this, any of this. We are asked to return to the world, but to what end? What makes him think—” Michael breaks off, defeated.

“What makes him think we’d do any good for it this time around?” Raphael finishes knowingly.

Michael studies his reflection in the water, and says nothing.

They shake their head again, turning to contemplate the pool. “Did you know this pool has no bottom? If you fell in, you’d sink for eternity. There’d be no point in swimming; you couldn’t save yourself.”

“Why do you sound like you’re considering it?”

Raphael sighs. “I tried so hard, Michael. I fought and bled and died for our family, and still, it fell apart. You’re wearing His face, and for what? You blame yourself?” They look down at their palms, loose in their lap. The wood there is stained; in a place with light, with color, Michael wonders with a shiver if the stains might not appear the ruddy brown of old blood. “But I was our healer, Brother. And I tried and I tried, but I couldn’t heal anyone.” The sadness in the atmosphere redoubles, clawing over Michael’s skin.

Their voice cracks. “I couldn’t even heal myself. He wouldn’t even allow me that much.”

Michael’s head drops to his hands. This agony, like a breaking bone or a breaking heart, has been eating at their foundations for so long. Gabriel struck speechless, Raphael in tatters, and himself—what had he done for them? Other than carry out the edicts of a creator who treated his creation as no better than toys, to be discarded when He was bored of them?

He feels tears bead at the corners of his eyes, and overflow. To his astonishment, they do not fall onto his hands. He draws back in surprise.

The tears hang suspended in the air before him, crystalline. Gently revolving, they slowly coalesce, and descend toward the pool. When at last they meet the surface of the water, they merge without a single ripple marring the glassy shine.

Raphael watches, impassive. “Our pain is not weakness, Michael. This grief... it took some time, but I did eventually come to understand. Why I awoke here, that is. You met Gabriel at the Styx? Fitting. Judgement always was her burden to bear. But this... this is mine. The Kokytos is fed by the tears of mourners.” Their voice rings hollow, but there is an underpinning of tenderness there, Michael thinks. Something patient. Something compassionate. “My own contribution was long overdue.”

“How do you know where I came from? And why the rivers at all?”

“My stubborn, immovable brother.” Raphael’s smile is weary, but fond, even in their grief. “This place is his to command, he who sent you here, beyond mortality as it is. Knowledge flows through it. You need only listen for it.”

Michael scrubs hands across his eyes, and takes slow, steadying breaths. “Raphael. You don't belong here, not like this. Please. Move on from this place with me. We can do it together.”

Their eyes crinkle at the corners. Gently, they extend a hand down to break the surface of the pool. “No, Michael. In that, you are mistaken. It has been too long since I allowed myself to sit with my pain, and learn what it has to teach me. Give me time. I’ll catch up with you.” They draw the hand to their face. Trace their fingers over their lips. The tip of their tongue flicks out, catching at the water that beads there. “If I am to heal, first I must let myself mourn. Don’t worry too much about me. I know how far the river of lamentation runs; I will not drink so deeply of this well that I drown.”

The thought of leaving Raphael behind fills him with dread, but he nods. Stands. They reach up to him, trace a hand over his wrist as he pulls away.

“I wish I could have done more for you, too,” they murmur. “But you aren’t Him, Michael. Please remember that. You’re nothing like Him. I wish I could have helped you to see that more clearly.”

Michael resists the urge to look back into the pool, to see his reflection there. “I don’t know what I am. But I’ll keep searching until I do know.”

“That’s all I could hope for. See you soon.”

He feels the edges of his countenance shift and blur again. When he exits the room, his companion is waiting.

************************************

(Chapter notes:

- The city in which Michael finds Raphael is inspired by the ghost city of Kayaköy, currently part of Turkey; by its former inhabitants, it was referred to in modern Greek as Levissi. Between World War I and the Greco-Turkish war, its entire population was either forcibly exiled or killed. Despite the horror of that recent history, until that point it had been a relatively peaceful place, its mixed Muslim and Orthodox Christian populations living together harmoniously. It is now officially under the protection of historical conservation, and there have been some attempts at restoration. I think Raphael would consider such a place deeply meaningful, and be able to find healing in the possibility of moving on even in the wake of such tragedy.)

[dwellordream]

“A theoretical abstract of what I call “the plot of female amity,” by which I mean the interdependence of female friendship and the marriage plot, would run as follows. The plot begins by contrasting female friendship to the courtship relationship between a man and a woman. Lovers when first meeting often have false first impressions and only declare their love hesitantly, after overcoming many misunderstandings and obstacles. The bond between female friends, in contrast, is either established before the novel begins or coalesces almost instantaneously, intensifies almost effortlessly, and can be expressed clearly and openly. The relative stability of friendship makes it the motor rather than the subject of plot; it generates enormous energy without itself moving much or melting down. 

The tendency of female friendship to remain constant over the course of a plot is a sign both of its narrative weakness (not much happens to the friendship) and of its narrative strength (because of its stability, friendship makes things happen). In the middle phases of the plot of female amity, one friend expresses love for the other by helping her to realize her marriage plot. This can take the form of mediating a suitor’s courtship, giving a husband to the friend or the friend to a husband, or helping to remove an obstacle to the friend’s marriage. This phase can also take the form of one friend assuaging the other’s wounds and bolstering her subjectivity to make her more marriageable. 

The plot of female amity does not substitute for the conventional marriage plot, since the friend usually does not seek to replace a husband; when she does, the plot of female amity is displaced by the female marriage plot (see chapter 6). In the plot of female amity, marriage and friendship are inseparable, and the woman who promotes a friend’s marriage to a man is a forceful agent of the closure achieved once friendship and marriage have become parallel states and the future husband and wife have attained the harmony that already prevailed between female friends. The plot of female amity is the Victorian novel’s purloined letter, hiding in plain sight in the genre’s every permutation. The remainder of this chapter makes that point through sustained readings of a few major works, but to give an idea of the plot’s range, let me first rapidly survey a sensation novel, a silver-fork novel, a political roman a clef, and a novel of provincial life. 

Sensation novels, which characteristically emphasize occult powers and deceptive social ties, make female friendship an equally baroque narrative force. In Wilkie Collins’s Man and Wife (1870), for instance, the attachment between two female friends, Blanche and Anne, is all that can disentangle a marriage plot mired in complex wills, obscure legal loopholes, and vindictive relatives. One friend’s “resolution to reunite herself” with the other ultimately enables each woman to be united with a loving husband. Blanche makes her refusal to “give . . . up” Anne a condition of marriage when she tells her suitor: “There’s time to say No, Arnold—if you think I ought to have no room in my heart for anybody but you.”

Anne marries a man she hates in order to secure the legality of Blanche’s marriage to the man she loves: “She kissed her— looked at her—kissed her again—and placed her in her husband’s arms” (525). As so often happens in the plot of female amity, marriage makes female friends kin when Anne is freed of her villainous first husband and marries Blanche’s uncle, who learns to love Anne through the loyalty she arouses in his niece: “‘The woman must have some noble qualities,’ he thought, ‘who can inspire such devotion as this’” (246). 

In Frances Trollope’s silver-fork novel The Widow Barnaby (1839), which combines sentimental fiction with a portrait of high life, a generic preoccupation with virtue and good taste inflects the plot of female amity: the narrative defines the heroine’s innate gentility by showing that she can captivate virtuous, well-born women as well as men. One young woman’s “enthusiasm” for Agnes, the heroine—whom she finds so attractive “it is with difficulty that I keep my eyes away from her”—shows her good taste, which in turn reflects Agnes’s true worth (117). Agnes’s responses to other women similarly display her good judgment and capacity to feel desire. 

The Victorian marriage plot required heroines to be chaste, yet sufficiently ardent and aware of their desires to marry for love. The plot of female amity circumvents the paralyzing effect that this paradoxical demand might have on the marriage plot by using female friendship as a vehicle for depicting a heroine’s erotic excitability while skirting, so to speak, the strictures on female heterosexual assertion. When Agnes first meets the “tall, elegant-looking woman” whom she does not yet know is her male beloved’s sister, her “whole attention seemed captivated” (228). 

Once she identifies the woman as the sister of the man she loves, Agnes goes into a paroxysm, “trembling from head to foot with her eyes timidly fixed on the beautiful countenance of Colonel Hubert’s sister. . . . [T]here was timidity certainly in the pleasure with which she listened to the voice and gazed at the features of Colonel Hubert’s sister; but still it was pleasure, and very nearly the most lively she had ever experienced” (249–50). Within pages, she and Hubert’s sister have exchanged the embraces and kisses that are the novelistic sign a happy marriage will soon help their budding friendship bloom, and Hubert’s sister approves her brother’s choice, exclaiming, “I too am very much in love with Agnes” (342). 

Trollope can so graphically represent the erotic delight women take and inspire in each other for the obvious reason that the “lively . . . pleasure” of female homoeroticism poses no phallic threat to virginal virtue. But she can also depict their attraction so floridly because a woman’s susceptibility to another woman defined rather than defied femininity— because even the most erotic bond between women could sustain opposite-sex desire. As a final pair, consider George Meredith’s Diana of the Crossways (1885) and Harriet Martineau’s Deerbrook (1839). Although both novels explore community, vocation, and rumor, nothing could be further from Martineau’s expository, prosaic didacticism than Meredith’s elliptical, quicksilver sophistication. 

Yet both novels conclude with scenes that demonstrate the inseparability of marriage and female friendship. In Meredith’s novel, the eponymous heroine, nicknamed Tony, marries only when her best friend, Emma, proposes on a suitor’s behalf. The novel’s last sentences describe Emma’s “exaltation” as she “held her beloved in her arms under the dusk of the withdrawing redness.” That “beloved” is the female friend who has just returned from her honeymoon, and the novel’s last lines focus on the women’s reunion: “They sat embraced, with hands locked, in the unlighted room, and Tony spoke of the splendid sky. ‘You watched it knowing I was on my way to you?’ ‘Praying, dear... [t]hat I might live long enough to be a godmother.’ There was no reply: there was an involuntary little twitch of Tony’s fingers.”

The stock scene in which a wife obliquely confesses to her husband that she is pregnant takes place here between female friends: the “involuntary little twitch” of Tony’s fingers is a telegraphic signal that Emma’s wish is already reality, a displaced sign of the fetus’s movement within her, and a response whose involuntary corporeality underscores that a clearly consummated marriage has not dimmed the romance between female friends. Deerbrook also ends at dusk, an erotic threshold that blurs light and darkness, public visibility and shaded privacy, in which day tremulously balances night and finality seems momentarily suspended. 

The plot of female amity is aptly timed to conclude at evening, for it achieves closure by evenly distributing narrative attention and the heroine’s affections across friendship and marriage, rather than forcing a choice between them. Deerbrook thus ends not only at twilight, but also “on the eve” of Margaret Ibbotson’s happy, long-deferred marriage to Philip Enderby, which she chooses to spend with her friend Maria. Margaret and Maria have both loved Philip, but as the plot of female amity dictates, their shared love has brought them closer instead of driving them apart. In the novel’s final scene, they sit together in Maria’s house until they hear Philip’s horse, and Maria gives her friend away by telling her to “go and give Mr. Enderby the walk in the shrubbery that he galloped home for” (523). 

The novel’s final sentence displays the conjugal couple in the light of female friendship: “Margaret kept Philip waiting while she lighted her friend’s lamp; and its gleam shone from the window of the summer-house for long, while, talking of Maria, the lovers paced the shrubbery, and let the twilight go” (523). The reader infers that Margaret leaves Maria’s side, but the narrator does not describe her actual departure; instead, she leaps paratactically from a first clause that places the two women in the same room to a second clause that depicts Margaret walking with Philip. 

That second clause bends over backwards to give the participial phrase “talking of Maria” priority over the clause’s grammatical subject, “the lovers,” but what the sentence loses in fluency it gains in meaning, since that reversal embodies how Maria presides over Margaret’s union with Philip. The passage’s articulation of space and vision makes the moment between friends persist in the lovers’ walk, for Margaret and Philip are illuminated by Maria’s lamp, which Margaret has lit. The novel’s final tableau allegorizes the social links that the plot of female amity forges between marriage and female friendship, which appear as closely connected as adjacent moments, cottage and shrubbery, or a light source and the object it illuminates.”

- Sharon Marcus, “Just Reading: Female Friendship and the Marriage Plot.” in Between Women: Friendship, Desire, and Marriage in Victorian England

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

Sweet Pandemonium - Gally (The Maze Runner) Part 9 of 16

ahhhhhhhhh

~~~~~~~~~~

( not my gif :) )

Teresa tried to keep a blank face as she heard you screaming in agony, your face twisting and contorting in absolute fear as you were being pumped full of chemicals that made you see and live through horrible things in your mind.

Being put back in the Maze, being eaten alive by Grievers, crushed to death by the changing Maze walls.

All for a cure... 

Though Teresa never told the doctors the one thing that would absolutely break you, shatter your mind into a million pieces, never to be sane again. She couldn’t. Even if she wanted the cure, and the terrifying fear that you went through could be the thing that makes a cure, she couldn’t do it. She loved you as if you were her own sister. It was easier with Minho, not being a relative of his, but it was still hard to watch.

With Ava Paige and Jensen looming over her shoulder, Teresa had to look strong, even if she never felt that way. 

She watched as the enzyme was drained from your body, the possible key to end all the suffering in the world.

You slowly came to consciousness, seeing the same darkness you always saw whenever you were delivered back to your cell after being tortured. Of course, the people at W.C.K.D. never called it torture. It was all for a cure. It was a great privilege doing something so honorable to save the world. Yeah, right...you never had a choice in the first place.

“You look like shit.”

You sat up with a groan. “You should see how you look after your tests, Minho.”

“Oh, I don’t have to, I can feel how bad I must look.” He huffed.

The good people at W.C.K.D. were so kind enough to place you in a cell with your fellow captured friend. So fucking kind...

“To think being Teresa’s cousin they’d give me special treatment...no offense.” 

Minho rolled his eyes, laying back down against his small bed. “None taken. I’d die for just an unsupervised bathroom break so I could take a klunk in peace.” 

“Nice image, Minho...” You sighed, trying to keep your hands from shaking from the repeated trauma you had to endure. “Are you gonna be okay?”

Minho knew he was going to be taken to get those same tests run on him soon. It had been that way ever since you two arrived at the tower. They’d test you first, then him right after. For evil people, they were always on time. “Yeah,” Minho finally answered, “I always am.”

“We’re gonna get out of here, Minho. I promise. We just have to come up with some sort of feasible plan.”

Minho laughed bitterly. “Feasible? What about escaping from here would be feasible?”

You huffed, leaning up against the cold wall. “We have to get out of here...”

And just like clockwork, a few soldiers and doctors came into the cell to grab Minho, and like always, they had to sedate him so he wouldn’t fight. But what you didn’t expect, they brought you out of your cell too.

“What’s going on?”

You got no answer, and you couldn’t fight. You were too weak to fight. So, you had no choice but to allow them to bring you to wherever they were taking you. You weren’t walking down the halls that led to the testing room, so that was good at least.

They walked you into a small room, sitting you down and handcuffing you to the table you were sat at. Quickly, they left you in the room by yourself. You fiddled around with the handcuffs, but you were no locksmith, and you ultimately gave up trying to brute strength your way out of the steel. 

Eventually, you heard the doorknob rattle and you sat up, trying to prepare yourself for whatever was coming through that door.

“Hey, Y/N...” You scowled when you saw Teresa walk through the doorframe, taking a seat across from you. “How are you feeling?” She asked softly.

“Just peachy, no thanks to you, traitor.” You spat.

Teresa sighed. “Please don’t speak to me like that. I’m your family.”

You shook your head. “No, you’re no family of mine. My family was left out in the desert after you betrayed them. No, family wouldn’t betray each other.”

“Y/N...finding a cure is the most important thing right now. No matter the cost. I’m gonna give you something to make you understand that.” 

Teresa approached you with a syringe, and you tried to squirm away, but unable due to your cuffs to the table. “What is that?” You shouted.

“It’ll help you remember. It won’t kill you. It’s the same serum they gave me to remember...although, we made a few changes have been made to make it work faster.”

You thrashed about, not liking the idea of getting poked. “No! No, I don’t need to remember! I don’t want to remember you!” You hissed at her, making her sigh and turn to the door.

She knocked twice, and with that, a couple guards come into the room and forcibly held you down. “No! No!” You fought, but it was no use.

You hissed in pain as you felt the needle entering your skin, the burning of whatever mixed chemicals entering your bloodstream. “It’ll take a minute, you might get a migraine.” She informed.

And just like she said, a migraine hit you. Like a cinder block was just dropped on your head over and over again. Every time a pulse of pain hit, a wave of memories came flooding back like a tsunami.

You remembered.

The Flare taking everyone you loved. Your parents. Your baby sister, who was just born into the world, she didn’t even have a name yet. Having to deal with survivor’s guilt. Your aunt taking you in, her having a daughter of her own. Your cousin. Having to share a room with her due to the small two bedroom apartment they lived in at the time.

All the late night talks about each other. Comforting each other after vicious nightmares. Becoming so close you referred to each other as sister. Helping take care of each other after her mother got sick, and being all each other had left after her mom killed herself, and being taken by W.C.K.D.

Meeting Thomas, and hating him with a fiery passion. You hated that he quickly became Teresa’s best friend. You were jealous. But after seeing the way her eyes lit up every time she talked about him was really why you started to like Thomas, and eventually called him a friend.

You remembered being so lonely after Teresa and Thomas became W.C.K.D. favorites, and you were left alone altogether. Only rarely were you able to see your only kin.

And you remembered being so scared when you were chosen to go into a Maze trial.

“Y/N?” Teresa’s voice snapped you out of your trance.

“I remember now...”

Teresa smiled softly. “Good. Now do you understand why this is so important?”

You teared up. “...yes...”

Teresa grinned hopefully. “I knew you would.”

“We need to find a cure...but this isn’t the way, Teresa.” Her smile quickly turned into a frown. “You can’t keep testing these kids, traumatizing them. It’s not right, you must know that.”

“This is the only way.”

“You haven’t tried other ways!”

“You have no idea how much we tried avoiding testing on kids!” Teresa raised her voice, which she rarely ever did. “We hate hurting these kids! I hate hurting Minho! But we have no other choice. I have no choice. This method is the only way to get what we need to make a cure.”

“Even if it kills all of us? Even if it kills Minho...kills me?”

Teresa stayed silent. “I thought you’d understand...you were so smart, Y/N. They almost chose you to be with Thomas and I. But they thought you could be more useful in the Maze.” Teresa chuckled tearfully. “You weren’t even supposed to go into that Maze, you were scheduled to go to the all girl Maze. But since I knew I was going there, I made it so that you went into the Maze before Thomas.”

“...you did?”

“Yes...I knew you’d be in good hands with Thomas, even if he couldn’t remember who you were.” She paused. “I never wanted you to get hurt. I pulled some strings...you won’t have to share a cell with Minho anymore. You’ll be staying with me.”

Your heart felt like it dropped. “But...what about Minho?”

“It’s different with you since you’re my cousin. I can’t do anything for him, I’m sorry.”

You chuckled bitterly. “No, you’re not. If you were, you wouldn’t be torturing him.”

“It’s not-” She sighed. “Please, don’t make this any harder than it has to be. I’m getting you out of that cell, you should be thanking me.”

“Am I still going to be tested?” Teresa didn’t give you an answer, that alone told you all you needed to know. “Wow...so the only difference is that I get to suffer in luxury...thanks a lot...”

“Just don’t fight, okay?”

“Whatever...”

Upon entering Teresa’s apartment, instead of being in awe of how nice and fancy everything was to accommodate you two, your anger just intensified more. Minho was trapped in a cold dark cell while you were here...you definitely didn’t deserve to get special treatment, even though you were still going to be tested on everyday...

You walked to the large window in the living room and gasped softly, you had never seen the city before. You didn’t know how incredible the whole place looked...

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Teresa smiled.

You quickly wiped the look of awe and shock off your face. “It’s alright...”

“Are you really going to keep acting this way? To me?”

“I already told you, just because I have my memories back doesn’t mean I automatically agree with everything you do.” You looked back out to the city. “It would look a lot nicer without the wall...”

Teresa sighed, taking a seat on her couch. “We can’t let the infected inside.”

“And all the people deemed unworthy...right?”

Teresa scowled. “If you went down there, see all the innocent people that are down there, children, you’d agree with having the walls.”

“Oh really? Well, I haven’t been around the city. And I probably won’t. I’ll probably die here before I even step foot outside this place.”

Teresa got up and stormed back over to you. “You’re not going to die, Y/N. I won’t let that happen.”

“But what happens if that’s the only way to make a cure? For one of your little lab rats to suffer a painful death to create the enzyme you need for a cure.”

“Then I’ll make sure it’s not you.” Teresa said, turning back around. “Your room’s this way.”

You sighed, following after her down a small hallway of her home. “A bit different from our previous house, eh?” You said when you saw your own queen sized bed.

“We had to share a twin back then.”

“The things we take for granted...”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but...we’re gonna start testing all day from now on.” You snapped your head to look at her with wide eyes. “I’m sorry...just get some rest.”

And unfortunately, Teresa was right. 

W.C.K.D. started to test you all day, and it was excruciating. Days starting blurring together again, the pain and exhaustion you felt was unexplainable. But the worse part of it was how little you could differentiate what was real and what was a simulation. Even the nights that you went back to Teresa’s apartment was hard to tell for sure if it was real life.

It was frightening.

Even if you hated Teresa for what she did to the Right Arm, she was one of the only reasons why you weren’t completely insane. When the days got particularly bad, she’d order you to have breaks. She’d have you repeat a set of five numbers, didn’t matter which numbers, forwards and backwards. It helped keep you grounded when things got tough.

Like the situation you were in now. 

You screamed for it all to stop, for all the pain and fear to stop. It was too much to handle.

“Okay, okay, stop!” Teresa shouted, entering through the door. “She needs a break.”

Ava sighed. “Teresa...if you need to remove yourself from here, you should. You can’t let her being your family get in the way of progress.”

Thankfully, Teresa was quick on her toes. “It’s not getting in the way. I’m saying she needs a break because she might run out of the strength that’s keeping her alive. We won’t find a cure if she’s dead.”

Dr. Paige looked to your exhausted and almost dead looking face and sighed. “Alright...let’s wrap it up, give her the day off.”

Teresa nodded gratefully, soon helping the rest of the doctors unhook all the wires and machines attached to you. She noticed how dead inside you looked, and it worried her. You didn’t just need a break, you needed for the experiments to stop, but that wasn’t possible.

Teresa had an idea, most likely the worst idea she’s had and will ever have, but she truly thought it would be somewhat beneficial to your mental state and overall health. Maybe a walk around the city would reignite that strength she saw in you in the beginning of the trials.

Yeah...maybe it wasn’t a bad idea.

~~~~~~~~~~

[emerald-amidst-gold]

*drops a bag of candy in the counter* I'd like one (1) heartbreak, please 😌

50. kisses with their last dying breath

*walks through the door as I come home from work, placing my hat on the hook* Whew, what a day! Time to rela-- *sees this in my inbox* ...I knew it. The angst is too tempting for everyone! >:D

(I had a feeling someone would ask for this one! EHEHEHE!)

50. kisses with their last dying breath (introduciiiiing...Dragon!Fane! >:D)

He had failed. He had failed. He had failed. He had failed. Not just his kin, not just himself, but...his sky. He had allowed his mind to twist, to be broken with the very magic he had tried to avoid, but here he was, teetering on the edge, blackness creeping closer as crimson, dreaded, dreaded crimson, lined his vision with inevitable madness.

He had failed, and now he could do no more but watch the sky shatter along with him.

Solas was knelt on the ground before him, its opulent tiles of gold and crystal cracked and obliterated due to his rampage, his weakness. Once shining, glittering, and strong armor was now dirtied with blood, both draconic and Elvhen, and ash and soot working into fur and now gaping openings from where a spell had shot through like an arrow to sunder it. A face that he at one time hated, but now loved with all of his heart, all of his soul, was down turned with a grimace, bottom lip worried between teeth as nostrils flared to keep tears at bay, but he could see it, he could see the rain within grey clouds.

And it was all his fault. He had failed, and now he could do no more than watch, than observe. He couldn't even muster a growl without the reddened lights drawing nearer, threatening him to frenzy despite his body's state. Blood pooled around his entire frame, hints of it upon his once ivory scales barely drawing his attention as a heavy hitch of breath had his eyes narrowing, vision wobbly as magic continued to drill, to pierce, to break him. It hurt. It hurt so much, but he couldn't look away from the sky. He didn't want to! He didn't want to!

He didn't want to die! He wanted to stay with his sky! He vowed to stay with his sky! How could he have failed?! How?! HOW?!

"Ir...abelas, ma'isenatha..", Solas' voice came forward, once detested language making Fane's heart ache with desire, with the desire to stay, but it hurt! It hurt! "Ir abelas.. I..failed you. Ir abelas..", he said, voice cracking as bloodied hands dug into shattered tile and ash of bones.

Fane felt his heart pound and shatter just as his mind was at those words, a shaky, pitiful growl finally eking out from his maw. No, no! It wasn't the sky's fault for his idiocy, for his recklessness, for his pride! It was his! HIS! He wanted to speak! To tell the one he found himself loving everything he felt, everything he desired!

He wanted to tell Solas how much he adored him! But it was too late, too late as a small, broken, and sad smile formed on trembling lips, sky-like eyes brimming with tears as the elf that bore them could no longer fight against the storm as it slammed against him.

"Shh, my dragon.", Solas soothed, trying to be strong when Fane was so weak. Bloodied, but beloved hands reached out to him, resting themselves upon his snout and stroking it like...like they had so many times, so many nights, so many days. "It hurts, I know. Let me..", he trailed off, tears starting to escape from deep blue and stormy grey, streaking down a dirtied face. "..Let me...free you as you are meant to be.. Ir...abelas.."

Before Fane could even muster the strength to let out another growl, another protest of any sort, magic began to wrap around his mind, but it was unlike Elgar'nan's which had been gnarled, twisted, and painfully dark. It was calm, soothing, relaxing, as if he were soaking in hot springs upon the snowy mountains of his whitened kin again, all of them free, all of them together. A hot feeling made itself known upon his maw, something akin to liquid making him blink double lids in both confusion and tiredness.

He was...crying? Was that what the hot feeling was upon his scales? He had...never cried before. Fane watched as Solas' smile seemed to shatter more, realizing, too, what was happening.

"You are so beautiful... So much more...than what any of us believed..", Solas openly sobbed now as he shook his head, eyes squeezing shut with utter grief and pain as the glow of magic intensified. "Ir abelas... T..This will never...never happen again. I vow to you, ma'isenatha.."

Fane let out an exhausted, warbling, tiny growl at that, willing, with all his might, to gingerly move his head. He ignored the searing pain he felt at that, determined to bring the sky to him, to watch glistening stormy speak one last time. He didn't want this to be the end. He didn't want to leave.

He didn't want die...without telling his sky how much the dragon that soared within, above it, loved it..

With a movement that nearly had Fane letting out a roar of agony, despite the refreshing, cooling embrace of magic guiding his mind to blackness, his vision ebbing in and out, he delicately, gingerly, gave one of Solas' tear soaked cheeks a lick with the tip of his tongue; a kiss of a dragon.

And as Fane did that, he felt his mind give way, his body go lax, and the last thing he heard as blackness washed out blue and crimson was...

"Ar lath ma, ma'isenatha. Ane mala vasreëm."

***

I'll have you know I balled while writing this entire thing. I had to stop and get tissues multiple times. MULTIPLE TIMES! *screams into a pillow and wails*

Note: The last phrase 'Ane mala vasreem.' is Elvhen for 'You are free.' Courtesy of Project Elvhen!

THAAAANK YOUUUUUU! <3