#you know the horrors i can inflict upon them

[sesshy380]

Thanks to the anon question from yesterday, my brain is slowly piecing together WereKat AU. I really should be working on longfic instead, but WereKat won't stop rotating in the brain. Also, Yamima has been thrown into the mix...because fuck, I can't give Bakura two partners and not give Vamp Ryou a Werelion Mima.

[reiderwriter]

My Love Is Mine All Mine

Week 2 of my Playlist series 🎧💕

Summary: Spencer Reid always liked broken things, but you didn't think you could be fixed. Maybe all you needed was understanding and companionship.

Warnings: slight angst, case details mentioned - misogyny, kidnapping, etc, but no graphic/ explicit details. Hurt/Comfort.

A/N: Tumblr, please let me post haha I've been good, I promise 🙏 This fic is so late because I've been having some technical issues with tumblr and it has greatly annoyed me, so hopefully if you're seeing this it's been fixed? Who knows... Thank you to everyone who has sent in songs so far for the Playlist series, I'll be cresting the playlist today and posting it for everyone to see and use!

Masterlist || Series Playlist

Falling for Spencer Reid wasn't in your plan for the new year, but looking back, it was probably something that was just bound to happen. 

He'd been the first person to show you any kindness after everything you went through, the first person who hadn't put their own rigid horror at your past before their attempts at sympathy. 

You watched the way people recoiled from you as you told them - bluntly, you had to be blunt - what the man in the cabin had done to you. 

He listened to your words, didn't interrupt, didn't quietly shake in anger, and refuse to meet your eyes like your father did, didn't weep for her baby like your mother did. He took your hand as it shook. He held your gaze. 

It was his job to ask questions, but there weren't many left to answer. 

The only reason you were alive was because his team had tracked the string of bodies to your kidnappers home. You were alive because one of his coworkers had put a bullet through his head, ending your nightmare. 

The very idea of love was repulsive to you as you emerged from that basement in the first days of the next year, and you remembered thinking the snow looked fresh and soft. You remembered wanting to lay in it, to wrap it around yourself like a warm blanket and drift into sleep. The cold ground would be as much comfort as you would allow yourself. 

Because after everything, you knew you didn't deserve love. 

You accepted understanding from him, though. 

When the shock wore off, you were awash in all the misery inflicted upon you. You raged, kicked, screamed, broke things, and made people uncomfortable. Nothing would numb the pain of being trapped inside your head, your head still trapped inside that basement, that cage. 

He came to visit you at the hospital. The nurses had given up on you, were content you were physically healing, and that they had technically done their job but not bothered by your deteriorating mental state. Some days, you swore that they pierced your skin in the wrong places purposefully, not even searching for your vein. 

But then he was there, with a book and a chess board, and he'd asked you if you'd ever played before. 

“No. Chess always seemed too…” You swallowed the bile that drowned your lungs and tried again. “Before, it was boring. An old person game, too many rules. Now… He said we shouldn't do things like this. Said we shouldn't cultivate our minds.” 

It was a confession again, but one that took a weight off your shoulders, and not one that pushed it further down. 

“Would you like to learn?” His tone was so soft and awkward, like a teenage boy asking a girl out on a first date, that you almost giggled. 

“I'll be honest and say you'll never beat me, I've played through most board combinations, including a large proportion of the 10^80 theorised checkmate positions, so if you'd rather do something else, that's fine, or I can leave, too, if… you'd… prefer?” 

You had laughed then, a thing that bubbled up from the pit of your stomach and left your shoulders shaking as you gasped for breath doubled over. 

You'd been in hell for six months, and he'd drawn you out of it for a few moments by rambling about chess. 

“Are you a patient person, Doctor Reid?” 

“I think so.”

“Then set up the board and let's play.” 

He beat you every time, obviously, but you enjoyed his small explanations of the moves, and you did improve slightly. 

More than that, you enjoyed his company. It wasn't that you talked extensively In your hospital room, oscillating between your lowest point and somewhere just a rung above that where the snow was falling and the air was fresh, but that he never looked at you the way others did. 

You were discharged and were sad to lose that small glimmer of normality. He'd come twice a week throughout January, and now you were back in your usual shape. You were being discharged, and so that would end. 

You were surprised that he came to pick you up from the hospital the day you left. 

The parents who had looked everywhere for you for half a year hadn't wanted to, and the close friends from before hadn't spared you a thought since reposting your missing poster on their social media pages. 

But the man you played chess with twice a week, the man who'd carried you out of hell himself was there. 

“Ready to go?” You nodded, dumbstruck, and followed as he grabbed your bag. 

You weren't exactly sure where it was you were going, but you followed the man anyway, only a small part of your brain shouting in protest considering the last time you'd been blindly trusting.

He led you back to an apartment with some bare furnishings but a large window and a warm soft blanket covering the bed. It wasn't his, but yours. 

“Your parents are paying for it. They're taking the city to court due to the circumstances. Apparently, there were numerous phone calls to law enforcement that went unnoticed, but the city is looking to settle, so you don't have to worry about rent for a while, maybe ever again. The WiFi is all set up, hot water is working, and so is the heating. The locks are triple enforced, and I'm right down the hall, so if you need-” 

“What?” 

He blinked at you and suddenly, looking sheepish, as if becoming aware that he'd presumed a friendship between the two of you without consulting you first. 

“I live down the hall.” 

You stared at each other for a few moments as you processed his words. He lived down the hall. He'd driven you to your new home, set everything up for you, and he lived down the hall. 

“You're a good man, Spencer Reid.” You whispered, turning away to not let the moment linger anymore than it already had. 

Chess nights became routine. You'd set up the board and play for an hour or two or until you were sick of losing. 

Gradually, though, the nights got longer. He'd arrive just as you were eating a meal, and you'd invite him to join you, or he'd bring along takeaway and you'd eat quietly together, talking about everything and nothing.  

One day, you'd mentioned a film. A popular one, one you'd loved as a child and still rewatched to this day. 

“I've never seen it, is it good?” He'd said. And in your shock, you jumped up and sent half the chessboard flying. 

“Well, it seems that now our game is over, that we have time to give you an education, Doctor Reid.” 

“I have three PhD's-” 

“And still you haven't seen Clueless?” 

You'd pulled him over to the couch he'd picked out for you, loaded up the movie and then invented a new tradition. 

Chess nights and film nights were separate days of the week. So he could always promise to be around for one of them even if he had to miss the other because of work. 

You didn't ask him about his job anymore. He saved people like you, and you didn't need to be thinking about people like you too much.

What they went through, if they survived physically. If they survived in other ways. 

He always visited you first when he returned, though. There would be a knock on your door at some point in the day or night, and he'd let you know he was home safe. 

Another tradition. You'd opened the door to let him in the first time he'd returned from a case after you moved in, and he'd leaned down and wrapped his arms around you. 

You heard the breath of relief, loud and emotional, and hadn't quite realised it had come from you until a few minutes later. Some part of you had thought he wouldn't come back. 

Now, every time he came home, you ran to the door and quietly comforted each other, reminding the other that no matter what happened, you were both there for each other. 

You weren't sure when traditions and movies turned into love or if it had lingered over you the entire time. You didn't think you could love someone right then, your heart broken into small pieces with the torment you'd suffered. 

But it was stitched back together with pieces of him still lodged inside. He was in the very fabric of your being as you became whole again. 

The truth was that you most likely couldn't find love again because there was no room in your heart for anyone else. And you'd never be able to reschedule chess nights to go on dates anyway. 

You weren't sure if Spencer ever figured out how much of hum you carried around with him, how your eyes followed his lips as he ran through decades of memories to give you the fact he thought would please you the most. You weren't sure if he loved you as much as you did him until you were.

You'd agreed to watch one of his movies for a change, agreeing to stop the streak of 80s brat pack classics to watch a black and white war film from Russia with no subtitles. You'd sat together on that couch under blankets you'd bought together months earlier, and he'd pulled you in closer.

“I want to watch the movie and translate at the same time. You should sit here.” He'd pulled you into his lap, letting your back fall against his chest as his lips fell to your ears, and he began to whisper. 

Sitting there so closely, so intimately, was almost torture. Unconsciously, your head tipped back with his words, displaying your neck and shoulders, silently willing his lips to drift even once. His arms wrapped around your waist, and you did your best not to squirm the entire movie, but with your heart beating out of your chest, it was a hopeless cause. 

“Did you enjoy it?” He whispered as the credits rolled, but you hadn't even noticed the movie had ended. It wasn't until the silence that followed his question stretched out notably that you came back to reality. You couldn't answer, in fact. You gaped for a few short moments, hoping something vague but accurate enough would just pop into your mind. 

As you attempted to negotiate yourself out of distraction, you turned your face to his, but he was closer than you thought.

Your noses touched, and your breaths mingled. His arms still wrapped around your waist, and your blankets still anchored you to one another. 

“I wasn't paying attention to the movie, Spencer. I'm sorry.” The words came out of you so fast, yet so quietly that you were surprised yourself how honest you had chosen to be. 

“Why not?” He asked, eyes having drifted sleepily down to gaze at your lips. 

You didn't answer his question but felt your cheeks flush red. You thought about pulling away, moving back, or at least laughing everything off, but you didn't. You stayed there, still like a deer in headlights. 

“Your voice was too distracting,” You forced some of the tension out of your body and let your head fall against his shoulder again, hoping this moment wouldn't end anytime soon. 

“Distracting?” He sounded concerned and shifted in his seat, lifting you up from your happy place in his arms until you were again face to face. “Did I make you uncomfortable?” 

The look on his face was so concerned and focused that you had to pause for a second to catch your breath. He cared about your comfort so much and paid attention to each word that came out of your mouth. He wanted your happiness more than anything in the world. 

“No. I'm never uncomfortable with you, Spencer.” You were back to whispering now, hands floating up to grab his own, fidgeting by his sides. You bought them up to your face and guided his hands to your cheeks, needing to show him just how comfortable you were with him in actions, not just words. Words could be dishonest. Actions were honest. 

His concern melted away as he began stroking your cheek with his thumb, smiling sweetly at you. 

Though you were both content, you'd never been quite this intimate before. So when his thumb swiped over the corner of your lips, your eyes both caught on each other. You could see him weighing up the outcomes in his head, going back and forth between pulling away and pushing in closer.

Slowly and softly, as though he were trying not to startle you, his head moved closer until his lips were on yours. 

It was a quiet kiss. You wouldn't describe it as fireworks, or butterflies, or anything loud and grand and passionate. It was quiet, and it was right. 

He pulled away seconds later, trying to gauge your reaction, but you followed him away and kissed him again. 

When you finally pulled away, it took you a few seconds to realise you'd climbed back into his lap, unconsciously having moved closer to him. You guiltily looked up, waiting to see any discomfort on his features, but to your surprise, he was busy straightening out your hair. 

“I love you, Spencer,” you whispered as he took care of you. He smiled, looking down at you once again, pulling his arms around you to gently lower both of you down to a laying position on your couch. 

“I love you, too,” he said as you held each other and drifted into contented sleep.

[blasphemousclaw]

What is it that you like so much regarding Eder Jori? Gonna be honest, I’m quite disappointed how much little information we get about her, granted she is the leader of a very important order. That being said, arguably one of the best themes in the ost.

honest to god it’s genuinely not even about the lore I just walked into that boss fight and saw a funny little creature casting spells and waving her little arms ringing the little bell around her neck and summoning her entire girl gang to obliterate me in increasingly hilarious ways. how could I not be charmed by that. jori sweep

ok but genuinely the lore of the inquisitor hags is super interesting and underdiscussed? I think it’s interesting that the Hornsent inquisitors are implied to be an all-female order:

and with that last sentence about how seniority is viewed as an asset to the inquisition, I think that means Jori is called the “Elder Inquisitor” because she’s literally the oldest one and that makes her the one in charge!

also, every time I’ve seen people talk about the crimes of the Hornsent, there’s surprisingly little discussion of the inquisition’s cruelty towards Midra and his followers? the implication is that the inquisitors targeted them for their supposed worship of the frenzied flame, which is forbidden to the Hornsent (for good reason)… but I think the horrors that the inquisition brought upon Midra’s Manse only strengthened the frenzied flame’s presence, since it seems to feed on suffering? the inquisition’s execution methods are particularly gruesome:

“Golden greatsword that once pierced the body of Midra, master of the manse. Used by the hornsent in the execution of a damnation like no other. The barbs that pierce the victim from within wind gently around the blade.” (Greatsword of Damnation)

“Greatstaff of Jori, elder inquisitor. The tip bristles with golden barbs symbolic of the inquisition's torture, allowing one to wield the staff as a greatspear.” (Barbed Staff-Spear)

“The arc resembles the barb, a known symbol of coercive questioning.” (Giant Golden Arc)

you can also see a bunch of people executed by golden barbs positioned in front of the Manse, as if they’re serving as an example:

but again, I think the inquisition’s cruelty towards Midra massively backfired on them because there’s a ton of inquisitors wandering around the Abyssal Woods and the Manse itself who have succumbed to the frenzied flame and are now casting frenzy incantations. I think Jori is guarding the entrance to the Abyssal Woods because she knows that the inquisition made a HUGE mistake contributing to the frenzied flame being unleashed, and she’s trying to contain it… and I think she has to summon the girl gang as spirits because she basically lost all her inquisitors down there to the frenzied flame and has no one left to help her. there’s also a lot of emphasis on the fact that the Hornsent inquisitors are targeting other Hornsent here:

“I beg you stop. Haven't I taken enough? Are we not brethren, common in our line? And yet, you offer only cruelty... I ask; what crime did great Midra commit?” (Manse Spirit NPC)

“A glove stitched together from the flayed skin of the victims of a butcherous bloodbath. Afflicts target with madness. Raises attack power when madness is triggered in the vicinity. Forged of an unyielding, black impulse toward revenge fostered in those who were hunted down as heretics by their own brethren, these are the weapons of the utterly downtrodden.” (Madding Hand)

so it’s a pretty important point that the inquisition’s cruelty is being inflicted on their own population… it wasn’t just people like the shamans who suffered at the hands of the Hornsent elites, it was their own people too!

basically this adorable creature has blood on her hands. she is a deeply sick and twisted individual

and yeah the boss music is pretty good too!

[sscarletvenus]

GUN IN LOOKISM 506 ANALYSIS? WELL, SORT OF. mostly me yapping.

starting off with these Charles Choi lines said to Eugene...

during Kenta's backstory montage in the second affiliate, we see Gun as a child has already attained UI stage. physically, he has from the start (an interesting narrative choice i believe) been set apart as someone who has ascended mortal thresholds. no one in the story until now has his degree of UI proficiency, and the stage itself remained unseen or unheard of until Daniel reaches it.

in some ways, there is something eerily non-human about this particular manifestation of his strength. his existence is forever a pariah in the realm of humanity.

aside from the morphological louche qualities, Gun's ideals and thoughts have never aligned with the either the minds of his successor candidates or friends.

everyone in this story follows or strives to achieve certain purpose. revenge, romance, family, friends, self-preservation, money, power... all of which can ultimately be rounded off to humane desires and needs.

not Gun. Never. what he does have is, a morbid obsession with death, a frantic fascination to kill or be killed.

human nature is typically averse to the idea of death, which most perceive as an end. we know little about Gun's actual discernment of death. maybe it is linked to his yakuza upbringing, where death is matter of inches, everyday lived on knife's edge. to be subjected to a lifestyle of abject horror as a child irreversibly changes your psyche, after you have become so familiar with death, you associate some sentimentality with it. death is the only constant. so maybe, just maybe, he seeks it as comfort. as relief.

for him to kill is the greatest sincerity, and he displays this same sincerity to his master, i.e., Kenta's father. it's not cruel for him, battle is simply a means of honoring someone he respects. it's too terrifying to be comprehend by the mortal mind (Kenta cannot), but humans have never known the minds of gods or devils.

enacting violence is the most intimacy he can muster, as has been seen throughout the story. for all the atrocities he has inflicted upon the crewheads, he nurtures them because they show promise. he keeps them alive in hopes that someday they too can pay their respects to their master, kill him and reciprocate his outmost sincerity, show their devotion just like he has.

he is enraged and disappointed because they have another primary purpose that makes killing him secondary, he is infuriated because they fail to be sincere in annihilating him.

maybe this is why he's the way he is about UI Daniel, another inhumane creature of pure instinct who is not bound by man's fickleness towards death. hence the psychosexual infatuation.

"Let's kill each other," is what Gun says, upon meeting someone cursed by the same fate of never being human, such as himself.

Gun is insepreable from the idea of death in comic. perhaps i will make a more coherent and comprehensible post on the same some other day.

[lets-try-some-writing]

I have observed several types of fic writers, and so for kicks and giggles, here they all are. Each of them scares me for different reasons.

The Prepared And Ready To Publish™:

Several documents dedicated to worldbuilding, planning, cross referencing, character lists & traits, plot twists, and then the actual fic document.

Dedicated to the max to creating a rich world. Probably knows more about the niche thing than you ever will. 100% could have written a thesis and chose to do fic instead (or did both at the same time).

Created a masterpiece and promptly vanished off the face of creation before coming back in with another banger to crush souls and save fandoms.

Their arrival is akin to the birth of a new era because they never fail to somehow make a niche ship popular, make a headcanon fanon, or otherwise give so much depth and interest to a character or setting that whatever they have devised is largely accepted as gospel by their readers.

They either use a high end writing program or wordpad. There is no in-between.

Mysterious. Very mysterious. Reasons for this mysteriousness vary between fics and authors.

100000/10 would be friends with them if I could. Legendary writers. But also they scare me because ??? What void offered you such power ?????

The Baby Writer:

All vibes and loosely strung plots.

It may not make the most sense, but good gracious the dedication is there.

Notable lack of comprehension when it comes to characters and places, but it's bad form to not leave a kudo because it takes guts to post anything in fandom.

They are still figuring things out and their grammar or formatting (possibly both) is probably a mess, but they've put heart into their work.

Sweetest rays of sunshine who want to be involved and are eager to learn the ropes.

The fandom's young ward or despised new arrival (depends entirely on fandom popularity and age).

8/10 would happily offer advice to them. Just can't read their work for too long without wanting to throw it into grammarly. The fear factor comes in the form of the miraculous misuse of fandom terminology. (Yeah it's tough bud, the fanon is wild. But goodness that term/canon word does NOT mean what you think it does.)

The Smut For Your Soul:

Meticulously plans the smut with all the loving care of a sculptor.

Somehow plot got involved.

Miraculously, they managed to not include an iota of plot and it has somehow managed to work.

Headcanons abound and cuteness and or angst lurks merrily behind every corner.

The tags mean everything and nothing at the same time. They are but faint guides to the fae wilds ahead. Tread lightly.

Has a mountain of unfinished WIPs that will follow them to the grave or emerge ten years after conception to grace whatever fandom spawned the idea.

The fandom thanks them for their service, although often that praise is late or hits like a freight train.

???/10 I personally avoid smut but I have friends who write it so it really depends. Terrifying because you never know who falls into this role of writer. It could be anyone. Normalcy is a mask poorly adorned for the sake of conforming to The Great Machine.

The Angst Lord:

Has a million slightly different ways to hurt their blorbo. Each are somehow more horrifying than the next.

The embodiment of the iceburg videos seen all over the net. Ask one question and you shall unravel and scheme of torment so great you shall regret having dared to speak up.

Has dozens of WIPs or unwritten ideas that they claim they will return to.

They are controlled by passion and emotion and can and will insert their own complicated situation into a fic.

Almost nothing is off limits.

Arrives to the fandom ready to brawl and somehow ends up respected or feared. They often stare in bafflement as they end up unscathed and watch angry comments fly toward the arguably innocent shippers.

Generally some of the nicest people who happen to enjoy inflicting The Horrors upon someone fictional.

'10/10 would befriend and promptly regard like a wild racoon. Offerings of angsty ideas yield delightful commentary. But also I need to prepare myself for anything they say because O U C H my SOUL.

The General Writer:

Fluff, cuteness, possibly a delightful touch of angst and pure unbridled creative simplicity.

They may not have the most brutal or soul wrenching tale, but they always manage to write something that someone, somewhere, desperately needs.

Devastatingly underrated and deserves far more praise for their contributions to the fandom.

Produces some of the softest of scenes and the most touching of interactions between characters in a contained, careful crafted, tale.

Introducing new ships or family dynamics in such a tasteful manner that brain chemistry can easily be altered.

Arrives to the fandom as a lurker and shows their appreciation through their work. Oftentimes, they are very quiet and go unnoticed.

INFINITE/10 Love these writers, honestly a gift to fandom. The sheer level of dedication to producing fluff is astounding and scary all at once.

The OC X Canon:

Has so many ships and headcanons that it's astounding.

The lore development rivals IDW and Lost Light combined. All the kudos to them for putting their souls into their characters.

The dedication is mind boggling.

They put up with so much crap they could be in MMA Wrestling if the verbal assaults translated into physical strength.

Has so many adjustments to lore and whole AUs devoted specifically to creating a perfect world.

Skilled in the extreme (or not) at integrating their ocs into canon.

Arrives to the fandom not intending to make ocs. Leaves with seventeen leashes for their new abominable creations. Is loved or hated by literally everyone, sometimes for no reason.

6/10 perfectly lovely people but very niche in their interest and thus not everyone's cup of tea. Scary because that level of sheer willpower is meant for demi-gods.

There are more types of writers, but these feel like the big overarching ones. Which kind of writer are you? :D

[just-some-random-blogger]

Feel Like Dying

There's nothing quite like airing out the pains and horrors of living in front of a lively fire next to someone who's not quite alive.

Astarion x Reader | 1k+ | cw: gender neutral!reader, suicidal ideation?, angst, soft!astarion, fluff, typos, etc.

A/N: I got sick and was in so much pain :D i figured writing something will help. But I couldn't finish it when I was sick, but now I did (((: YAY

Tagging: @sloanexx @amiraisgoingthruit

Pain was coursing through my being. It was a stream with an irregular flow, one moment it was calm, and another it was raging. It was fleeting then roaring. It was a pain that could not be quelled by medicine or magic, it was the sort only time could heal.

"Don't you think you should do something about that?"

I turn over my shoulder, craning my neck as the silver haired man sat down on the log beside me. I feel a bead of sweat form on my temple, "do what about it?"

"Oh, I don't know," he sighs, placing his hands on his lap, "have Shadowheart use a healing spell on you."

The fire before us crackles.

I shake my head, watching cinders fly around the orange flames. The color reminds me of the snack I took with me. I turn to my side and grab the two oranges, handing one to Astarion.

He pulls his hand away from his lap, avoiding the citrus with disgust, "oh, no, darling. None for me."

I pull the one orange away, placing it on my lap. I lean my elbows on my thighs and turn to the fruit in my hand.

I press my thumbs into the orange skin, but find myself too weak to pierce it. My arms begin to shake. I feel pain rush up my limbs. I release the pressure and sigh.

Astarion catches this. His expression softens, "a healing potion, perhaps."

"It's not the type of pain that can be healed," I tell him, "it's a different kind."

He makes a sound then speaks softly, "I am rather acquainted to pain."

I turn to him, lips tugging down, "unfortunate."

"Yes. It very much is unfortunate," he takes the orange from me, "to those I've inflicted it upon."

We both knew that's not what he meant when he said that, but neither of us point it out.

I watch as Astarion peels the orange. The smell of it tingles my nose.

He hands me a segment of the fruit. I stare at it for a moment then stare at him. His red eyes were somehow softened by the campfire, as were the curves of his cheeks and jaw.

"Well, go on," he raises the bit of orange, "I didn't peel this for nothing."

I take the orange from him and eat it. The juice explodes in my mouth. I chew a bit then thank him.

He peels me another part and hands it over.

I take it, ready to say thank you again, but then a hot bolt of pain shoots through me.

Astarion senses this and stiffens in his spot.

I hunch forward, trying to contain my reaction to the pain, but a whine manages to leave my lips.

"Scream," he says, "wail, shout, cry over the pain. Who cares if it's the middle of the night. Be hurt if it hurts."

I slowly straighten up and sigh, "my head will throb if I scream."

"Oh..." he thinks for a moment, "then maybe don't do that."

I huff through my nose, "sometimes I wish I was numb. I wish this hurt didn't faze me. I wish I just... was not."

Astarion turns to the orange in his hand. He splits it with his thumbs. He then takes my hand and places it there.

His touch lingers. It remains long enough that I turn down and watch his fingers rub my skin. I clutch the orange and look up at him.

He pulls away. His lips part to speak, but I beat him to it.

"But then I remember pain makes gentle touches all the more tender," I press my lips into a soft smile.

I look at the orange in my hand, two segments still connected into one. I split them in half.

The action draws out a memory, a time that feels distant to the present. I recall sharing orange segments, apple slices, grapes, watermelon, and peaches. There were no words spoken in the memory, there was no other sound save for the ambience, but there was an apparent ease, an air of comfort between us.

The person in my memory had no face, just a blur of a smile as they reached out to hand me fruit. Still, the memory brought me peace, the memory takes away from the pain I was feeling.

Astarion recognizes this.

I raise the orange slice by his face. I stuff the other in my mouth and lick the juice on my lips.

Astarion turns to the citrus, then slowly lifts his eyes up to mine. He takes the orange into his mouth.

A mix of sweet, sour, and bitter swarm his tongue as he chews. He is surprised he enjoys it as much as he does.

Another ripple of pain courses through me. Astarion scoots over and wordlessly offers his shoulder. I lean on him and ride out the pain in silence.

[annikin-annotates]

Family Ties

Hi hello, good morning friends. I’m giving you a steaming serving of Ascended!Astarion x Spawn!Tav to soothe (or anger?) your souls. I hope you enjoy this one shot as much as I did writing it. With that being said, I’m not paying for ya’lls therapy bills. I don’t think this one is too traumatic, if anything, it’s tame.

TW: Gore, Recapping of the ritual, Ascended Astarion being his bastard self, brief mentions of birth and pregnancy, having to give up a child (for their own safety). 

Word Count: 2.6K

‘I’m doing this for you, too, you know. To make sure we are both safe, forever.’

She watched on in silent horror as the scene played out before her. “No, no. No healing sleep for you. Wake up!” Astarion hissed, as he ripped Cazador out of his coffin, his body splaying out awkwardly on the floor. 

“Get your hands off me, worm,” Cazador spat indignantly as he pushed himself from the floor to a kneeling position, still reeling from the force of being thrown. 

Astarion laughed heartily. “Hah! I’m not the one in the dirt,” his eyes darkened, a smirk curving the corners of his mouth, for the first time in two hundred years he held all the cards, he had the upper hand; and it felt good. He stared Cazador down, his body coiled like a snake ready to strike. “I am so much more than what you made me,” he looks to her, a silent plea in his eyes, “I can do this, but I need your help.”

There was no question that she would help him, she would have done whatever he had asked her to do, “All right, what do you need me to do?” she asked him, her fists clenched at her sides. Gods, she would have set the world ablaze if only to see him smile. 

“I need your eyes,” he paused for a moment, the air was so still around them that it was almost suffocating. “Use the parasite - link your mind to mine so I can see the scars on my back and copy them onto his.” 

“You would not dare!” Cazador seethed, though his voice betrayed him - that self-righteous air he had traded for something more human, fear. 

“I would, and I will,” his voice was laced with fury. Two hundred years of suffering surfacing, she could see it in the way his hands shook as they held the knife. His eyes softened as they found hers again. “Help me do this, please.” Astarion looked to her pleadingly, crimson eyes glassy and full of desperation - he needed this. He needed her. 

They recoiled slightly as their minds melded together, becoming one as the pain subsided and the world came back into focus once more. The weight of the dagger felt heavy in his hand, she could feel his fingers shifting nervously along the hilt. She could see Cazador from his perspective, cowering on the floor before Astarion, his hands raised in front of him; as if a pleading look would put the pain of the past to rest. 

She could feel how Astarion hungered for power, and it was all within his reach, wealth, power, freedom - it was intoxicating. She trusted him, trusting him was the right thing to do - helping him achieve the only thing he wanted was the right thing; if it was the right thing to do, then why did it feel so wrong? Why did standing idly by and watching a man be carved apart to feel the pain that he inflicted upon so many feel so wrong? 

And so the cycle would continue. 

—

He was not hers anymore, that much was clear; Astarion had changed beyond recognition. While yes, he looked like Astarion and most certainly sounded like Astarion, he was not him, not in the way that mattered. Loving gazes now traded for looks filled with hunger and thirst, for both more power and blood. The man she had fallen for on her unexpected journey was as good as dead, a colder - crueller thing having taken his place. No, the Astarion she loved was nothing if not merciful. 

For a time she had lulled herself with a false sense of hope that once the power became less novel, he would return to her. That his softness would begin to peek through again, he would smile again, that’s all she wanted. He had become a monster disguised as a dashing prince, but he was the very thing that mothers warn their misbehaving children about. The dark shadow that stalked pretty maidens and handsome young men down dark alleys, draining them of all they are - of all they could be. 

With the same hands that gave him freedom, he sentenced her to a fate worse than death, an eternity of servitude. The worst of it all was that she did it, she helped him with her own two hands, she allowed him to ascend. And when his greed came again, all hungry eyes and jagged teeth; she gave herself to him, and he took from her, hungrily and without mercy, the choices she could have made, ripped away. 

He hid her true position with flowered words, ‘My Dark Consort,’ his honeyed voice would whisper to her in the cover of darkness. The words sounded as wrong now as they did back then. Though she supposed it didn’t matter now, the die was cast and she had no choice but to lay in the grave she had dug. 

And what a grave she had chosen. 

She was glad she could not see herself in the mirror, what would she see? The sadness that clung to her eyes, or the bloodthirsty beast that now wore the skin of a woman long gone. She wasn’t sure she would even recognise the person staring back at her, a hollow husk of what she once was. She had sharper reflexes, eternal life and beauty, all the jewels and dresses she could want, and yet there was an ever growing emptiness that made home in her. 

What good was eternal life if you couldn’t live for yourself?

—

Silence usually blanketed the palace, a quiet so thick it felt as though no creature could break it. The sort of quiet that told you to run and never look back, that made your ears ring, a bone chilling, deafening silence. A blood curdling scream tore through the stillness of the palace, the usual quiet that the night brings becoming forfeit. 

Her hair clung to her forehead as she hissed and groaned through the pain, bringing life into the world felt as painful as taking it. It felt as though a wild animal was fighting to stay within her, its claws digging into her, like it knew the type of environment it was being brought into. She couldn’t blame it, though it did not have a choice. She gasped as relief washed over her, chest still heaving from exertion.   

That eerie stillness came crashing back down on the palace, hanging in the corners of the room like an unwanted voyeur. With the quiet came a familiar feeling that wrapped its claws into her heart and squeezed, dread. There was no noise coming from her child, why was it not crying? Her baby should be crying, there should be an ear splitting wailing filling the room; her eyes began to water, a lump forming in her throat.

She could not bear to put another loved one in the ground. 

A shrill cry tore through the room, forcing the silence back into exile once more, as if the small thing now in her arms had heard her prayers. It was a little girl, a daughter, and she was perfect in every single way that mattered: ten fingers, ten toes and a beating heart she could feel thrumming beneath her fingers. 

Had she always been this cold? Is this what she used to feel like to Astarion? Warm and soft, and so fragile.

She held the babe close to her chest, taking in every inch of her; her sweet, sweet little girl. Her finger shakily stroked the softness of her cheek, her breath hitched in her throat as her little eyes opened - two green irises stared back at her. Her long, dead heart fluttered in her chest, tears pricking the corners of her eyes; those green eyes were his, a little piece of the man she loved. From that moment on she vowed that no harm would befall her little girl, her sunlight.

It was hours before Astarion entered their shared chambers to meet his daughter, the bed sinking slightly the only thing that pulled her from her loving trance. She angled her body slowly towards him leaning into his form, she felt him go rigid at the contact - she did not care. She couldn’t take her eyes off the sleeping child in her arms, this tiny thing gave her eternal life new meaning. “Meet our daughter, my love,” she whispered, softly brushing the edges of the soft blanket she was swaddled in away from her face. 

She tore her gaze away from her world to look at Astarion, whose eyes had softened a small bit; before turning steely once more. “A daughter? Does she have a name?” he asked with raised brows, his voice too loud, too cocksure. He reached for the child, taking the babe from her arms before she could protest. Little brows furrowed and she let out a small whine of disapproval before settling into her fathers arms; she could have ripped his throat out for disturbing their child’s rest.

She shook her head. “No, but I think the name Juniper suits her,” she paused for a moment, imagining what her life would have been like if none of this had happened. Would she have returned to the grove where she grew up?  She cleared her throat softly, “It reminds me of the berries that grew by my home as a child.”

Astarion scoffed at the suggestion, it made her blood boil with contempt for him - a feeling that had become all too familiar over the last two decades. “My dear, my - I mean our daughter needs to be named something strong, fearsome, something like…” he paused for a moment, looking deeply into the eyes of their daughter. She hoped that when he looked at her that he saw the ghost of himself, she prayed it would make him rethink the person he had become. “Maitenirr. Now that’s a name fit for an Ancunin, isn’t it my darling?” 

A scoff threatened to fall from her lips, she swallowed both the anger and vitriol that rises in her throat. How dare he? How dare he snatch her child from her arms and name her. How could he not see that he held the sun in the crook of his elbow? Did he not understand that the small bundle was hers and hers alone? She nodded in agreement, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes tugging at her lips. She knew better than to go against his judgement. “Of course my love, what a lovely choice.”

Astarion had taken the privilege to name their daughter, it made her heart twist to hear a name with such a dark meaning put to a child. Bringer of Death, he told her that she needed a name that was as strong and as fearsome as the family she was born into, the throne she was now heir to. But her child was the embodiment of the sun, if holding her was as close as she would get to feeling the sun's rays on her skin, then that was okay with her.   

With each passing day, she wondered how someone like Astarion managed to have a hand in creating something as perfect as their daughter. She could see so much of him in her already, they had the same noses, they shared pointed ears, she smiled in her sleep like he does; like he used to. The more she grew, the more she realised they had the same mannerisms too, always quick to fuss and even harder to soothe.

The more Maitenirr grew, the more things became apparent about her; she loved the darkness and it seemed to like her too. She would reach out to shadowy corners while in her mothers arms, babbling away to them like they could hear her - like they were sentient. It was a secret best kept between herself and the shadows, for as long as possible.  

She couldn’t keep Maitenirr’s ability away from her husband for much longer, she had begun to conjure things - beings not of this world, from the shadows. She needed to devise a plan to get her daughter to safety; she would never forgive herself if her guiding light was dimmed by her fathers hands. She would protect her child if it was the last thing she did, from everyone; including Astarion - especially Astarion. 

If she was to expedite her daughter somewhere safe, she would need to be cunning about it, she would need to outfox a fox. It consumed her every waking moment, numerous plans scrapped; she almost thought about calling in a favour with Raphael of all people. There was one person in Baldur’s gate that she could trust to get her Juniper to safety, she prayed that they would do this act of kindness for her.

—  

"Please, take her. Take her to safety, do not tell me where. If he comes to me I will have no choice but to tell him. Please, he will ruin her if he finds her gift," she pleaded, pushing the bundle into his arms. Giving Juniper away felt like ripping her heart from her chest, exposing the softness of a person long dead, Juniper was a weakness she couldn’t afford to have exploited. 

“You don’t understand what you’re asking me to do,” he told her, taking a step back, his hands coming to gently push the child away. She could smell the fear that came off him in waves; she could see it in his eyes. 

She looked at him, her eyes full of terror and sadness. “I do, Wyll. Of course I do, but it needs to be you. If he looks for her, which he will; I cannot know where she is. I will be the first person he comes to,” her voice shakes. “I know I ask a lot of you, but please, protect my daughter. Give her a fighting chance, Wyll.” 

He sighed, taking the child into his arms. “I will make sure she gets to safety, you have my word,” he swore, his voice solemn. The moment he took Juniper into his arms, she had to fight the urge to snatch her back from him, it took everything in her not to scream: she is the only good I have found in this world, please don’t take it from me. She blinked back her tears, no, this was better. She would not sit idly by and watch another innocent suffer at the hands of a monster that she created. 

“Thank you, Wyll. you have no idea what this means.” Her child would have a fighting chance at a life untainted by cruel hands. She turned away slightly, drying the tears that had begun to spill. Now was not the time for tears, she would have eternity to shed them, now was the time to dig deep - to be strong, one last time. 

“Her name is Juniper, if there is one thing from this life that I can give her - it's her name,” she added, backing away from the both of them. Small hands reached out towards her, a dissatisfied grunt tumbling from tiny lips. She looked around nervously, she didn’t have much time, she rushed to the child one final time, pressing a kiss to the patch of white amongst the rest of her dark hair. A small piece of him. 

“Your mother loves you, more than you will ever know. Giving you up is my greatest sacrifice, I love you, my Sunlight,” she whispered into her hairline before stepping back several paces, she looked to Wyll once more. “Get her out of here, Wyll.” She made her way up the main staircase, away from the door, she dared not look back. 

The vipers fangs have bared, she must protect her brood. 

Thank you for reading, Please take a moment to comment or reblog my work, it really brightens my day and gives me the boost to keep creating!

Beta read by the lovely: @arcielee and @amiraisgoingthruit

[llondonfog]

for the anon who asked for brought back wrong silver, you have my undying gratitude <3 i hope you enjoy

The animals refuse to approach anymore.

The birds shriek amongst themselves and ruffle their puffed-up feathers high up in the trees, their screeching cries high-pitched and harrowing, while the squirrels and rabbits keep to the protective shadows of a forest more ancient than Malleus himself, bellies low to the cool loam. There is condemnation in their dark, liquid eyes as Malleus skirts the edge of the trees, a judgment placed heavy and irredeemable upon his shoulders that he feels the leaden weight of more and more with every step— he has betrayed them as their lord and protector, and for that, there is no recourse. 

He has betrayed the natural laws of magic— and for that, the valley itself knows no forgiveness.

There is nothing but penance in the way that he crouches to his knees in the moss and dirt, spoiling the utilitarian nature of his robes with smears of mud and crushed pine needles. It’s a cruel act of self-inflicted guilt that drives him back to this place, a sick resignation that he cannot escape from that which his very hands helped to destroy. 

For it is not him that the animals refuse to approach, but the child that kneels beside him, a child who has been kneeling for hours in that same position, stoic and with the passive interest of someone watching an ant amble aimlessly over the ground as the woodland creatures before him reel away in horror. 

“Father said they would come back to play if I kept still,” and that sweet, clear voice scrapes over Malleus’ ears like metal on bone, his skin and scales crawling over themselves in a desperate bid to flee. “He said that I just had to allow them to become reacquainted with me, but I think he might have been wrong.” 

Malleus can feel the weight of those eyes turn to him, pinning him in place like iron— he doesn’t think even iron would sear his soul as deeply, and it takes every ounce of palatial training to keep from visibly shuddering. 

He is a dragon, and dragons do not fear. But what sits beside him is something greater than fear, something worse than even a dragon. 

“I hope that he does not feel sad when I tell him that it did not work,” the little voice beside him continues, melodic and wretched in its siren intensity. Malleus would claw off his own ears just to keep from hearing it speak, and yet he would break his own horns to hear those lips form his name. It’s madness and love, and he fears each passing second may bring him closer to the breaking point— a point where Lilia has long since arrived. “He seems to be sad a lot lately, but seeing you will surely cheer him up. Isn’t that why you’ve come, Malleus-sama?”

His name in that mouth feels like a death sentence, a curse being etched into his very being by the way that tongue glides over the vowels of his name and those teeth hiss into the consonants. It binds him, keeps him silent when he wishes to bellow and roar and rage at the child beside him— each second in its presence feels like hell on earth, and he cannot imagine what it is like for Lilia. 

Malleus can’t imagine that his own presence would grant the old fae any solace either, only perhaps the stone cold comfort that there is another who bears half the blame.

No words rise in his dried, shriveled throat, and Malleus only nods stiffly while Silver beams at him, the animals crouched and silent in the forest swiftly forgotten. It is impossible to escape Silver’s smile, with the perfect scrunch of his nose and the rosy dimples in his cheeks, and Malleus finds himself struck by the violent urge to sink his talons into the soft, pillowy flesh and pullriptear until that disgusting expression is marred to pieces and crushed under his heel. His chest tightens with useless anticipation and he’s almost dizzy with both desire and despair for what he knows that he cannot, will not do. 

It would be a more noble endeavor to sink his claws into his own heart, offer it up bloody and bare in atonement, but the person most deserving of it no longer exists. 

“Yes, of course I shall come,” he rasps instead, and the thing that wears Silver’s body like a costume, the thing that Malleus stuffed inside that cold, sad little corpse to save what was left of Lilia Vanrouge’s collapsing spirit, claps its hands with glee.

Even in death, Malleus could never refuse him.

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

Hi! This is my first time requesting anything since I’m usually really shy but I really love your writings…!!! Could you write about Philosopher's Stone? With the reader as him and his brother’s assistant. You can drop this if you’re busy, but I would be happy if you do, there’s like zero content about him😭

Jazz hands! This come out a bit different than the request a bit but hope you like it! this came out crazy long lol

Rated: Mature | Rated: hints of Stockholm, fae!reader, slight dubcon, helios is a warning

The more he looked upon the small trapped creature the more his animosity grew. This bitter vile infectious hatred felt justified each day as he became self-aware.

Helios, his name is Helios! The Director had mocked him as if naming himself was like watching a child learn how to pronounce and write their name; Helios is far more intelligent than his creator is willing to give him credit for. An assistant, a glorified mess cleaner, and a wall to talk to, Helios sneers.

You place your tiny hand on the glass as your wings keep you fluttering in the air, you smile when you see him before twirling in the air with bell chimes following. He has yet to fully decipher your way of communicating but your expressive nature helps solve most of the mystery. You like him, happy twirls with loops in the air followed by light bell chimes. You do not like the director who keeps you trapped here; there is no dancing and bell chimes for him. It is amusing how you huff around his creator and cross your arms to display your dislike.

A trapped mystical creature to be examined and studied as the type of fae you are has a link to the Philosopher's Stone. You have no idea what the Director had planned for you until he showed you Helios.

“Oh, when will you give in and tell us your secrets, little fae?” Alone with you, his finger tapping the glass of your enclosure created to keep you alive, you stare at him sadly. “Such will. Director Waning will break it even if it means ripping your wings off.” A bored tone as you tremble while sitting on the fake grass. A caged animal to be poked and prodded until you surrender how to create the Philosopher's Stone white.

Red was achieved and created life, now the white version of the stone could theoretically prolong life.

An immortal Director who can experience transcendence as research claims the combination of both versions of the stones can provide. Rebis, the union of Luna and Sol, Waning knows you know what this means but will not give him the information needed.

So here you are fearful of torture but unwilling to tell him what Rebis is or how to create the white stone he is missing.

A chime then you touch the glass again with glossy tearful eyes, placing your forehead against the glass. You miss home, miss your home of nature and shiny metals. Miss the radiance of beauty and peace, you miss the Red King of Sol and White Queen of Luna— Two fae who are sealed away in Rebis forever as one. There is a price for transcendence, one they paid for. Now they keep the secret of the cruel price of the Philosopher's Stone.

It will create but destroy, the fae folk guard it for selfish and selfless reasons— Vanity and Sanity. It is the curse it inflicts to completely balance them, good and evil, Rebis.

You wish humans were not curious enough to stare into the abyss that will scar them. Seeing Helios, a living piece of the Philosopher's Stone, is frightening as a human not only recreated the cursed stone but gave it life.

“You know something,” He hums, “Your eyes give it away.” He chuckles when you cover them, “I won't tell. We have secrets for a reason.” Helios is not kind, you know within those strange dark eyes lies the waiting beast— The true horror of the Philosopher's Stone's price— Waiting to strike.

You look away.

The months passing by become like the slow ticking of a clock, the sound loud in the silence of the Director's office. Waning keeps you here safe from the fumes and heat of the alchemist room. He took you there a few times to show he is capable of creating the Luna Stone, this only caused you greater fear of him.

The last human who was close to achieving Rebis, was driven insane and turned into something unrecognizable. It is the price of curiosity, of trying to become more— To play God as the human saying goes. You are helpless to your captor, helpless as each passing of time you are losing yourself, helpless when ruby claws pick you out of your enclosure to show you the stars from behind a window.

One day it finally happened…Given enough time away from your home, you start shifting into human form. Your wings become tattoos on your back, your body matching a human's height and mass equivalent, and magicless…

Now you are part of their world, on the floor surrounded by debris from your glass enclosure. The crashing sound brought the one person who seemed to pity you and equally helpless. There you were bleeding and shaking as you sat there naked and cold like a newborn babe.

Your first words, no bell chimes, with a cracking voice, “Help me.” You have finally lost everything, your body at last adapted to the human realm.

The jacket placed over your shoulders, you rested your head on his shoulders as you cried, you broke that day. Broke as you do not know… You doubt you can go home anymore. The human realm has tainted you too much.

The Director won. You told him about the white stone and Rebis. Told him how to make it yet did not say what the price was, it was your way of revenge. Waning did not live long enough to attempt to create the white Philosopher's Stone— The secret died with him.

Murdered. Left a corpse bloodied, his office covered in symbols with his blood. Helios found joy and excitement in killing his creator.

There was a lot of noise, too many people; Helios hid you away, kept safe in part of the grand library where Waning once hid him. You read human words, studies what books of alchemy were around, and made sure to care for yourself.

Then there was silence after the death.

It is as unsettling as the way Helios has become— Or maybe he always was— Unsettling but you are too lost in your imprisonment and false hope of safety with him to see the danger.

The grand library temporarily closed and hidden away until a new Director can be appointed. Helios is using that to his advantage to do as he pleases.

“There is no possibility of you returning home,” Seeing him sitting on the desk he is claiming as his own, “Trapped here forever and forever.” There is that hint of sadistic joy in his voice, both of you trapped in this grand library.

You say nothing while in front of him dressed in the way his creator liked. A pet, exotic pet, they both like having your back exposed to touch the sensitive marks of your wings on your back. A treasure, priceless, you allow Helios to continue what Waning once did to you.

“We should make the most of the peace before another Director is chosen.” Grinning as he pulls you into his arms, blood and alchemical smell on his clothes, you simply move and stay against him.

There are many stories about faefolk indulging, they are true about some faefolk. Some have courts, some are nomadic, and some are like your people who trinker and live in isolation. The Red King and White Queen made the degree, it was followed until the Philosopher's Stone found them. It sought its kin, most do not know how alive the stone is, and though it did not find the Rebis, it found you.

Found you, stole you, and claimed you.

Helios promises to keep you safe, to not create the white Philosopher's Stone or become a Rebis. He wants to live for himself, to be himself, to embrace this freedom with you!

There is kissing, touching, dark promises whispered in your pointed ear. You cling to him as touches and undresses you, naked for him to worship you before taking you.

In the over indulgent Courts of Fae, sex is a pass time. No fae needs it to create a fae as nature creates them, sex is only for fun. The influence of humanity's wild and strange ways of sex is very much seen. Last you heard the Oletus Court was having such wild parties, two other courts created treaties with them just to join in the fun.

You find it odd, the first time felt dull and chore, Waning enjoyed himself but you felt nothing.

With Helios, you find yourself unable to not feel anything.

Even now as he has you over the desk taking you from behind, you find yourself lost in waves of pleasure. You are completely overwhelmed, overtaken, there is no way to stop feeling him. Sex helps you not think, to be lost in a daze until slumber takes you.

Helios is a kind enough lover (?) to bask in your warmth until you are recovered enough to return to the bedroom with his assistance. Of course, he will take you again now with the comfort of a bed under you.

[jewishvitya]

Hi, I stumbled upon your political posts (and then Yuri, you might get me to watch it now) and I find your perspective fascinating. Maybe it's because I grew up with rather a lot of exposure to Palestinians and various peace movements, but your experience is alien to me, and I am really thankful to be able to read it.

I would like to ask, what do you define as Zionism? As the last month taught me that no two people define this term the same. For me it is the ability for the Jewish people to control our own life in a land that we are bound to, and that has no contradiction with the Palestinian doing the same on this land, that they are bound to it as well. No pressure to answer, just pure curiosity.

And if I may offer some hope for our future? On the fourth day of the war, someone who helps in one of the donation centres for the displaced Israelis ask in the group chat if there is a way to pass the extra clothing and equipment to the people of Gaza. In the past two month I got invites for over a dozes or meeting between Israelis and Palestinians, meetings were both sides shared their sorrows and hopes. When an acquaintance was raising money to help a Bedouin family whose house was hit by a rocket, he has to tell people to stop donating. People in my surrounding have been talking about the day after, building plans so they could help build a better place for both people. A long-fought battle in the courts was won, and a group of settlers were ordered to evacuate Palestinian land. Activists have been going to assist in the olive harvests in the West Bank, despite it all.

There is hope for us here.

Hi! Thank you! If you do watch YOI I hope you enjoy it lol.

I know my experience is not very common. Even other Israelis get shocked by the depth of the hatred and the indoctrination sometimes. I try to emphasize that it comes from the most extremist community we have, because I have no idea what the schooling looks like in other areas.

And sure, I'll try to explain, and maybe also why I choose to label myself as anti-zionist.

I don't know that I can give you a dictionary definition, because I define zionism mainly by what it did in practice - the colonizing of Palestine. And when I say colonizing, I'm not making claims about indigeniety or lack of it. I'm defining it through our tactics and our actions. Especially because early in the movement they openly used colonialist frameworks.

Some of the softer definitions of zionism, things like our right to self determination, our right to seek safety - these aren't things I'm against. And I understand that within zionism there were other proposed ideas that weren't necessarily meant to end up with an ethnostate, resulting in ethnic cleansing. So I know zionism is more complicated than what we see in Israel. But what we see now is the reality people are living as the outcome.

If we came here and said "we've been longing to go back here for such a long time, we suffered so much abuse, we want to live alongside you in our shared homeland, can we find a way to ensure our safety and yours" - this would have been a different conversation. Still complicated, because mass immigration is complicated, but different.

In reality, we destroyed communities to manufacture an ethnic majority. Tore a whole society apart and shattered it, spread it all over the world. We killed and expelled and traumatized. I called it the cycle of abuse on the scale of nations - taking horrors we suffered and inflicting them on others. So given the practical results of the zionist movement, I can't treat those softer definitions as the "true" definitions that people should go by.

I keep thinking about Jewish refugees being given the homes of Palestinians with meals still on the table. Because of course we have a right to food and shelter, but not at their expense. And I know you agree with me on this.

When I say I oppose zionism, that's generally because I'm talking about the reality, the impact the movement had on human lives, not an idealized version we might imagine or a philosophy someone wrote about that never came to be.

For me, if I want to talk about our safety in our ancestral homeland and detach it from the horrors committed by Israel, zionism isn't the right framework. And after all the destruction we caused the land to conquer and colonize it, if I want to talk about our connection to it, I think zionism shouldn't be the word I'm using.

There's also an aspect of, by insisting on defining zionism through a nicer idea rather than harm done to real people, I see it as taking away a language that oppressed people are using to talk about their oppression.

I hope that makes sense.

I really want us to find a different way to work towards safety, without it being at the expense of another group of people.

And thank you for that last paragraph. I definitely have hope. It's hard, seeing videos of our soldiers being so gleeful about the destruction. I lost a friend of over ten years because of the callous and cruel things he said over the past couple of months, and I can't bring myself to repeat them. But I know that better things are possible, and I'm glad we're building towards them. I'm terrified that our government won't let us move in that direction, but we're going to push there anyway.

[would-this-pokemon-be-a-friend]

Hi, sorry if it already has been done, but would Darkrai be a friend?

I have very low hope of it having a good grade, but there's hope!

This one may be a surprise, but it’s probably a pleasant one for fans of this pokémon, myself included. Darkrai would be… well… an okay pet. There’s a lot of factors that get in the way of a solid recommendation here, but we’re not looking at Giratina or anything. It’s complicated.

Considering the basics, Darkrai is on the larger size for pet compatibility. Despite their ghostly appearance, Darkrai is pretty heavy at over 100 pounds, and they stand almost 5 feet tall. Mobility in an enclosed space might not be too big of a problem for them, given their ability to levitate, but this size will disqualify them for many pet owners.

One factor that is very important to consider is that Darkrai, being a mythical pokémon, is exceptionally rare to encounter. While they have been spotted in regions around the world, the chances of tracking down Darkrai to adopt are pretty low for inexperienced pokémon trainers. The only solid lead I can offer you from the pokédex is that Darkrai is most active on new moon nights (Diamond).

Unfortunately (and this is the biggest factor holding Darkrai back), this pokémon might not be happy to be a house pet. Darkrai has been the subject of countless legends and horror stories due to their ability to inflict nightmares upon sleeping humans, but they are not a particularly malevolent creature (Pearl, Shining Pearl, Legends: Arceus). The pokédex stresses again and again that Darkrai “means no harm” (Platinum, Black/White, Black2/White2). Most of these negative encounters with this pokémon are a result of intrusions on their territory: in order to protect themself, Darkrai drives humans and other pokémon away with this power (Platinum, HeartGold/SoulSilver). This is a pokémon with a natural distrust of humans for whatever reason. I’m afraid this means that they would be unlikely to want to live with you until you’ve built up a strong bond, something that would be really hard to do considering their formidable deterrent abilities.

As has been previously alluded, Darkrai has the ability to inflict people with terrifying dreams. Additionally, they can put anybody into a deep sleep using their signature move, Dark Void, as well as Hypnosis. Darkrai may not be exceptionally violent, but they are a massive threat to anyone asleep. Their ability, Bad Dreams, and moves like Dream Eater allow them to cause significant harm to sleeping foes. A grouchy Darkrai could be a serious problem for any owner.

Overall, given their non-violent nature and solid ease-of-care, Darkrai would make a decent pet for anyone looking for a large pet, if not for some significant issues. The pokémon’s rarity and antisocial behavior would make them a difficult friend to adopt for a vast majority of prospective owners. But you know what, go for it. What’s the worst that could happen? Terrible nightmares, that’s what. But at least they won’t vaporize you or anything!

[randomingoftherandomness]

Magical demon hypnosis/aphrodysiac, extremely dubiously consensual sex between ZYC and ZY = guilt, remorse, hurt/comfort, tears 🫡

A/N: Tagging for Fuck or Die, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Zhuo Yichen, Cursed Zhao Yuanzhou, Descriptions of Blood and Injuries, Angst, Happy Ending

Please proceed through this fic with caution. I have put the heavier parts under a read more.

--

Horror is the first emotion that he registers when his consciousness returns back to him. A surge of revulsion aimed at himself comes at the heels of shame -- an impossible tide of familiar self-hatred that grabs him by the throat and steals his breath when he looks down to see the body under his own.

Xiao Zhuo's curled on his side and away from him. Long dark hair a matted river on the torn bedspread, there are bruises up and down his back, his thighs, and worse still, bite marks. Almost like a call, the backs of Zhao Yuanzhou's teeth begin to ache and he sucks in a thick draw of air into his lungs. If he compares it, would they find that the shape of Xiao Zhuo's injuries matches his teeth, his fingers, his hands?

His eyes flicker down the bruises on the swell of Xiao Zhuo's ass. A colourful tapestry of reds and bluish-purple, this isn't the thing that amplifies the horror and anger in his chest.

That would be the drying smudges of blood on Xiao Zhuo's injured skin.

Zhao Yuanzhou scrambles back, chest heaving as his senses take in everything around them.

The room they're in is ruined and even for the seemingly bottomless coffers of the BingYi Clan, it will make some ripples to fix up. It stinks of sex and blood, and a hundred things that make his head swim. There's an ache in his bones, a sting of scratches on his shoulders, little hurts that would take nothing for him to heal, but he won't. He doesn't deserve it.

He fixes his eyes on Xiao Zhuo, swallowing around the lump in his throat and the blurring of tears in his eyes. A part of Zhao Yuanzhou wants to reach out to touch, to check him over, to heal him from all the pains he took under Zhao Yuanzhou's own bloodstained hands. Yet another part does not know if he can.

If he has the right to even be by this man's side anymore.

He had been careless. Lasped in his judgement of a dangerous situation that had left him vulnerable to a trap where he had been cursed with an insatiable need, a targeted desire that burnt so bright and true, that he...

The first fall of his tears onto the palms of his hands pulls him from his thoughts. Warm and heavy, it mixes with the spots of dried blood on his skin. Blood and tears. The markers of his very long and miserable life.

"Silly demon..."

Zhao Yuanzhou looks up and he sees hazy eyes looking back at me. The same eyes that have looked back at him with that same satiated heat, that same unfocused pleasure that comes after a night of shared delights.

But what is delightful about this? What delight can be drawn from pain inflicted without consent?

Quick like the flicker of a midnight candle, his beloved's eyes lose any trace of languidness, and he starts to push himself upright on shaking arms. "Xiao Zhuo--" Zhao Yuanzhou moves forward on instinct to help, only to stop midway with his hand outstretched. What if he is rebuffed? What if he looks into those eyes now and sees a thread of fear or disgust?

A soft, breathless chuckle curls in the space between them.

Tiredly and with a grunt, Xiao Zhuo pushes himself forward, dragging the thin blanket with him as he goes. Grabbing Zhao Yuanzhou by the hand, he tugs at him. With an almost put-upon sigh, he tuts at the dampness on the demon's cheeks that only wets even more when Zhao Yuanzhou sees Xiao Zhuo wince when the position he is seated in causes him pain.

"It's my fault..."

Xiao Zhuo scoffs. "Of course it is, you old demon."

Zhao Yuanzhou flinches. "I--"

The punch to his shoulder is one he takes, but the kiss to the corner of his mouth is something that takes his breath away. "Stupid demon." Xiao Zhuo sighs around the tired smile that curls his chapped rosebud lips. "The only thing I'll ever blame you for is the bite marks you left on my ass. Honestly..." He lifts his hand to lovingly wipe away the tears that spill from the corner of Zhao Yuanzhou's eyes. "How many times did you need to come in me anyways? Are you sure you're an ape? Not a dog demon?"

A bark of wet laughter bubbles out of him. Ducking his head, he goes like a puppet cut from its strings, knocking his brow to Xiao Zhuo's chin. Sniffling, he blinks away a few tears. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are."

Licking his lips, Zhao Yuanzhou quietly asks, "Can I heal you?"

The smile on Xiao Zuo's lips twitches. Leaning in, he presses their cheeks together. A small part of Zhao Yuanzhou breaks at the gesture, yearning for nothing more than to bury himself in this man's bones and shield him from any harm, especially the dangers that come from his own hands.

Unfurling his healing, he lets the warmth of their bodies being renewed be the only focus -- single-mindedly working through every bruise, every scratch, every ache. He moves his attention to the worst of it, then to the little bruises on Xiao Zhuo's hips, the tears of flesh and the marks he had left in his frenzy.

By the time he is done, Xiao Zhuo is half asleep against his shoulder, his breath tickling at his nape. Zhao Yuanzhou waits until he comes back to him, blinking sleepily. There's a half smile on his lips again when his sword-calloused hand reaches up to cup his jaw.

"Sleep. We can work this out in the morning." Xiao Zhuo whispers. A promise. Zhao Yuanzhou turns his face into the heel of his hand. Xiao Zhuo promised and he trusts that he will do as he says.

[saphirered]

I have a request! I am in desperate need of anything for fenrys X reader 😩 I love a good enemies to lovers Trope 😏 (but you can do what you want!!)

It's been a while so why not kick off with a 3 part story. 1.5k each sound good? Here's the first part. Enemies comes first so expect some angst and canon typical violence. Happy reading! 😘

When he took the oath he followed his twin because they stood together. They’d remain together no matter what. Fenrys, though blinded by all that glory had to offer, was not entirely disillusioned with the strings that came attached even if he tried to desperately ignore them until he couldn’t. Things got worse of course. The further he strayed, the tighter the leash. He told himself it was simply a price to pay; one where his brother would be safe, where he could live his life freely some of the time and live gloriously. Was it worth it? He used to think so. Though what frustrated him is that no matter what, there would always be this thorn in his side, the true pearl in Maeve’s collection of empty shells. You. Maeve might lack the ability to love and truly care for anyone but herself but when it came to you there was a weird sense of possessiveness. The Cadre might have been the prized bloodhounds and guard dogs, but you were something different entirely. You were her songbird; to sing at her command, to be shown off as a prized possession and put on display for all to see. What made Fenrys hate you is that you seemed o bask in the glow of it all. 

You stood at Maeve’s side always. You never had the need to warp her words to take some illusion of freedom, to escape her clutches for a moment longer before the leash pulled you in. There was no leash on you. Maeve never had you swear the oath. You were just there, you could walk out of Doranelle but you chose to stay at her side. You stood there with your head held high. You needed not fear the strike of a whip. No rope would wrap around your neck and choke the air out of your lungs for a misspoken word. There was no reason for you to follow her commands other than loyalty. Your loyalty had to be a choice because you’d seen it all, you stood there and watched the bloodshed and torture and pain inflicted upon others. You did not even turn your head when faced with the horrors. You simply stared with cold indifference. 

What Fenrys didn’t know was you might not be on that same leash as him, you are caged either way. Maeve took great pleasure in the fact she did not need to have you swear the blood oath. No what she had on you would be more than enough to keep you from rebelling, from stepping even one toe out of line. You had been there before Fenrys so he had not witnessed the torture you endured; that if you looked away from the bloodcurdling screams, from the pleading and begging and met them with anything other than indifference at best or cruelty of your own at worst, you would be offered the same punishment as them. You were a prisoner and no amount of torture had you spill the secrets you kept. It was an eternal stalemate. Torturing and killing loved ones, that simply wouldn’t do. You’d die with them and you’d be useless, but keeping you around even if she would have to wait centuries for you to finally break and spill, not only was she patient but she took great pleasure in it all; in what you’d become. 

While the cadre was sent out to fight wars and bask in the glory of bloodshed, your dalliances with the upper class of nations were no secret. When those nations failed to submit to Maeve’s wishes, you’d swoop in and convince them otherwise. When rebellion arose, you’d be the face trying to quell and snuff the flames before they could spark. You’d use your charm and body to entice and bring the most favourable outcome for Maeve. At some point Fenrys considered you might have been as in love with her as Lorcan and you’re simply wrapped around her finger. He hated you for the special treatment you got. He hated how okay you were with everything you faced, how you presented yourself like you were better than them. He hated that in Maeve’s eyes you could do no wrong and they’d be sent to clean up the mess where your persuasions and deception failed where they got tortured for setting one foot out of line. So he would make you pay in his own way. Of course he would not dare lay a hand on you, especially unprovoked, be that out of fear for Maeve or simply because it felt wrong, there is plenty of ways to press someone’s buttons and he just happens to be very good at it. That’s exactly what he spent the next century or so doing. 

What a blessing it was to have you be sent along on a mission. There was no escape for you, and no one to truly punish him for his awful behaviour. If you were to be his warden then he would make that a living hell for you. He’d done so successfully that now you sent Gavriel with him in your stead to negotiate with the Pirate Lord. He’d watched you burn from within but then you’d take that frustrating breath and all emotion would ebb away. Your pretty face would turn ever so cold once more and thus with it the small spark of satisfaction on his end died away. He submitted to your command either way. He had to. Maeve’s orders. 

When he returned he saw you on that couch, head bowed forward, hands in your hair. If he dared be so bold, he would have sworn he saw the light tremble to your body but it instantly disappeared upon his arrival. 

“Why so glum, sunshine?” He decided to gracelessly drop himself onto the couch opposite of you. You brush your hair from your face and look up, once again eyes deadly cold, though right now there’s an exhaustion haunting your entire being he cannot quite place. 

“I’m not in the mood for your teasings, Fenrys.” You struggle to keep the inner turmoil from your voice. You have to be strong. You have to be thick-skinned. You have to keep taking the blows. Not like you don’t deserve them. Now more than ever must your resilience last. 

“You never are. Now are you going to tell me who pissed in your soup? I’d like to personally thank them for getting you to show even an ounce of discomfort and might want to ask for some pointers on how to wear you out like that. You keep refusing my other advances after all. I’d say exhaustion suits you but…” You can’t do this. You’re hanging on by a silken thread and it’s about to snap. You rise to your feet and make for the door but just before you reach he is blocking your way. You try to get around him but he holds you back.

Fenrys is too caught up in his own mind to realise you flinch at his touch, how you pull away. He misses that paranoia and drop of remorse blinking through you. He’s too focused on making your life hell and right now you’re making it very easy for him. You’re not one to run away but rarely there is no one else to tell him off, to face him with the consequences and remind him of his stupidity. He’s had his toes stepped on already. He’ll take great pleasure in playing this eternal game with you. He might not be able to get to Maeve to get recompense, but he sure as hell can take those grievances out on you. 

“Fenrys let me go.” You demand. Your breath is high in your chest as he holds onto your shoulders. You shake him off and step out of reach but still he stands between you and your escape to the outside. 

“Or what? You’ll tattle on me to Maeve?” He mocks. You can clearly see that frustration burn beneath his skin and he has every reason to be frustrated. You’ve stood by for decades. You were perfectly fine letting his brother suffer, letting him suffer if it meant you kept the strings in hand. If it takes being cruel then so be it. You’ll be cruel. You’ll strike where it hurts. Your words are much sharper than your claws and they cut far deeper. He was not prepared for what you said next. He did not count on his impulsiveness to be so crippling to his better judgement.  

“If I do we both know you won’t be the ones to suffer at her hand for it.” That’s it. Fenrys snaps. Next he knows you’re against the wall and his hand grabs your throat. You struggle to breath from the crushing force and claw at his hand to no avail. No, you weren’t truly trying. He sees it now; acceptance, relief even. In that very moment you are prepared to meet your end. He wouldn’t have done it of course, he might be stupid but he’s not outright suicidal but you didn’t know that. It’s the first time he’s truly seen you break. He has half the mind to wonder; never has he seen you break, so what has gotten you to do so now? He noticed the crack in your perfectly crafted armour. It took him a while before he realised there were many more. 

“Lay a hand on Connall and I will personally repay you in kind. With interest.” He lets go and air enters your lungs once more. You wobble on unsteady feet as he exits through that door and leaves you alone with your thoughts. Once you are sure he’s truly gone you simply drop to the ground, hug your knees and stare into the abyss. You’d ran out of tears a long time ago. 

[omegalomania]

no ok like. i know this is The YBC Blog and all but i really truly need to go off about how GENUINELY fucking fascinating the whole "young volcanoes" video is on a metatextual level. like the entirety of the youngblood chronicles says a WHOLE hell of a lot about the band in terms of the metaphors it's painting wrt the hiatus and reformation and the fact that they took this particular song (sonically incredibly airy and cheerful, lyrically desolate) and turned it into the dinner party from hell. this is a story where an external force chops up the lead singer and hollows him out and then serves his organs to the rest of the band. theyre made to consume him, literally, against their will!!! and thats not all!! they are vividly hallucinating at this point, because theyve been heavily drugged - again, against their will! - and they see this whole thing as a joyous affair. in their blitzed out brains, this is them reuniting after the harrowing experience of being kidnapped off the goddamn streets! and then they have this fucked up trippy GROUP HALLUCINATION where they are literally EATING PATRICKS ORGANS. and in the real world, none of them can see this happening - except patrick. patrick is not blindfolded. patrick can see them being forcefed his own viscera and he's too fucking high off his ass to do anything about it. in fact, in reality, he barely acknowledges his bandmates at all.

like just thinking about this from a metaphorical perspective. its fucking fascinating innit. the band literally cannibalizes patrick against their will, and he cannibalizes himself against his will, and they are all made to believe this is something that they want to have happen. they are misled and drugged into this. they eat him alive. they eat him ALIVE. and they are made to think they're having a great time doing it.

the band consumes itself for the seeming entertainment of the onlooking vixens. and they don't explore this through the avenue of pete, who the rest of the band regularly cites as the creative impetus behind the band, but through patrick, the voice. the mouthpiece. the one who sings the words. this is the third fucking video they released when the band came back from hiatus. and its this. it is the band being forced to consume the lead singer and primary composer from the inside, and him participating in this forced consumption.

it makes me grip my head and scream. we witness this horrifying incident so early and things only get worse and worse from there. for all that patrick kills joe and pete later in the narrative, they have patrick's blood on their lips first, staining their mouths, slicking their insides. and, like the case with patrick, who has been warped into something violent, they don't do this willingly; it is done to them. we see what true and genuine hatred of music and creativity has motivated the vixens to do. and in contrast we see, by the story's end, the thesis statement that the defenders of the faith love each other beyond any earthly horror that can be inflicted upon them. how unbelievably unfathomably fucking captivating for this to be present at the very start, this warped perversion of that kind of love. what else is friendship and brotherhood but this. what else is love at its most destructive and possessive than this. we are friends, we are brothers in arms, we are companions until the bitterest of all bitter ends. we have wrought immeasurable horrors upon each other. we have consumed each other. we have eaten each other alive. we all have each other's blood on our hands and in our mouths. if save rock and roll is the brightest and most elevated declaration of love imaginable, then young volcanoes is the darkest and most twisted. we don't want to be here. we're having the time of our lives. we're trapped. we're screaming. we missed you. we are better together. we are destroying each other. we love you. we love you to the most twisted and horrific and absolute endpoint imaginable. we love you. they won't let us stop loving you. we love you. they won't let us stop. we love you.

[fantasyhopperhea]

SAGAU fic I just thought of right now

Reader is not an imposter, yet not the creator as well, but someone who was given a mission by them.

It was getting harder to breath, their blood pooled around them like a puddle. The metallic taste in their mouth made them cringe. Despite the agonizing pain they were in as their life slowly drains away, they still kept their blank stare focused on the mob in front of them.

Almost all vision users were present, some with delusions, all standing behind the archons who stood at the front.

"You failed. I pity you."

One of the archon's eyes narrowed in distaste. "We do not know what you mean, but what is clear is that you must pay for your sins."

The corner of their mouth twitched upwards. "You were right. I am not the Creator." It was their turn to narrow their eyes. "But I am no imposter either."

"And what do you mean by those words?"

Unable to help themself, a laugh burst out of their mouth. It was unconstrained, derisive... All for her next words to destroy the entire crowd.

"I may not be the Creator but that doesn't mean I have no connections to them!" They started with a grin so big and eyes full of glee. "Hi hi hi -I was sent here to Teyvat... As a test for all of you. To test... How you will treat Them for when They finally descend upon this world as a mortal. All in order to walk amongst her creation and be seen as one of you!

"And you all... failed." A sweet smile grace her face then, even as her manic eyes swept around the crowd. "They have seen your cruelty. They have seen the pain and suffering you inflict upon one who did not choose to bear the same face as them. You have shown and proved that had they descended then... You would have inevitably killed them."

Black spots danced around their vision but they can still see the horror, grief, and remorse on every single faces. Though their breathing became labored that they had to take short, quick breaths, they were finally relieved to return to where she belongs. Back to the Creator's side.

"Truly...I pity you... For you have... Lost... The chance to... Be in... Their presence."

Their entire body glowed like the first light of the sun in the morning. In front of the people's eyes, their body began to disappear in sparks of dust that flew into the darkening sky, uncaring of the chaos that was left below.

[icycoldninja]

Perchance a canon-typical V/reader angst scenario in which V’s body is physically failing him and he is agonisingly aware that he doesn’t have much longer to live, and reader holds him for one last time 🥲

Ok!! BRING ON THE ANGST! LET ME SEE YOUR TEARS!

Please hold me (V x Reader angst)

V stumbled along the stony pathway, walking stick irregularly tapping against the ground as he moved. You walked alongside him, eyeing him with concern. V could feel the apprehension in your gaze and felt the knot of anxiety within his own stomach tighten. He was painfully aware that his body was failing him and that he didn't have much longer to live, but he chose to hide that fact from you, to spare you the pain.

He knew you loved him; he loved you too, more than anything in the world, and as such, knew the heavy emotional toll news of his impending death would take upon you. He didn't want you to go through that pain; he didn't want you to suffer any sooner than you had to.

And so, the man pushed on, gritting his teeth and bearing the pain as he struggled to keep his balance despite his wavering strength and fatigue. It was wrong for him to be so tired; he'd only just awoken from a nap a few hours earlier. Reaching up to his cracked, disintegrating face, V rubbed his exhausted eyes with trembling fingers, briefly becoming unaware of the path ahead of him and subsequently tripping over a rock he hadn't noticed before. With a yelp, V tumbled to the ground, thankfully, you caught him before any more damage could be inflicted upon his already fragile body.

"Easy there, Mr. Glass," You joked, helping him sit down as comfortably as possible on the gravelly earth. "You alright?"

"I do not require rest," V insisted for your sake, weakly attempting to stand, but tragically failing.

"I don't think so," You said, shaking your head, "I think you should rest here for a while. You've been awfully tired lately, weaker than normal....anything I should know about?"

"No," V sighed, feathery voice softer and feebler than you were used to. He wanted to deny he was dying; wanted to wait until after the mission before scurrying off somewhere to die quietly, so you wouldn't have to endure the pain of watching the life leave his eyes, but it seemed he wouldn't last that long. "Well...perhaps there is," He added, reluctantly.

You could see the distress on his worn-out features; the fear and perturbation in his inky green eyes. You knew whatever he was about to tell you was of extreme importance, so you took his bony hand in yours, rubbing the cracked, but still soft skin gently.

"Tell me."

V was silent for a moment, then let out a long sigh that seemed to deflate his entire body before speaking again.

"As you can see, my body is failing me...I do not have much longer to live...I can feel it."

V watched in pure misery as horror washed over your features, twisting them into the terrified expression he'd worked so hard to avoid.

"I apologize, Wanderer," He offered, softly. His voice was brittle; shaky. It was clear he was as close to tears as you were. "I never wanted you to witness this."

"No, no!" You shouted, all in vain. "You can't be serious, V, you can't die...you can't. I-I'll be all alone...and lonely...I need you, V. Please..." Even if you were pretty tough, you eventually broke down into tears over the realization of your love's inevitable death. You just couldn't stomach the thought of losing him. You loved him, you needed him, you simply couldn't imagine life without him.

You paused your hysterics for a moment, catching sight of V's crumbling face, and the tears that silently rolled out of his bloodshot eyes.

"I am sorry," He croaked, saddened more by your tears than his situation. "I had hoped you would not have to see me die."

Another choked sob left you, but you managed to pull yourself together enough to be capable of speech. If there was no preventing this, then you wanted to help him, however you could.

"Is...is there anything you want?" You asked, hoping to be able to do something to soothe him.

"Only one," V replied, sounding more drained than you'd ever heard him. "Please...please hold me."

This one, heartbreakingly simple request, combined with the innocent way he held his thin arms out to you broke you completely. Wailing like a banshee, you flung yourself at him and wrapped him up in your arms as tightly as you could, trying to smother him with your body, as if you could transfer your life force through embracing him. Needless to say, if you could, you would.

"Thank you, Wanderer," V mumbled into your shoulder, chill and shaky arms reaching up to return the hug with what little strength he had left. "I wanted to be protected and loved. You loved me, you protected me, and I will always be thankful for that."

Tears streamed down your face, soaking V's thin coat as you grabbed at him further, in a desperate and futile attempt to keep him alive longer.

"I love you, V," You told him, voice creaky and unevenly pitched. "I'm always gonna love you...no matter what. I love you. I love you!" You buried your face into the side of his skeletal neck, still sobbing as you repeated those three words over and over again until they seemed to have lost their meaning.

"I love you too, Wanderer," V muttered, barely even audiable. "Forever."

V wished that you didn't have to feel his arms go lax and fall at his sides; that you didn't have to experience the ghostly cold that comes with hugging a corpse, but at the very least, he could take comfort in the fact that you didn't have to watch the life leave his eyes.