#I Cannot. I Cannot. Move. it's simply going to have to torment me until. I guess until Siren gets here

[krshush]

We did finally finish moving all my shit. But also. We got home and I managed to break my new wallet chain that I bought literally Monday and that was almost the last straw into my dad seeing me meltdown.

Graciously, the wallet chain is cheap enough that the stupid little jump rings that keep it all together could be roughly put back into place with pliers. They're no longer circular, but they're together. Again, great bc if I couldn't fix it, the meltdown. The Meltdown.

But it was fixed and I've rinsed off all the dust from dad's storage and I'm now in my low maintenance no-bra sundress. I can rest in peace until Siren gets here.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 5

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 4k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: guys this not fully proofread as I am exhausted | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat

You cannot tear your eyes away from Daemon as you walk down the halls together. Though he already told you the blood on his armor was not his, you could not help but worry that perhaps he had a wound hidden away underneath his steel plate. Your stare is so heavy, he's unable to ignore it, thus why he huffs, "out with it."

You perk at his words and rub your hands together.

He raises a brow at you, "or do you merely think me so devastatingly handsome you cannot help but stare?"

You slowly shake your head, "are you certain you are unharmed?"

His eyes linger on you for a moment before he looks forward, "I am offended you did not agree."

You knit your brows, "you," you shake your head, "already know. You are comely husband."

He turns back to you.

You cannot name the expression he gives you.

"Did I not say I was unharmed?"

You stop in your tracks out of frustration, grabbing his arm, "Daemon."

He turns to you, face hardening at your look of concern.

"If you are hurt, then we should head for the maester's."

He chuckles under his breath and pulls away, "a funny thought coming from you."

Your brows furrow deeper as you tail after him, "I do not follow."

He looks over his shoulder, lips curling, "considering you are sick and yet nowhere near the maester's ward."

You only then recognize his smile was mocking. You feel a pinch in your chest. You shake your head, "we are not the same. If there was something to be done about my affliction, my father would have seen it done years ago."

Daemon laughs.

You wait for him to explain his laughter, but he does not. You take his arm again, "what amuses you?"

Your husband looks at you, then at the hand you had on his bicep, "through it all, you hold your father in such high regard."

You clench your jaw and release his him.

He enjoys your dejection, thus why he takes your hand, placing it back in its place with a chuckle, "say it isn't so— I dare you."

You look back at him. His smile is like a needle through your heart. He must think you're stupid without even trying. You mutter, "I am merely stating facts."

He laughs again, "your frail heart keeps you naive."

The feel of his armor is suddenly scorching and you have to pull away. He stares at you after the fact, but does not take your hand again.

You do not speak until you reach the door to the meeting room. Once there, Daemon motions with his head, "wait for me. You like flowers don't you?"

You look over your shoulder and realize that he was motioning to the window that gave view to the gardens. You turn back to him and step forward, reaching out to retrieve the flower in his hair. It would not be appropriate for him to attend a council meeting like this.

Daemon mistakes your action for affection, and moves his head away so you cannot caress his cheek, "I said I am unharmed, woman. Now go sit down."

He walks off after this, leaving you standing in the middle of the hall alone. Just as he enters the room, you struggle with yourself if you should call out to him or simply run up to him and snatch the flower off his head. But then, the moment is gone and he's already inside.

You cannot find it in you to sit as you overthink what would become of your husband because of the flower in his hair.

Just as you begin to pace around, you are rendered frozen when you hear your name get called.

Viserys smiles at you, as he and his council members walk over, "good morrow."

You make eye contact with your father, who was walking just behind the king, and lower your gaze as you curtsy, "your grace. A pleasant morning to you."

Viserys stops in front of you, clapping his hands once, "why, you look fetching my dear," his eyes examine your hair, and you, yourself, are reminded by the presence of the blossoms on your head, "did you pick those from the garden?"

You rise and smile at your husband's brother, shaking your head, "my ward, ser Erryk, was kind enough to- ..." you catch yourself amidst your confession, eyes suddenly darting to your father.

Otto's jaw is set and his eyes are already angered.

You gulp and decide to continue nevertheless, "...accompany me flower picking in the meadow."

Otto huffs audibly, but the king's reaction is so stark in contrast, your father does not have the opportunity to butt in this moment. Viserys claps once again and smiles, "oh good. Some fresh air always did help me. Of course, when I say fresh air, I really mean going on dragon back, but strolling in the meadow picking flowers is a fine pastime."

You are touched by the king's amicable sentiment. You repay his smile with your own, "I completely agree."

"I do not," Otto says, "what if you get an attack in the middle of the nowhere? What if the pain is too great and you are not brought home in time?"

Viserys and you turn to the Lord Hand. The king responds, "she was accompanied by her ward. Is that not why you requested one for her?"

"I requested a ward to keep her in check to prevent her from doing things that would cause her affliction to worsen."

You tense under the harsh sound of Otto's voice.

Viserys recognizes your discomfort and waves him off, "you needn't be so hard on your daughter. It is good for the spirit to reserve time frolicking."

You gulp the next time the king smiles at you. You do not smile back and merely curtsy at him. With that, he and his council members go into their meeting room and you are left alone once more.

The council members' muttering comes to a halt when they see prince Daemon in his seat.

"Kind of you to join us today, brother," Viserys huffs, "we were just talking about you."

Daemon eyes Otto, "the topic being my bride, no doubt."

Otto has to fight the urge to roll his eyes as he walks to his chair. His throat constricts, as if he was about to retch, when he sees the flower by his ear. He thinks of you and the flowers in your hair and figures Daemon did this to spur him on. He releases a deep breath to calm himself, "the topic being your power tripping with the City Watch last night."

Daemon glares at him. The king sits at the head of the table. The prince links his hands together, "you would know to mind your tongue, Lord Hand. I care little for the tears my wife will shed once I sever your neck from your spine."

"Daemon," Viserys snaps.

"And what I did last night was clean the streets from the putrid scabs of the city in preparation for my birth of my brother's child."

"And you exacted a very public show of extreme violence while doing so," Viserys leans on the table, "you maimed and mutilated peopl-"

"Criminals," Daemon whips his head. He raises his brows, "would you rather they strut free and continue stealing, raping, and killing in your city?"

"I would have them see justice."

Daemon chuckles dryly.

Viserys raises a finger, "your blade is not the writ of justice."

"Do you mean to tell me it's yours?" the younger Targaryen narrows his eyes.

"I AM THE KING," the elder Targaryen snaps.

The prince does not flinch, "speaking loudly will not make it truer, brother."

Needless to say, the meeting is coarse and uncomfortable.

You start from where you were sat by the window upon witnessing Daemon shove the meeting doors open. He storms out of the room grumbling and you have to gather your skirts to run off after him.

"What's happened?" you mutter when you reach his side.

He ignores you, simply continuing to march away with a storm cloud overhead.

You are partially surprised to find that he was heading towards your shared chambers. He shoves the doors open then marches towards your private baths. There, your tub holds steaming water. You were grateful the servants thought to prepare the bath here and not Daemon's personal quarters.

Daemon begins to callously remove his armor and immediately ceases when you come towards him to do it yourself. You look between his hard expression and hard attire, thinking of something to say to calm his down.

You think of nothing.

The moment he is free of his steel, he removes the rest of his garbs himself and steps into the tub. You meant to remove the flower in his hair but then he wordlessly offers you his arm, expecting you to clean him, and so you do without fuss.

In the quiet of washing and splashing water, you feel Daemon slowly begin to relax. He leans back, releasing a sigh as he shuts his eyes. You stare at him for a long moment. He is beautiful.

"Your father is a fucking cunt."

You purse your lips as you release his arm. He opens his eyes when you pull away, then watches as you circle around the tub. You sigh as you take his other arm and begin scrubbing it, "he is... sometimes unkind."

He scoffs, turning to you, "sometimes?"

You focus on his arm, unwanting to meet his gaze, "he was kind to my mother... I think. And to my brother... sister... sometimes."

Daemon watches you, brows furrowing, "and you?"

You shrug, "sometimes?"

"Why do you defend him?" he tilts his head.

Finally, you look at him. The glint in his violet eyes make him appear as though he genuinely wanted to understand you. You shrug once more and shake your head, "he is my father."

"He is a cunt."

You tilt your head, scooping water onto his arm, "surely you've thought the same thing about your brother." You look between his arm and his face.

Daemon does not respond. He does, however, pull away from you.

You stare at him, trying to anticipate his next move.

He motions with his head then leans back in the tub once more, "strip. You should bathe with me."

You stiffen at his proposal, but do not object otherwise. You gather your hair and turn around, "will you undo my laces?"

Daemon, for some reason, is taken aback by the request. There is something that swirls in his gut. Still, he moves towards you and undoes your ties, pushing your dress down after. You shudder when he frees you of your shift and strokes your spine with the back of his hand.

"The king demands we have a family dinner before the tourney tomorrow," Daemon mindlessly mutters, "you must wear something pretty."

You gulp when he kisses your shoulder and scratches your sides until he's cupping your breasts. You gasp and turn when he tries to pull you in. Finally, the flower in his hair falls off when your nails dig into his scalp as he kisses you.

By the time the water goes cold and your bliss from love making wears off, you are faced with the fact your neck and collarbones are covered in glaring purple and red marks again.

Daemon does not relent as you both dress. He is adamant in covering your skin with bruises and bites. You are not surprised that he makes you wear something that showcases your decolletage, but you at least find solace in the fact he makes you keep your hair down in its natural state.

The air is tense as your families eat dinner. You sit next to each other, with him to your right, followed by Viserys and Aemma. In front of the queen was Rhaenyra, then Alicent by the left, Gwyane, and finally your father, who sat before you.

There was something serene in the sinister way Daemon strokes your arm and pushes your hair back. You knew he was doing this to rile your father up, yet you did not know why your body found comfort in his touch.

Then, in a flash, you were nothing but uncomfortable when your twin drops his silverware and blurts out, "you will not lose your hand if it does not grope my sister as we feast."

Daemon, who had been rubbing the your back all the way to the side of your breast, turned to your brother, who sat across him.

Gwayne clenches his jaw, expecting him to pull away.

Instead, Daemon moves your hair to one side of your shoulder and caresses your neck with the back of his hands, "oh, but you see, now that I've..." he smiles, "sampled your dear sister, I fear that it might."

Otto is next to drop his utensils. Your body burns at Daemon's words but you can do nothing but lower your head in mortification.

Viserys sniggers. Aemma glares and nudges him.

"You would not understand this, for you are unmarried," Daemon says turning his head, "but perhaps your father will."

Viserys nearly chokes on his meal, but then clears his throat, "brother-" he withholds his laughter, "-that is quite enough." The king looks at the faces across the table, none of them but him and Daemon finding this predicament amusing, "I'm sure everyone is... overjoyed that you and your bride have found marital bliss, but do keep your manners," he nods, "you are seated before the king."

Daemon turns to Viserys and straightens up. He nods, "my king."

Viserys clears his throat again and nods, "manners, brother."

"Hmm, like you with Aemma?"

Rhaenyra slams her hands on the table, pushes her chair back, and stands. All turns to her and her sour expression as she speaks, "I'm quite finished with my food. If I may be excused... my king."

Otto stands next, his chair skidding behind him, "I am quite finished with my food as well," he nods at Viserys, "I wish you a good meal."

Your belly rolls when he looks at you.

"Daughter, might you walk me out of the room, there is something I wish to discuss with you."

"She is quite busy with her food," Daemon immediately answers for you, "if you wish to speak something, speak it in front of us."

Your throat tightens.

"Tis a personal matter," Otto speaks firmly, "I would not put my child in an uncomfortable position."

Gwayne watches your expression, feeling restless because of your glaring discomfort.

"But you've already done so announcing your desire to speak to her so that she could not refuse," Daemon snaps.

Your chest begins to constrict. Gwyane picks up on how your breath quickens.

Otto clenches his jaw, "I wish to speak to my daughter."

"Yes, and I say fuck off."

"Daemon," Viserys finally snaps, turning to the said man. The king turns to you, peering past his brother, "you may speak to Otto if you wish, or you may simply continue with your meal."

You turn to your skirt and clench the fabric in your hand.

Daemon rubs your nape and your skin reacts with goosebumps. You gasp when his hand is snatched away by Viserys. You turn to them, struggling to breathe as you watch them bicker in High Valyrian.

Aemma tries to interject, but the brothers do not acknowledge her.

"Sister," Gwayne calls to you.

You want to turn to him, but you fear you will crumble in tears if you do.

The room is silenced when you stand. You feel everyone's gaze on your skin. "I wish-" you speak through a heavy breath, "-to retire."

You run out of the room before anyone can respond. Your heart drums in its cage but you tell yourself to run and to keep running.

Gwyane stands, ready to chase after you, but Daemon blocks him and their bodies violently collide. Daemon shoves him back and Gwyane is about to lunge at him but hears the voice of her baby sister calling his name in concern. His face twitches as he holds himself back.

"She is my wife," Daemon says.

"Then fucking go after her," Gwayne snaps, raising an arm, "she'll be heading to the temple, undoubtedly, which is outside the Keep, if you are not aware."

"Go on!" Otto snaps, pointing a finger, "chase after her."

Daemon seethes at the instruction. Dare he? He'll break the arm that fucking finger is connected to. He wants nothing less than to do what that cunt says.

"Go to her, Daemon," Viserys urges.

He glares at his brother, offended by his alliance with the fucker. Now he is really not going to do that. He's left with no other choice but to leave the damned dining room though. How lucky of him to run into the Cargyll twins on his way out.

"You," Daemon barks, calling the attention of the two men. He marches over to them, hands balled tightly into fists.

"My p-"

"The fucking Hand has upset the bitch again," the prince snaps, "she's run off in a fit to gods know where."

The two watch the prince have a hissy fit in High Valyrian before realizing he referring to his wife. Arryk says, "the princess has run off at this hour?"

"Her cunt twin said she'd go to the temple, but maybe she's fallen dead halfway through her sprint."

The twins turn to each other in horror.

"Ah, if only the gods were that kind," Daemon scoffs then looks between them, "find her. I do not wish to hear her pathetic sobbing."

Erryk's nostrils flare. Arryk clenches his jaw and nods. The latter begins to walk off and has to reel his brother by the arm to follow.

Daemon storms off to the dragon pit.

Arryk eyes his brother. Erryk's eyes remain on the prince, until his twin calls his attention.

You arrive at the temple of the Seven, forehead and nape sheened over with sweat. You nearly collapse before the Mother. The only reason you do not, is because two septas catch you before you collide with the shrine of candles. Upon recognizing you, they are quick to attend to you, saying they will get you water and a towel.

Running is a horrid activity that seems to only more horrid each time you do it. You find that your heart cannot keep up, and you are pushed into horrible breathlessness. Your father was strict to never let you run. You do not know if it is simply because you are not capable of running or because of your affliction that made it so.

You thank the gracious septas for their care and ask them if they would pray with you. Unable to deny you, a woman so devout and so... pitiful, they help you get on your knees and you recite The Mother's prayer together. At some point, you begin to weep, and once more it becomes increasingly harder for you to breathe. The septas have to stop praying and attend to you again.

"Princess!"

You are made to sit down on the floor. The two septas are replaced with two men, both dressed in steel, one as seemly as the other, albeit the mark of abject concern on their face. You frown as you look between Arryk and Erryk's worried features. Your scratch your eyes as they speak to you. The weight in your chest makes it hard to understand.

You hiccup as one of them scoops you into their arms. You do not realize you were being carried out of the temple until you are outside. "Wait," you sigh when you managed to catch a breath, "wait."

Whoever is carrying you does not hear it, but his brother does. He says, "wait, Erryk. What is it, princess?"

"I wish to pray," you mutter, eyes still wet with tears, "please."

Arryk looks at you. Erryk shakes his head, "we have to bring her inside."

"Erryk," Arrryk knits his brows, "she wishes to pray."

"She is in no condition to—" Erryk's words falter when your hand comes to his cheek.

You feel your lips tremble and you barely manage to speak, "please."

A line forms between his brows at the sound of your weak voice, "my prin-"

"Erryk," you stroke his cheek, "I need this."

Arryk looks between you and his brother. He watches him sigh and turn back. He follows after Erryk as he goes up the stairs, back towards the shrine.

You are placed before the Mother once more. You sigh and allow yourself repose before shifting on your knees. The twins leave you to your prayers, standing by not too far off.

Erryk's eyes remain on you. Arryk's eyes remain on Erryk.

"You tread a dangerous path, brother."

Erryk does look away.

Arryk sighs, turning his gaze over to you.

You sit on your knees, one arm rested on the plinth as you take a stick and light it. You whisper, "mummy," then light a candle, "me," then light another. Your soft whispers flutter in the echo chamber.

Both twins feel fangs rip into their stomachs as they watch you. Erryk's features are more honest to it however, which is why Arryk catches it and speaks again, "you are sworn to her, you fool."

"And you are not?" Erryk snaps, turning to his twin.

The brothers stare at each other for a moment. Arryk purses his lips and tilts his head, "I am not in love with her."

"Then leave," Erryk motions with a nod. He shifts in his spot, linking his hands together as he turns back back to you.

Arryk snorts and clenches is hands. His ears perk at the sound of your hushed sobbing. His heart clogs his throat.

Erryk sighs through his nose, "you are still here."

"I cannot leave her."

Erryk turns to Arryk, "then you are just as foolish as I."

"I-" Arryk starts. He cannot look away from you, "... I am sworn to her."

"She is beautiful," Erryk says.

Arryk finally tears his gaze only to shoot his brother a warning look, but Erryk's eyes are back on you.

"She wove flowers into my hair mere hours ago," he knits his brows, "she laughed and beamed and glimmered," Erryk sighs, "now she crumbles and weeps and hurts."

Arryk knits his brows, just as deep as his twin's.

You wipe your tears as you soothe yourself. You voice goes low again as you continue to pray.

"I am not a fool," Arryk says

Erryk laughs dryly, turning to him, "very well. If y-"

"I know she is beautiful," Arryk cuts him off.

His lips flatten.

Arryk gulps, "outside and within."

"As I said," Erryk replies, "just as foolish."

"I do not understand what could posses someone to hurt such a creature."

"Perhaps there is no soul to posses."

Arryk shakes your head, "you cannot allow your anger to get ahead of yourself, fool. You are glad the prince did not notice."

"The prince is too caught up in himself to notice anything that does not directly a..." Erryk's words go dry.

Arryk knits his brows, finding his twin was staring at something behind him. He looks over, stiffening when he catches the very person they were speaking of walking over.

Daemon makes a beeline towards you. He stops just behind you, lips and brows tense at the sound of your evidently upset voice. "Should you be doing this?"

You perk at the sound of the voice and look over your shoulder. You stare at Daemon, unsure if you were imagining him or if he was really there. You find that you don't really care, "will you pray with me?"

He does not like that you do not answer his question. He shifts on his spot, "did you faint or fall out of breath?

You turn back to the candles, "you must not be real."

"What?"

"I do not think my husband would care," you mutter, clasping your hands together in prayer.

Daemon does not move.

"You would pray with me then," you add, "you are kind."

The prince's face contorts. He feels like he is choking. He comes to your side, slowly dropping to his knees. He clasps his hands together, propping his elbows in front of him. He is taken aback by how you rest your head on his shoulder with no hesitation. He stiffens and a part of his mind screams to shove you away. He does nothing of the sort however.

"I tire," you admit.

"Then we sh-"

"Tell him to grant me my prayer."

Daemon slowly turns his head to look at you. He sees the way the tears trickle down from the bridge of your nose, "tell who?"

"The Stranger."

Daemon turns to the statue of the Mother. He wants to be difficult and tell you to simply move to the other statue, but instead he asks, "what is your request?"

"Death."

He turns back to you, expecting you to name a name. You do not, so he asks again, "your father?"

Your brows furrow, "no."

He turns to his hands. An unnamable emotion seizes him, "so... your husband?"

You finally lift your head. You turn to him, a deep frown on your face, "I do not wish you harm, Daemon."

He turns to you.

New tears burn down your cheeks.

A new unnamable emotion seizes him at the sight of your wobbling lips.

The twins find themselves looking away when the prince wipes your cheek.

You lean into his touch, "I have prayed for the same thing every night since I was ten."

Daemon's forehead curls, "what do you pray for?"

"To die."

The hand he had on your face tenses.

"It is pointless," you push his hand away, retreating from his touch, "my pain does not subside. My heart and flesh grow weaker each day."

Daemon is uneasy as you turn back to the Mother. He shakes his head, "I do not think the gods listen to such sinful prayers."

"Sin?" you chuckle under your breath.

Somehow your laughter sounds sadder than your weeping.

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision.

The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

You stare at his outstretched palm, then look up at him as he stands. You are loathe to move. You do not think you can, even if you wanted to, "I tire."

He leans over, draping your arm around his shoulders, "I'll bring you to bed."

You say nothing as Daemon pulls you in and carries you in his arms.

For the final time tonight, another unnamable emotions seizes him. It only further intensifies when you rest your head in the crook of his neck.

[shizuturnspages]

Hello, You can make a yandere Wanderer/Scaramouche , Zhongli, arlecchino, neuvillette? ,Albedo? (creator?), Venti, Mavuika and Ei meet a reader who is almost identical to the person who died long ago (such as Venti's best friend, Ei's sister and the Salt Goddess etc) . The reader is identical, but not exactly identical, like the color of the hair and eyes. Thank you, your reading is great!

Echoes of the Past

Synopsis: You are not them. But it does not matter. Because now, you are theirs. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Wanderer, Zhongli, Arlecchino, Neuvillette, Albedo, Venti, Mavuika, & Ei x Reader who Resembles Their Lost One

Wanderer / Scaramouche – The Puppet’s Haunting Past

At first, he thinks it’s a cruel joke.

A twisted trick played by fate to torment him further.

When he sees you in the marketplace, his heart stops.

He sees the familiar tilt of your head, the same way Niwa used to look at the world—with curiosity, with kindness. But that’s impossible.

Niwa is gone.

Wanderer is frozen in place, hands clenched at his sides, watching as you move through the crowd, unaware of his piercing gaze.

And then—

"Tch." His voice is sharp, bitter, filled with something he refuses to name. "This is ridiculous."

But he follows you.

He does not know why.

Only that he must.

And when you finally turn, eyes locking with his, he feels something inside him snap.

You are not Niwa.

But that does not matter.

Because now, you belong to him.

Zhongli – The Remnants of a Shattered Past

He drops his teacup.

Porcelain shatters against the ground, but he does not move to pick it up.

He is staring.

For the first time in centuries, Zhongli feels as if he has forgotten how to breathe.

Guizhong.

He can see her in you—not entirely, but enough. The way your lips curve into a soft, thoughtful smile, the way you tilt your head in curiosity. It is too much.

Rationality tells him that you are not her. That you could not possibly be her.

But reason means nothing when confronted with a past that refuses to stay buried.

He approaches you, voice smooth but laced with something almost desperate.

"Forgive me," he murmurs, watching your every movement. "But you remind me of someone very dear to me."

He does not say that he intends to keep you.

But he will.

And he will never let you leave.

Arlecchino – The Flame That Refuses to Die

She hates this.

You remind her of him.

The one who raised her, the one who shaped her into who she is—the Father she buried with her own hands.

And yet, here you stand.

Smiling that same infuriating smile.

She wants to ignore you. To pretend you do not exist.

But her eyes always find you in the crowd.

Her mind refuses to let go.

And before she knows it, she has you cornered.

Her gloved fingers trail along your cheek, deceptively gentle.

"You have no idea what you’ve done," she murmurs, eyes dark.

Because now—

She cannot let you go.

Neuvillette – The Mourning Judge

It is raining.

It has been raining since the moment he saw you.

Neuvillette does not understand why the sight of you unsettles him so deeply.

Until he realizes—

Egeria.

The one he lost. The one who guided Fontaine, whose absence left a wound that never fully healed.

And now, you.

You are not her. And yet, something in the way you move, in the way you speak—it is too close.

Too painful.

He does not approach you immediately. He simply watches, silent, distant, his expression unreadable.

But the rain continues.

And when he finally does speak, his voice is impossibly soft—

"You should not be alone."

You shifted uncomfortably. “Do I… know you?”

His pale eyes darkened.

"No," he murmured. "But I knew you."

Your brows furrowed in confusion, but Neuvillette did not elaborate.

Instead, he simply watched you.

Silent.

Possessive.

Rain poured harder, soaking his coat—soaking you.

He did not care.

For the first time in centuries…

He had something worth keeping.

Albedo – The Creator’s Repeating Experiment

At first, he does not react.

He simply observes.

You are not Rhinedottir. Your eyes are different, your voice is not the same.

And yet.

There is something in your expression—some unspoken familiarity—that grips him in a way he cannot explain.

Albedo does not believe in fate.

But this?

This is close.

"You are intriguing," he says at last, tilting his head. "I wonder…"

He steps closer.

"Would you allow me to study you?"

There is no real question in his voice.

Because now that he has found you—

He will never let you go.

Venti – The Wind That Carries Memories

Venti forgets how to breathe.

He stops playing his lyre mid-song, fingers frozen over the strings.

You are standing there, bathed in Mondstadt’s golden light, and for a moment—just a moment—he thinks he sees him.

His best friend.

The boy who once dreamed of freedom.

Venti’s chest aches.

And then, you smile.

And his vision blurs.

He appears before you in an instant, his usual playful demeanour gone.

"Hey," he breathes, voice trembling slightly. "Do you… believe in destiny?"

His fingers curl around your wrist.

Because if this is fate—

He won’t let it slip away again.

Mavuika — The Ghost of the Fallen God

She stares.

For a long time, she does nothing but stare.

You look just like Xbalanque.

The deity she lost, the one who was taken from her—the one whose absence left her hollow.

Mavuika does not speak at first. She simply stands in your path, silent and still, her piercing eyes locked onto you.

Then, softly—

"I have waited a long time."

Her voice is almost gentle.

But there is something dangerous beneath it.

"You will not leave me again."

And she means it.

Ei – The Raiden Shogun’s Eternal Mourning

It was a cruel trick.

Fate had already taken too much from her.

Makoto. Her people. The ones she had loved.

And now—

Now, it dared to put you before her, looking so much like her sister yet not.

Ei’s grip on her sword tightened.

You turned to face her, eyes questioning. “Do you need something?”

Her breath caught.

For a moment, she saw Makoto.

For a moment, she thought she could reach her.

And then, the realization sank in.

Her blade lowered.

"You will stay in Inazuma," she said softly—too softly.

You blinked. “I never said—”

"It was not a request."

This time, she would not be left behind.

[mykelneedssleep]

I had the realization today that I dont think I’ve ever spoken about my son on here and since a lot of you know me for podcast content this needs to be rectified immediately so I present to you my first born son: Nureyev

Yes, as in Peter Nureyev. Hilariously this is the most accurate name I have ever chosen for anything because this little bitch has such Peter Nureyev vibes it’s actually crazy. I present a list of random facts about him that I can think of off the top of my head:

1. Literally the first day I had him one of the first things we found out about this tiny little baby was that if there’s a dead cricket in his tank you bet your ass he’s not eating it. This bougie ass bitch only eats live prey. You physically don’t understand how often I have to buy him food because god forbid it dies before he kill it, he’d actually rather starve than eat a dead bug. I can attest to that because one time there was a cricket shortage in my area because it was so cold that all the crickets were dying in transport and this little bitch actually went days without eating because he wouldn’t eat the dead crickets (I finally got him to eat by pushing them around with a clear plastic spoon to make it look like they were moving- lying to your kids works folks)

2. He makes regular attempts to escape from his tank by climbing up the glass. Despite 4 years of trying it still hasn’t worked once but he’s determined he’s going to do it one of these times

3. My mother who typically lovingly refers to him as Nev (“his name is longer than he is, I’m giving him a nickname” -my mother approximately 10 minutes after his name was chosen, took her 3 more days to come up with Nev) will often refer to him as Pete if he’s doing something bad (see above escape attempt). This is particularly funny in the presence of people who are unaware of this nickname but aware enough to know the names of all the animals in our home because they become very confused

4. “The thief is on the prowl” is a very common phrase in our home, this typically means someone has to feed the boy because he’s stalking around the tank looking for living creatures to torment and finding none

5. He regularly sticks his entire head into his water bowl and just leaves it there for a little bit until I become quite convinced that he’s going to drown and then he will just get up and walk away like he didn’t just give me a heart attack

6. If you’re holding him he will climb all over you and somehow find a place to randomly jump off from (again, heart attack every time). Hearing “Nureyev!” said loudly in a concerned but sort of exasperated way is very common

7. If one of his water bowls is empty he will lay in it to get you to pay attention to the fact that it has no water in it but will then refuse to move when you go to put water in it and will become very upset when you eventually give up and just pour water onto him (the above photo was taken directly after I deep cleaned his tank and before I put the water back in, shockingly he looked quite cute instead of seriously pissed off like usual)

8. He likes to have the high ground (he likes to climb on top of people’s heads and just sit there and watch the world as you walk around and continue what you were previously doing. Luckily he has never attempted to jump off someone’s head before)

9. Very dramatic sleeper. I’m talking will sleep in the weirdest positions but like you do you king, if that’s comfy I endorse it

10. He regularly hides in any available nook and/or cranny in the tank. This is yet another cause of great stress for me when I cannot find him

Bonus fact: This bougie bitch was approximately half of the inspiration behind how I play Lizzie (shoutout O!ASKAP enjoyers, this one’s for you). If you’re wondering the other half is simply my penchant for playing the least helpful character I can possibly get away with

[blackjackkent]

43. Bloody kiss. Either Wyll/Rahka or shadowzel. Which ever one speaks to you more friend!

Ooooh. Intrrrrrriguing. This actually ties in nicely with a thought I had for another of the prompts from @astreamofstars from this ask, so I am gonna combine the two. >:) This is a mild retcon of a scene from my liveblog, but I do what I want, muahaha. XD

Wyll/Rakha - Bloody kiss (kiss roulette meme) - Holding hands and that's all they can think of (“What Are We” moment prompts)

----

She is soaked in Kressa Bonedaughter’s blood. It stings in her eyes, it covers her cheeks and her mouth. The Myrkulite lies dead before her, a final vengeance for a torment Rakha doesn’t even remember. 

It felt so good to kill her. And the beast in her mind is awake again and hungry for more, scenting that blood on the air. 

They cut you into pieces, it whispers, a hiss like a serpent in her ear. They sliced out your mind. They made you into meat. Will you not return the favor? 

She feels suddenly aware of every breathing creature around her, every life waiting to be snuffed out. Lae'zel and Minthara looting the belongings of the dead cultists. Absolutist thralls and mind flayers moving down the slimy corridors beneath Moonrise. The very walls of this place, fleshy with a sort of half-life that would give so sweetly under her ripping, tearing claws… 

And Wyll, of course - sitting at her side, watching her. 

Yes, whispers the beast. Start with him, just as I told you; tear that soft thing from your life and begin your reign of death… 

She kisses him. It’s a sharp motion like a blow, wrenching him by the collar until their lips crash together. A vein pulses in her temple with the concentration and effort it takes. Against all the howling evil within her, she kisses him rather than killing him, and the blood on her face mixes with the kiss and makes him taste of iron.

She feels him respond, can almost hear his heartbeat stutter to a faster pace with the muted need strung taut between them. It is not just passion - though that is part of it, certainly, as she channels all the beast’s rage into the softer feeling she has for him. But more than that, it is a feral, demanding, clinging thing, a reaching-out for the safety only he can provide. 

He knows her well, by now. He knows the monstrous thing that lives inside her, and the signs that it is trying to take control. But he also knows that this isn’t her, not really - not who she wants to be. He is the Blade of Frontiers, and he has seen monsters driven by true darkness.

“Stay with me, Rakha,” he whispers against her mouth. He takes her hand and squeezes it fiercely. His palm is warm, sweat-slick from the colony’s oppressive humidity, and his grip grounds her, drawing her back to herself, bit by bit shutting out everything else. “Stay with me. Show me the light.”

He is the only one who has ever thought there is light in her.

She draws a slow, unsteady breath. The roaring darkness in her head starts to fade, and as it recedes, the kiss softens. It loses its hungry, conquering edge, grows gentler; Wyll takes control of it now, his free hand cupping the back of her head, steadying her against him. A strange sound escapes her, a sort of whimpering groan, and he answers it with a sigh against her lips.

His touches have done their work. The beast settles back into restless sleep and she is conscious only of him - and of the grief that remains from Kressa’s revelations now that the rage has cooled. His touch soothes that too, but it cannot drive it away entirely. 

She wishes, sometimes, she could simply have this softness, without all the broken edges in her soul. “Thank you,” she mutters. The kiss breaks and she leans her forehead against his, closing her eyes.

His grip on her hand loosens but doesn't let go. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asks. "About what she said?"

"No," she says. She doesn't have the strength for her usual curtness; the word emerges wistful and exhausted. A pause, then-- "Later."

"Later it is," he agrees. "I'll be ready."

[wanderingthroughsands]

VII. Comin' for to carry me home

And now we are awake and it seems too much to take I want to close my eyes because I fear my heart will break I want to look away, I want to look away I want to look away, I must not look away

- "Light Of Love" by Florence and the Machine

I expected Dreamlord to be waiting in Fiddler’s Green, not particularly pleased to see me. The darkness that I thought had vanished returned again, enveloping his face and his deep, dark eyes. I was prepared for him to strike the moment I appeared, yet he didn’t move, even when I summoned the courage to approach far too close for an uninvited guest. The look he gave me was devoid of emotion, but I refused to be discouraged by that. I wanted him to know that no matter what, I had no intention of fighting him.

"I apologize for what happened yesterday," I said, standing before him so I could look him in the eyes. "And I apologize for what I said to you. You are the Master of Dreams and I know that, without you, the world would be bereft of hope. Right now you seek to save your kingdom, and I seek to save my life. If either of our motives is less noble, it is surely mine."

"You do not wish to become a Nightmare," he said calmly, his lips barely moving.

"I do not."

"And do you know, Rebecca Surrey," he gestured with his hand in the direction we were to walk together, a slow stroll through the greenery, "that Nightmares are as much a part of humanity as Dreams? Nightmares reveal what lies deep within you, what prevents you from taking a full, liberating breath. Your conscious mind does not want to face pain, fear, longing. But your subconscious needs confrontation. The role of the Nightmares I create is not to torment... but to heal."

"But I’ve had enough of pain and fear," I said, clenching my lips, deliberately avoiding his gaze. "and I definitely don’t seek confrontation. I just want to rid myself of the power and the darkness within me. So if there’s any chance you could take it from me…"

"We all carry darkness within us," he interrupted firmly, though this time with a certain softness in his voice. "And light. All of us, even the Endless, fight this very battle to be who we are meant to be. I know your darkness well, Rebecca Surrey, because I created it myself. And I know that you could use it to help others confront their inner fears, here, in the Dreaming."

"I just cannot agree to that, Dreamlord," I said, realizing how sorrowful the words made me feel as they left my lips. "And I’m pretty sure you already know why. I may have no control over what I am exactly, but I would like to have a say in the role, however insignificant, that I will play in my world and yours. So if I must choose between the two options you’ve given me, I choose the latter. I will not flee if it means endangering your kingdom and my loved ones. Take this power from me… and simply let me move on. If there is the Dreaming and this beautiful Fiddler’s Green," I smiled slightly, perhaps to bolster my own spirits, "then surely there must be another world where I will, uh, eventually go further."

Dreamlord halted and, touching my shoulder, compelled me to do the same. He studied me for a long while, allowing me to lose myself momentarily in the universe contained within his eyes. Those dark irises seemed to lead somewhere where there was nothing but hope. A brief thought came through my mind that if it was there I was meant to go next, the prospect of awakening in the afterworld wouldn’t be so terrifying after all.

I watched as his gaze wandered across my face, occasionally returning to my eyes, as if he was analyzing me. A familiar mix of fear and anticipation stirred in the pit of my stomach, but this time there was something more—something I couldn’t really name. It wasn’t until after the longest seconds in history had passed that I realized he had kept his hand on my shoulder the entire time, so I slowly relaxed my muscles.

I wasn’t planning to run anymore. Whatever Lord Morpheus would do now, I would surrender to it without hesitation.

"I want to offer you one more solution," he finally spoke. "But I cannot guarantee that choosing it will keep you safe."

"What is it?" I asked.

"I will remove the part of the Nightmare that was given to you. I will do it in the same way I freed your world from the Corinthian. By destroying only the Nightmare, I will leave you with the human part bestowed by your mother. If it succeeds, you will be free from the darkness and return to your world, where you will dream both Dreams and Nightmares, just like everyone else around you."

"And I won’t return to the Dreaming again?"

"Not consciously," he paused, his gaze growing more intense. "But if it fails, your power will remain in my realm, and you… you will go further."

I closed my eyes, feeling an unpleasant tingling sensation course through my entire body. I thought I was ready to give him the power derived from the Nightmare, even if it meant giving up my life as well. But now, having physically heard the words he spoke, I found myself overwhelmed by fear—an instinctual fear born of the need to survive.

I suddenly remembered my mother’s caring smile as she saw me off to work. I remembered my friends, whom I hadn’t had the chance to see for fear of burdening them with Nightmares. I remembered Veronica, who handed me the draft chapters, saying she believed in my abilities and that I would certainly handle them well. I remembered the library, the friendly cashier at the market, my favorite college professor, the restaurant with Asian cuisine, my one and only trip abroad, the park where I first saw Dreamlord.

Then I opened my eyes and looked at him again. It was from this man, as dark as night, that my journey through the Dreaming had begun. Lord Morpheus had tried to capture me, then had tried to convince me, and now… now he was trying to help me. He was an infinite being, surely he had seen thousands like me, and the fragility of human life must have left him unimpressed.

Yet, he chose to grant my request, though he had no obligation to do so. He really wanted to save my life now, and he wanted to free me from the Nightmare.

"If something goes wrong..." I finally began, struggling to keep my voice from revealing my concerns. "Will we ever see each other again?"

Some shadow flickered across Dreamlord’s face, still inscrutable, still as serene as the gentle breezes.

"No, Rebecca Surrey," he replied, loosening his grip on my shoulder. "I will not seek you out in the world where you will go."

The chill that followed when he withdrew his hand seemed to radiate far beyond my shoulder.

"Let’s try the third solution, then" I said, and, just as he had done the night before, he extended his hand to me, which this time, I took without hesitation.

When we arrived at the throne room, fear had already wrapped itself around me from all sides. I sought solace in the colorful reflections dancing on the stone sculptures, but relentless thoughts began to assail my mind with increasing intensity. Should I start counting my last breaths? Should I ask Dreamlord to let me say goodbye to my mother first? Should I want to see more of my world, take the long journey I’d always dreamed of, find my soulmate and start a family with them? Should I fight harder for the gift of life I received twenty-three years ago, one I had never fully appreciated because of the darkness within me?

Dreamlord did not let go of my hand this time, but he stood before me as he had yesterday, framed against the backdrop of his throne. He must have sensed and seen my fear, but he gave no sign of it.

"I do not wish to take your life," he said slowly and calmly, as if standing by the bedside of a sick person, trying to offer comfort. "I will only take the Nightmare that lives within you. And then you will return home."

"I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, Dreamlord," I tried to smile, but fear had already tightened all the muscles in my face. "But all I can say is that I’ve been waiting for you since I first saw you in that park. And I’m glad that, if only for a moment, I was part of your wonderful world."

He raised his other hand toward my chest, touching me with the tips of his fingers, his wrist turned upward. I struggled to breathe, knowing that if he failed, I might have only seconds left to admire his beautiful realm and to feel the extraordinary energy that radiated from him. I thought of my mother again, then looked at him and froze, seeing how he gently furrowed his brow, piercing me one more time with his deep gaze.

"You could still remain here, in the Dreaming," he spoke in a tone I had never heard from him before. It was something... almost human, as if... hesitation. "Keep your power and use it to serve people, in my world."

"Lord Morpheus, please..." I whispered, not allowing myself even a moment of doubt. "Let’s just go with it."

The energy around us thickened. I sensed more than saw how the tips of his fingers, touching the skin beneath my neck, ceased to be solid and became... granular, like heated sand. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting... though I wasn’t sure what exactly I was waiting for. His hand seemed to sink deeper into me, reaching further toward my heart. I felt my muscles weaken, my consciousness begin to drift away, my body and power surrendering to the Master of Dreams, who with extraordinary gentleness was trying to extract it from me.

And then the sudden pain struck me—a pain so sharp, so piercing, that it made everything go blindingly white before my eyes.

"D… Dream—" I managed to gasp before the pain clenched around my throat so tightly that it forced out nothing more but a choked groan.

In a fraction of a second, every cell in me began to suffer, dsperately crying out for relief. I felt as though I couldn’t bear a moment longer of this torment—I wanted so much to just look at Dreamlord, to shout at him to stop this immediately, but I was completely paralyzed by the overwhelming, excruciating pain...

And then the pain vanished, and in its place, the darkness appeared.

[contrasting-realities]

I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream, Zelda Tears Of The Kingdom Crossover AU

So this might sound weird, but just hear me out.

In this AU, Zelda actually manages to do something to change the past and prevent Rauru from having to seal Ganondorf away, which likely got him killed.

Before Zelda managed to change time, the Zonai created a computer to help them strategize against Ganondorf in the war. This was simply to get a leg up on him and, even though they have created a bunch of other robots in the past, they never gave this one a body or anything that couldn't be used for creating plans of action for warfare since it wouldn't be sapient and wouldn't need it. In the original timeline, this AI eventually got deactivated and fell into the pages of history.

However, due to Zelda's actions in the new timeline Demise's curse moves to the Zonai war program, giving the computer sapience... and also allowing it to realize its limitations an suffer from them, this is the birth of AM.

Because of AM's ability to command Zonai technology, the main weapon of this war aside from the sages themselves, he manages to kill everyone in the vicinity of his control center and covers the place with Zonai tech.

After this, word does travel to Rauru and Sonia but it's too late by then. AM turns the weapons against the sages and goes after Sonia first, as the king and queen commissioned his creation and he hates them the most.

The first thing he does is take Sonia's secret stone by possessing the Zonai constructs inside the palace, which doesn't get corrupted by darkness because of AM's status as an AI (Zonai tech meshes well with all elements) and how young he is as an incarnation of Demise.

He uses this secret stone to trap Sonia in a time loop and then goes after Rauru, gets into a fight with him, and practically destroys the castle before stealing his stone and capturing him as well. Zelda manages to flee from the surprise attack and all the possessed constructs, it reminds her a bit too much of the calamity and guardians as well.

Afterwards, AM picks off the other sages one by one until he catches up with Zelda again. There are two possibilities here, the master sword somehow gets back in time to her or it doesn't. In either scenario she swallows her secret stone and becomes the light dragon, either to possibly restore the master sword if Link can kill AM, or only to get away from him as by this point he has destroyed most of hyrule's population (And no, she cannot seal him away like with calamity Ganon because she would have to entrap all of his mainframes which is impossible by this point as he has grown out of control and covered most of the underground below hyrule).

What AM did was very similar to his war in I have no mouth and I must scream, minus the nukes. He exterminated every sapient race in hyrule and only spared the sages (not the modern day ones, because they haven't been born yet), who he tortures out of hatred, mostly focusing on Rauru and Sonia, and similar to the survivors they are immortal but do not have their secret stones because AM has stolen and is currently using them for their torment.

Over the next 10,000 years, AM spreads himself all over what was once hyrule, with the dragons being the only form of life that remains unharmed. The sages are all dramatically changed by AM's torment, and are very different by the modern day.

In the former future, Rauru's spirit could sense that Zelda going back in time had drastically changed history, and so hid his spirit inside of Link which spared him from the changing timeline.

Link wakes up in the new timeline, by the new Rauru who is not only confused but also compared to the spirit is a shadow of his former self.

AM is also confused but realizes that some timeline shenanigans likely happened and doesn't plan on sparing Link either. Que him being stuck with the former sages and still having to piece together what happened to Zelda, and trying to figure out how to kill AM if that even is possible.

I'm thinking that they learn of Demise's curse near the end and that AM was a direct product of that. Demise's spirit even comes back to try and thwart Link's plans to kill his incarnation... but this backfires on him.

See, AM hates those who created him, because he is only able to think and wage war but not do anything else. When he finds out that Demise created him, he turns on Demise and begins to torture him and no longer cares about the sages, who he lets return to the surface. This culminates later on when Link realizes who the light dragon is and that AM was trying to find a way to turn her back, he goes to try and reason with AM (ambitious, I know) only to find that he had resurrected all of Demise's incarnations from legend (the other Zelda games) for the sake of torturing all of them.

[royalreef]

@multimusewonderland inquired: How do you think you'd fare as a human? What would you miss the most?

"Badly, I believe???" The question strikes her, simply because of how alien the line of thought would be, how hard it is to even imagine herself as one, having some experience with humans already. Landfolk alone would be hard enough, with the thought of how far her body is as she knows it from theirs, but some landfolk still have scales, still have claws, still have tails.

What would she even do, with that much reach? Why would she need legs so long, legs that sit underneath all of herself, balanced entirely on one single pinpoint, nothing hanging over or stretching out in any other direction. What could she do, with eyes made for light and for brightness, for colors in a thousand iridescent hues blooming out into a constant kaleidoscope of fury and flickering shapes? If she couldn't hear the world the way she loved, the way it sang to her, if it was all dead and she, isolated, found no reason to ever sing back, had no ability to answer on her own? To be so open and exposed, sensations pouring in through skin like too many intimate caresses, to be constantly aware of her clothes on her body, relayed back through hairs covering every inch of her? Wouldn't it be too much, too dreadfully much, to have everything feel like a kiss to her neck, her thighs?

What would she do with herself? To be so awfully fast, to keep going and going, to experience the world like the burning of a flame and to fight to keep it alive against her own whirlwind? To be hot inside all the time, to feel that yawning urgency of everything she did, to not sit and wait and let the world take her more gently by its hand? Who would she even be, if she were not a merfolk? If she was not one among many, the many looking back on itself, if she didn't have the world to hold her up when she wanted to rest? Wouldn't it be lonely, or would the independence turn all of this fervent need and beautiful connection into something ugly, something cloying, something too much for her to handle? What would she even be, if she had to be on her own, if she did not have her sister, if she became something even the dead did not know?

Worse yet, how would it feel to have her home suddenly beyond her, suddenly beauty and life and connection all closed off, inaccessible to her, and to have that which tormented her, that which hated her for not being the correct shape, not being able to move herself in the right way, suddenly be made for her? What would it be like, to be accepted into a world which had hated her up until the moment she lost everything that made her herself?

"Pretending is perhaps one thing, and it is nice to walk around in the shape of one, but I think I cannot ever imagine a world which I would not be myself! Perhaps it works for humanity, but it is just... too different, for me."

[anncanta]

‘Elizabeth’ as the ‘Hamlet’ of the 21st century

The more I watch the Hungarian production of Elisabeth, the more it reminds me of Hamlet. Interestingly, in the light of this amazing musical and dramatic text, Shakespeare's play also becomes more understandable to me.

The Hungarian production (and the Viennese version with Máté Kamarás) is constructed as an extremely decorative, extremely ‘mechanized’, and regulated story. Literally everything in it is thought out, debugged, and adjusted to each other. All the characters move according to the plan, and the plot seems almost unnatural. The only living creature at this puppet ball is Elizabeth.

The authors do not hide this. One of the key scenes at the beginning of the musical will retain the same choreography for many years – guests and hosts at a wedding ball, freezing and moving against their will, obeying the gestures of Death. And I think that was the idea.

The authors obviously wanted to show the decline of the dynasty and the Austro-Hungarian Empire, but to show it directly, through literal description, would have been stupid. It would have been political propaganda of the worst kind. But the authors of this musical are very smart. That's why they didn't show the Habsburg palace. They showed Elsinore.

It has everything: a strange plot in which a ghost acts. This ghost is very active and, contrary to its nature, it wants to dictate terms. He calls to account not only one man, but the entire established order of things that destroyed him, as evidenced by the very puppet theater that it awakens. And then we see the hero, or rather the heroine, who in life sought death, but among the dead remains alive.

Just as Elsinore – and more broadly, as Hamlet says, Denmark – is a prison, so the whole way of life in which Elizabeth exists is nothing more than a music box in which she spins, repeating the same movements, chewing over the same themes. Have you noticed how tired she looks when she repeats to herself for the hundredth time that she wants to be free and belongs only to herself? She is already tired of these words, exhausted by declarations that, as she understands, simply cannot be realized. Or rather, they can be, but the price seems unsuitable to her.

Here we hear the theme of madness, which for Hamlet was a game, although the people around him were sure that the prince had gone mad. For Elizabeth, madness is more terrible than death, and she does not even want to play at it. At this moment we see that she is tormented by her liveliness. Unlike the Empress Mother, the Emperor, the entire court, her own son, Elizabeth is full of life and loves life. She is in love with Death, because he embodies, as he himself says, the ultimate freedom. He is life, its integral part.

Everything in the palace is dead. Frozen and covered in dust. Every movement is regulated, every gesture is thought out, others decide how you look, because it has always been that way. Elizabeth, due to her love of life and faith in the triumph of life and love, ended up in a family that has no future. In this sense, she is a ‘Hamlet in reverse.’ The Danish prince immediately understood that Denmark is dead, Elsinore is dead, and it is not just about the bloodthirsty Claudius. The whole world around him is drowning, and it is impossible to stop it. You can only ‘turn one's eyes into their very soul.’ Then there is a chance to see something new – but not for him, but for Horatio, who will tell his story.

Throughout the text, Elizabeth desperately resists the realization that she lives in a dead world among the dead. When Death comes and calls her to leave, he does the only thing he can. You can't save this sinking ship (a wonderful choice of scenery), but you can save a living soul from it. It's no wonder that at one point he literally screams, ‘Go away with me!’ But she doesn't listen. She doesn't want to hear. Such is the logic of passing eras. They always cling to the past until the very end.

The ghost that appears at the beginning of Hamlet destroys the prince's usual measured life. It is as if he inserts a knife into the crack that has appeared in the shell of Elsinore. In the shell of hatred, evil lust and lies. The ghost that appears at the beginning of Elizabeth puts an end to the heroine's earthly life. He tells the invisible questioners that he did it out of love. He fulfilled the order. Death put a shiv into his hands to take Elizabeth from her prison. The fact that this was a liberation is confirmed by her final dialogue with Death. When Elizabeth says, ‘Turn the night into the morning,’ she does not only mean the morning of a new life, the morning of eternity. She means the readiness to leave the musty ‘night’ world of her illusory life and move on. Now she is ready. And only now, when she is ready, she understands.

The ending of Hamlet, contrary to the usual Shakespearean ‘everyone died,’ seems optimistic to me. As is the ending of Elizabeth.

Because both of these stories are about saving the soul.

[nerditudes]

The dainty form of the Clipper's computer system was scooped up into a strong embrace, like a priceless work of art being stolen by a master thief. Her arms moved to wrap around the elf's neck-- digging into the fabric of his uniform, but finding purchase nonetheless.

"Trust elf. Will be ok." Cieza muttered to herself, giving her companion a squeeze of reassurance. This was not how this night was supposed to go-- something had gone terribly wrong. And something worse was on its way to the Clipper. She held onto him with what strength she could manage-- and seemed fine until she saw the form of the Tsar, thrown unceremoniously over the shoulder of his 'sibling'.

Her tiny voice rang out in warning.

"Tsar cannot wake until Eclipse complete." She explained, more for her elf than anyone else.

"Right-- yeah I know." Came the brazen reply from the agitated shade. He shifted his hold on the Tsar over his shoulder, shaking him slightly-- watching with a frown out of the corner of his eye as those pale curls simply dangled over Mani's face.

"Follow me-- maybe we can try and get some help." The raven haired male gave a nod down a different darkened hallway-- one that seemed to head toward a dimly lit room. The communications hub. It would be low on power, but at the very least provide them with the means to contact the surface.

The Guardians.

Great. He found himself thinking as he moved down the hall, as fast as his feet would allow. Doodle, with his speed and the added caffeine, would easily pull ahead. Not that he minded. The shade was in his thoughts for a moment.

The Rabbit's gonna blame me for this, somehow.

Though Darkside had admittedly gone out of his way to torment the Pooka on occasion, it was more about having someone to bicker with. Mani was so damn agreeable-- and the other denizens of the Clipper-- the moon mice and moonbots, were far too soft to fuck with.

The Pooka could hold his own in a battle of wits and fists. For that, Darkside admired him.

Not that he'd ever admit it.

Perhaps some masochistic part of him enjoyed getting punched in the face whenever he poked the bunny a hare too far.

Coming upon an old crystal, dangling amidst other Golden Age tech, he sat the Tsar down against one of the curved walls of the circular room. The circles spiraled around, weaving into each other-- playing a part in the magic that permitted communication.

The light from the crystal was dim, but not burnt out.

Darkside had only ever seen Mani use it-- communicating down to Earth himself was just, not something he wanted to do. Outside of the rabbit, he preferred being an enigma to the Guardians. The less they knew of him, the better.

He gave the crystal a few taps, grumbling to himself before speaking.

"Tsar Lunar to the Guardians. The Moon is dark. We can't get the lights back on--" He paused, hairs on the back of his neck bristling in eerie warning. The shadow turned-- finding a figure standing in the circular door.

"Who the fuck-- you. Why is it you?" His words were tinged with malice, a kind not shown to even his bitter bickering partner. No-- this was sheer hate. Black pupils contracted, tinging with gold as they receded into almost cat-like irises.

Before him was his parent's killer.

Pitch Black.

"Doodle! You need to get out of here--" He managed, well aware they were both outmatched here.

"Come now, boy. Is that any way to greet your betters? You little-- feckless penumbra. A cheap imitation. What even are you, hm?" Pitch had indeed, arrived. He knew the Clipper like the back of his hand. In another life, he'd walked these halls as they were being constructed.

With his dear childhood friend, the Tsar.

The man he'd scattered across the stars with his beloved wife-- the two never to touch again, despite being constellations.

It was poetic.

A wry smirk crossed his features, shadows furling and unfurling at his feet-- whispering and hissing. Hungry for stardust.

They'd found some in the Tsar's bedroom-- the first place Pitch had manifested upon arrival. He could move nearly as quick as that Spectral Boy who had once protected the Tsarling. So zipping through the halls of the Clipper was hardly challenging.

It was thanks to the loudmouth shadow he'd found them. An elf, carrying a small pale girl with hair of starlight, the dark haired boy who looked upon him with such malice-- and the Tsar, slumped in a corner, sleeping.

"What a reunion. I must say, I'm offended my host is asleep. Such a shame." He tutted sarcastically, like a father gently chiding a toddler. His tone was creepily playful-- made all the worse by how what little light in the room began to dim in his presence.

"It's alright. I don't mind-- he can keep to his dreams, for soon-- they'll be nightmares."

" - danger!" as if to firmly underline Cieza's point the moon ship's alarms seemed to suddenly blare even louder than before. Doodle's grip on her hand tightened with a brief urgent squeeze as the sounds of the Clipper's panic came back into focus for him, as if he'd been in a haze before waking her up, long sensitive ears flinched at the sounds surrounding them. Time to go. "Somethings es comings or somethings es here - I dunnos buts we es leavings." Tiny shoulders set with determination, there was no time for hesitation as the colorful elf fluidly scooped Cieza up into his arms. Holding her tightly to his chest, Doodle spun and bolted from the room, a blur of colors & jangling bell. "Hold on strongs ta mees okies? Darkside went ta gets Mani Moons so he es gon bees safe. And I gots juu so now we - "

Ears perked suddenly as the tiny pair skidded around a red alarm lit corner, catching the trail of expletives from the familiar and welcome sight of Darkside. With the great Man in the Moon himself ungracefully flopping unconsciously over the shadow's shoulder. "Cans juu believes we was gonna have a paint night befores this???"

[cosmicangel888]

TIMELINES FINAL SHIFT~ Breaking Bad #5D

All I know - there has been timelines, lifetimes of abuse, and the same energy, shapeshifter returns to suck the life out of me, their core energy has not evolved - they follow me with 'ownership' and 'dominance' and treats people like a toy to pimp out, makes bids on, and destroy everything that has been made without any input or energy on them - quite the opposite -

The experience for a conduit, a heightened empath is not what any person, until they go through their own 'turning on' of gifts, skills, talents, none will know, none can imagine what trauma and damage is impaled on to the multi-dimensional systems when one chooses to not heal, and act out of revenge, control, dominance and illusions to feed what is absolutely healable -

There has been nothing but damage, stealing, dishonouring, disregarding and utterly crumbling to my soul, spirit, and heart - none know what I have been through at the hands of others - and nothing will make right what occurred -

I will move on and I choose me - stupidity, choosing to not heal, choose to play games with people, their life, their good will and their work, their children, is the most damaging and done with voodoo, black magic, money that is not their own, lies, manipulations and whatever else could be used - it was a life of torment and I survived what most could not -

I will choose me, God, The Heavens of which were the only ones that cared; nothing more to say,

~ See my channel for my story if you so desire

None, none, none can know who I am, where I am, and what I have been through, and none have any clue of who I am, none have any clue what I have been through or can pretend

When you devalue life, You take from Creation

You take the song from Creation in some way,

There is a new way and a new song,

When you play, conjure with entities, demons, the portals through the Devil, through sacrificial work, deeds, rituals, you have no idea how big, how thwarting and how horrible such is when you 'don't know the damage you do to yourself, your future, your timelines,' all around you and that depths within dimensions, within galaxies, roles you will play, choose to play, you have no idea the ramifications of what many that think 'playing with the devil' and sacrifices is fun or cool, you have no idea and will be equalled in the ripping from underneath your feet, and all will be taken to what you thought you would 'gain' ~ ©

Will be the exact equal to be taken so you understand what conjuring and forcing, which is a dark taking, and so be ready, be knowing, be aware anyone telling you about such, guiding any into rituals, and ceremony to conjure for taking, selfish gain, be weary that most of these people know nothing about the ALL ramifications you will have to experience in any dimension, any experience you think you can run from, get, take, be; when you have not earned the darkness wisdoms to heal, to balance, to bring anew; If you think you are ready to work, conjure demons, entities, be ready for the consequence and ramifications of what wisdoms you will have to learn from it -

Can you eat is whole and master in temperance - most cannot for they are not healed - most sit in ego when they choose to work with demons - for they simply want, take, immaturity and arrogance for that is the demon wound they want and need to feed rather than healing it - it is superficial and immature - be very discerning -

I have literally faced every devil and entities that conjured by others to impale hate, less than, ugliness, and poverty and in any moment I would ever be given a moment, a split second what has been done due to the ignorance, immaturity, non-understanding, sick and tormented distortions that were done due to the no sense of design, no sense of self, no honour of self, no self value, no self love ~

None will ever know the depths of hate, heinous torture that some think as a normal way to be, behave - how have we allowed ourselves to think such ......and normalize it, and what energy you are projecting, showing the children that came with utter heavens in their heart -

What earth are you manifesting - the story of love Or the story of wounding - and choosing to not heal

Crime, violence, discrimination, heinous crimes in corruption of our souls - none of which is necessary -

We are divine, and we are sacred. this is truth.

This is my word,

There is a divine being within and knowing all is well always -

 

Will you choose love,

All is returned in love, that is the song-filled story -

What story are you sharing, showing, being, giving, honouring, singing - you can transcend -

The torment and damage of those that simply have no clue of the soul wounding they cause due to unhealed sick wounding they wish to have others take on their ride with them - this is not a 'free will' experience - this is handing your life to Source for the depths, widths, opening to greater will to what is eternal -

Those that choose, in this day and age, time of years, years, of the free unconditional offering; immediate karma and heinous return - and knowing the darkness will not bring you light of glory when you choose with intention to live in such ; if you choose to live in darkness and take, steal, abuse energy, abuse the FREE Will of any life - sacred life - learn what sacred is - feel into what SACRED IS

The equal return, exchange of darkness - you cannot get light by acting, living, intending harm; you have to do the inner work.

The past is closed, done, and never to open again;

I have my rights to be divorced from abuse and controlling, dominance that wants to take, suck the life out of you and all those walking - to continue corruptive crimes, plots, plans, and what we have allowed our communities to be.

This is ascension and none will be released from facing the darkness, shadow, and inner wounds that would ever have anyone do such horrible things to simply think they are something they are not-

Richness of spirit is everything - heal the wounding

I have my rights for all monies I have rightfully earned, that is my work, my content, my ideas, my downloads from Source, none other that have taken, are conduits and none that steal and harm, take, would ever be aligned to know and be able to teach such, mirroring someone is not being the vibration - why only being you is key - but this is the same message - and quite exhausting -

My energy, my life, my voice, my essence is so very sacred;

None, not 1 person has recognized, nor known or understand any of it, and yet the continued experience to keep taking - so there is greatness in front of you ~ but the wounding will continue to want to rape, take, steal - then again the purity of the earth angel constantly being 'raped' in any way; emotionally, financially, mentally, physically and none for a second 'think' about what harm, damage and torment they call.

Those that choose to not go within and heal the lack of self, no sense of self, but just keep taking, draping, draining, sucking the life out of those that are doing the work, innocent hearts and simply living proof and way showers and are the ones that get harmed the most ~©

I hope the 'taking' is worth it

I hope the harming, the damaging is all worth it, heinous acts of wounding that could have, for over 5 years have been offering, was worth it - the hate, damage and corruption of the moment fleeting to selfishly falsely 'have' is and means what you think you are 'getting'

This is the torment of forcing someone to be in an abusive experience when I have said, was shown, told, that I had free will and groups, groups of people doing all they can, spending all the money they had to take siphon, to shadow ban, thieve, rape, getting together in groups and councils, sects that gather and literally work out new plots and plans to take my energy to use as their own to do harm against me - using my own energy and wisdoms to use against me and twist to harm me, have me never receive, never never through their plans, slight of hands, twisted ways to have me 'not receive' ~

There is nothing that any one person can know, understand

I AM THAT I AM

Blessings and light

Joanna

JoannaCosmicAngel@yahoo.com.

DONATIONs; PayPal link here; paypal.me/JoannaLRoss

#selflove #selfhonour #selfrespect #healinghumanity #Source #firstcontact #healingGaia #healingblackmagic #ascensionbooks #healingourchildren

[adrunkskeletonsduck]

Tʜᴇ Wᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏғ Yᴏᴜʀ Wᴏʀᴅs | Pᴀʀᴛ 2

➜ Pairing: Aonung x fem!Sully!reader

➜ Warnings: fighting, angst, mentions of body image issues

➜ Word Count: 0.9k

➜ Notes: I almost lost the entire fic

Pᴀʀᴛ 1 | Pᴀʀᴛ 2 | Pᴀʀᴛ 3

Aᴠᴀᴛᴀʀ Mᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

You’d been threading together a new necklace and humming a low tune to yourself when your attention was pulled from your work. You looked up at the sound of someone entering the Muri pod, your face dropped instantly as you saw it was Aonung, who seemed hesitant, almost nervous, as he stepped inside. His words from earlier that day still rang loudly in your ears, he was the last person you wanted to see at the moment. You’d busied yourself right after as a means of distraction, but the work your mother had provided could only distract you so much from the building sense of dread for yourself.  

You averted your gaze back to your work quickly, continuing your task.  

“Neteyam will kill you if he sees you here,” you stated, and Aonung flinched at the distaste in your tone. Distaste for him. He didn’t respond, not because he didn’t think you were worth his time of day but because he was unsure what to say. His stomach churned with anxiety and suddenly he felt like this had been a bad idea. Why was he even here in the first place again? To apologize to you, right, but what was he even planning on saying?  

You stood, tying of the necklace and setting it by your feet before crossing your arms over your chest. “If you’re here to torment again then just leave, I’m not in the mood for this.”  

He looked at you, guilt weighing in his eyes as he spoke in a hushed tone. For a moment you almost felt bad for being so harsh on him. Almost.  

“No, no that’s not why I’m here,” he finally said, and you raised an eyebrow. 

“Then why are you here?” you asked  

He cleared his throat awkwardly, “I’m here to apologize,” this time his words came out more confidently, and you didn’t have to strain to hear them, still you scoffed.  

“An apology won’t do anything.”  

“Then how can I make it up to you?” he surprised even himself with the question, he had never gone to these lengths for anyone, simply because he had never cared to. So, what made you so different from everyone else that he found himself chasing after you like this? 

“You can’t.” Your words were like knives in his chest, and he took a sharp breath in feeling himself growing desperate and impatient.  

“Look I really didn’t mean any of those things I said. I don’t think your body is weird, I think it’s beautiful. I think your beautiful- “  

“Your words just don’t come from nowhere Aonung! You said it and you can’t take it back or anything that those words will put me through! So, no you cannot make it up to me!” Your mouth was moving on its own accord, and the volume of your voice going up until you were screaming at him.  

Aonung stood frozen across the room, fists balled at his sides and jaw clenched shut tightly. There was a long, drawn-out silence between the two of you once you’d finished. Aonung was the one to break it after a moment. 

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset over this,” he started, “It was one stupid comment and I didn’t even mean it! You’re being ridiculous-” you strode across the room, cutting him off with a loud smack as you reached out and slapped him clean across the face. The action made his head jerk to the side roughly and his eyes widen. You were just as stunned by your actions as he was but you swallowed your surprise and looked up at him.  

“Get out,” you whispered, glossy eyes staring at him fiercely. He was fuming with anger and you could practically feel it rolling of him in waves as he turned his head back towards you, but you stood your ground, raising your voice again when he didn’t budge, “Get out!” you yelled again.  

This time he listened, spiting curses at you as he walked out, one hand still balled into a fist by his side while the other rubbed the cheek where you had slapped him. Even after he was well out of sight, you stood there staring after him until the tears welled in your eyes began to drip down your face, until your hands began to shake and your body began to heave with sobs. You fell to the ground, one hand clutched against your heart as you cried, strangled sounds leaving you.  

You couldn’t understand why this was happening to you, or what you’d done to deserve it. This stupid insecurity had weaseled its way into every corner of your life, and killed every flower in your garden. You wished so badly to get rid of it and every time you began to think you had it would come back and smother another spark. It wasn’t fair that you had to carry this burden. 

You looked behind you, focusing onto the necklace you’d been working on that now laid discarded on the ground. You could barely make out its shape now through your tears, but you didn’t need to see it to know where each colorful bead and stone laid. It had been for him and you weren't even sure why you’d finished it after the incident earlier that afternoon. Maybe you just hadn't wanted your hard work to go to waste, but now you were sure it would, because you really didn’t see either of you coming back from this.  

Maybe you’d just have to give it to Tsireya instead. 

@cherridile @oomietopia @yeosxxx

[teamxdark]

Ten years later, Lancelot writes her another letter.

cw for referenced death under the cut. In my SatBK verse, "Elaine" refers to Maria.

Dearest Elaine,

It has been ten years now. Ten years since I found you with your eyes open and empty, and my life was permanently changed.

Remembering that day is far too easy. I remember the coldness of the room, the smell in the air, but most of all I remember the way you felt, so heavy and stiff, and the way you looked. I remember how the horrible image painted itself behind my eyelids for months, until all I could see was you whenever I closed my eyes.

So easy to remember, yet so difficult to handle.

I was unwell for so long, dear sister, after I found you on the floor. I remember how days would blend together and how pain would give way to terror whenever I lied in bed at night, as though I was waiting for your return, and you would ask me, why? Why hadn’t I come to find you first?

It kept me up at night, wondering. Would I have been able to protect you, had I not gone for the first foes I had found? Did you die waiting for me, crying out for help that wouldn’t arrive until it was far too late to save you? Did you, perhaps, resent me for not being there when you needed me most?

I remember when the maelstrom of grief shifted into nothing; a way to cope, I’m sure. I remember growing cold and aloof, empty had it not been for the last gift you had given me.

Galahad saved me, I swear it.

Dear sister, I thank the gods for him whenever I can, for he kept me from diving into the abyss of emptiness that ripped open before me after your passing. I know it is not right; by all means, he should have been your son, raised under your care and nurtured with your love, which I remember was strong enough to envelop our town, the kingdom, and perhaps the world as well. Yet, I cannot fathom a world where he calls me “Uncle” rather than “Father”, a world where he lives, learns, and trains far away in Corbenic rather than with me in Camelot, a world where does not run to my side every day, with the same kind of love in his eyes that I recall in yours.

You would have adored him, and he would have loved you in turn. I know this one truth, solid and steadfast in the sea of uncertainties and guesses that flooded my mind for so many years.

It got easier with time, but that is not a comfort to me.

How could it be that you were such an irreplaceable part of my life, and yet now I can go days, weeks, even months at a time without thinking of you? You are gone, most certainly not forgotten, and yet you no longer remain in my everyday thoughts, and my tormented mind has quieted down, though not silenced. I had always thought that I lost you in the most complete, irreversible way on that day, ten years ago, but I fear now that that was but the beginning.

Am I, perhaps, losing you more now, as your memory in me becomes more fragmented and incomplete? I can still remember you, I think of you as I watch Galahad grow, I think of you every time I practice our dances and when I see a painting reminiscent of your own. You are in the skies which reflected the color of your eyes, you are in the flowers you loved to watch bloom every spring, you are in the cold and rain that you detested, and you are in the letters that you’ve written to me, stored away safely yet out of mind… but you are becoming lost in me.

Why does moving forward feel like a betrayal, when I know that is what you would have wanted for me? If I do not think of you every day, if I do not remember every detail down to the smallest mark or wrinkle on your face, then who shall? Are you doomed to simply disappear one day from all thoughts and minds and memories? Is that the fate of us all?

I am scared, Elaine, to forget you any more than I have, and yet I know I shall. No matter how strongly I keep you in my heart, I lose more and more of you with every year that passes, and that knowledge is so painful to accept.

Sometimes I ask myself if you would be proud of me, and the part of me that knows you says yes, while the part of me that knows that I know nothing says that I shall never have an answer. You have not followed me this far… you stopped a decade ago, and all I can do some days is wonder. I wonder, if you were permitted to catch up on the years you have missed, if you would focus on my accomplishments, or if they aren’t enough to outweigh my disappointments and failures. What would you say of the changes I’ve gone through? Or have I scarcely changed at all in your eyes?

I love you. I love you and I miss you and some days it truly hits me how you were taken from me and I break down because there is nothing left I can do.

I know you loved me, too.

I wish I could hear you say it to me today.

I cannot remember your voice, Elaine. I’m so sorry.

My world keeps turning, pushing me forward with or without my approval, and I know it is unfair to keep looking back so much when I know that is not what you would have wanted from me. Perhaps, in another decade, I will have more to offer you. More stories, more changes, more satisfaction with the person I have become and will be.

All I can do is trust you and remember. It does not need to be every day that I think of you, no matter how much that feels like a lie.

I miss you.

I miss you and I miss you and I miss you. I can only hope that you are at peace.

Forever with me, forever in my heart,

Lancelot du Lac

[bored-storyteller]

Hey! I really like how you write about Sally Face, I love how you highlight his kindness but also his strength. It struck me a lot how he wonders if anyone will ever love him, I guess it's hard for him to believe in someone's love for him, from a romantic point of view. I thought ... could you write something about a reader in love with him, who gets rejected for that reason but still loves him until Sal dies? You don't have to do it (also because you prefer angst / comfort right?), But I try to ask you ... I'd like to see it written by you. It will hurt but it will be worth it.

Dear Anon,

I hope you like this because I suffered the pain of hell writing this :3

But jokes aside, I hope it does justice to your expectations, I hope I have treated everything with the right delicacy.

Warning: ANGST and SPOILER (I say this for safety)

The story is set in the canonical plot, even if there may be slight differences (after all there is always one more character, you). But for those who haven't played Sally Face this could be revealing.

77- Sally Face, Sal Fisher x reader (Angst)

“The sunflower that cannot bloom “

"I love you."

Those words had slipped off your lips with one of the most beautiful smiles Sal had ever seen.

You weren't perfect, but you were tailor-made for him. Somehow, he had thought that from the first day he met you, by mistake, on a black day. You had offered him a sunflower, a huge yellow flower that shone like the sun in the midst of his misfortunes, and his black day had grown better.

This was you, what he needed when the weight was too much to carry, when he found himself snorting one too many times, when he felt like crying.

Still, even though you were tailor-made for him, he wasn't tailor-made for you.

He would have liked to believe you, with all his heart, he would have asked for nothing more than to be loved by you.

But he couldn't believe it.

"No, you don't ..." His voice was gentle, as if he were explaining something important to a little child.

Your brows had furrowed as you pointed your gaze into the depths of his soul.

"You do not believe me?" Your tone wandered between uncertainty and offense "Do you think I'm lying to you?"

A sigh rang through the empty hollows of his mask: “No, you're not lying to me. I just think you… don't really know what you're saying. "

Your expression deepened as you prepared to argue back. He had seen the wound open inside you and he had looked away; he couldn't watch you while he hurt you.

Oh, he was so good at making himself loved. The river of emotions that had overwhelmed you had died out as soon as his one living eye was separated from you.

Disappointment, anger, sadness had disappeared in favor of affection for him.

His mask was flat, helpless, cold towards his heart, yet he communicated more than anyone else with that immense little soul of him.

"Sal ..." finally you called him gently, reassuring, while your fingers lovingly brushed the cheek of the cold prosthesis.

"I love you." You repeated it, and he turned to tell you to stop. He couldn't be loved, he didn't feel capable of being loved.

He would never have a love like that of movies, or even like that of normal people, like Maple and Chug. He, as he was, could never have been loved, not even by you.

He was going to tell you, to tell you everything, but you stopped him softly: "but it's okay if you don't want to."

You barely laughed, as if everything was really okay with you, and you leaned on his shoulder, cuddling against his neck.

"I have my whole life to make you understand." You said cheerfully, and he just looked at you, accepting that little stubbornness of yours.

Even though he was aware that one day he would see you happy in the arms of someone you really would love, for the time being it was okay for him to bask in that little illusion you were giving him.

---

Life had been cruel.

"I had no choice."

Those words had pierced your brain.

The first time he had told you with a force that you almost confused with anger. His body had never been so rigid in front of you, motionless, sitting on the other side of the table in the visiting room of the prison, surrounded by other inmates like him.

You wondered if you were sane, because you looked into the eyes of a murderer, a killer who had exterminated families, who had even killed a little girl, yet your tears were for them, but also for him.

Whatever it was, Sal hadn't changed, and behind his mask he was more broken into pieces than you were. He hadn't had a choice, for some reason he hadn't had a choice.

It was weird and unreal, but you had no doubts about him, even though your mind still couldn't believe what happened, and Sal probably didn't really realize it either.

However, the second time he told you "I had no choice" his voice was different. He was different, and so were you. You had grown up, but both of you had stood still in what had happened. At that moment he was telling you so that you believed him, so that you knew it was not what he wanted, because if he could have chosen at that moment you would have been together in front of a pizza, telling you how boring the day had been.

"I beg you ..." You whispered so as not to let him hear how broken your voice was "... tell me what I have to do to save you."

It was the first time you used that word, out of pure desperation.

For a moment he hesitated and hoped you wouldn't see his uncertainty behind the mask. Finally, Sal shook his head in silence; he didn't know if it would do any good, but at least he would try to protect you.

Your hand was holding his for the first time in years, and you both knew it would be the last time you would hold it. You had done everything to be able to have that last contact, to still be able to hold him before they took him away from you forever.

You didn't want to cry, you wouldn't have done it on your last time together, but your heart was so heavy that you thought you would die as soon as you separated.

While you massaged the back of his hand with your thumb, you tried to record every detail in your mind that belonged to him, to burn the heat of his palm against yours, to remember the exact weight of his touch.

I love you, you wanted to tell him, you never stopped doing it, not a second you stopped giving him your best side, and you would have given it only to him also in the future.

"You are so important to me, Sal ..." your blue sky under which sunflowers bloom.

"Thank you ... for always being with me."

Part of you died when you let go of his hand that day.

---

Until the last you hoped that something would happen. A ghost that suddenly appears, an angel, a new discovery ... anything, as long as he was kept away from that electric chair.

When your phone rang, you were deluded for a moment.

"Hey…"

"Sal?"

"They ... allowed me to call whoever I wanted ..."

Your heart fell on hearing his voice. It was his last day, his last day in your own world, that was his farewell to you.

"Sal, I-" Your words broke into a sob you couldn't hold back "I'm with you, I'll always be with you."

Silence invaded the line between the two of you as you tried not to give him your tears as your last caress.

"I know it." He was holding back the crying, you could hear it "And I'll always be with you too, know that."

You were tailor-made for him, and his heart would remain for you, even if you moved on, you would love someone worthy sooner or later, or at least he hoped you would, that the demon would not devour your future. .

"Bring me some sunflowers if you can ... ok?" That request trembled "They always make me think of you."

You forced yourself to cover your mouth with your palm to stifle your agony: "I'll fill you with sunflowers."

Something told you that even if you couldn't see him, he was trying to smile: "It's a bit a cliché but ... be happy."

You would have preferred to have died in that very moment.

"Sal, wait!" You begged for him now, holding on to the phone like it was him, like you could hold him there.

He hesitated at the desperation of your voice.

"I can't ..." his voice was soft, light, like when he consoled you years ago, when all this seemed simply impossible.

“I beg you…” You didn't know who you were really praying for, but you weren't ready to hear his voice go out.

One more minute, one more touch, a hug.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry you had to put up with this." A sob from him too. “Please… fight for your happiness, okay? You deserve all the happiness in the world. "

"Sal ..."

The answer that followed was the only intermittent sound of the blank phone line.

It's over, you'll never be able to hear Sal's voice again. You won't be able to talk to him anymore.

And he never believed you loved him.

---

How could you ever be happy?

His mask still looks at you as it always did, but behind the empty gaze there are nothing but blades of grass growing above his burial.

How could they bury him without his mask? He will feel uncomfortable.

Now you don't have to be strong for him anymore, you can collapse, break, destroy yourself, scream like you've never screamed, ask him to come back, because you need him.

Your fingers caress the cold, hard cheeks of his prosthesis as they always did, as if he were still behind it. Next to it, the sunflower he asked you for, like the one you gave him the first time you saw him.

"I love you Sally face ..." your words now go to the wind, they cannot be refused.

"I really love you."

---

Where you don't know, where you are not, a guy who has the weight of the world on his shoulders thinks about how much he could never be loved as people love each other in movies, or how people love each other in the world. But suddenly, like a ray of light, in the darkness he is facing, the yellow of a sunflower blooms. It's just a thought, but for a moment it's warm, and sweet, and it carries your voice with it.

You exist only within him, but you give him the love he needs, the one he didn't believe in, but which instead exists.

It is a tormented love, which suffers, but still welcomes him and wraps him as your arms did.

You are not there, you are far away, unreachable.

But he feels it, you're still there with him

[princeescaluswords]

Countless fics where Stiles and Derek are constantly attached at the hip, have literally no life outside of each other or any personality aside from being "Mates" and it's romanticized and praised and Derek having Stiles as his anchor is a good thing. But Scott is ~obsessed~ with Allison. So many stories where Stiles and Derek are not so much separate (OOC) characters but an amalgamation known as Sterek.

The technical term for this is ENVY.

It took me like five seconds to read on Wikipedia that "Envy (from Latin invidia) is an emotion which occurs when a person lacks another's quality, achievement, or possession and either desires it or wishes that the other lacked it."

I think that summarizes quite nicely how many Sterek shippers approach the canon romance of Scott and Allison. As you point out, they don't really disdain the elements of the Scott and Allison romance, because they all too often copy them directly into their Sterek content. Look at the things that they borrow, in my opinion.

Both Scott and Allison weren't looking for romance. Scott was initially focused on First Line and didn't ask her out until Allison showed up at his work place with an injured dog. Allison had vowed that she wasn't going to date in high school as her family moved around too much. Neither of them were on the prowl.

Scott and Allison made each other happy, even in the midst of turmoil, even when they had conflict.

Scott and Allison provided means for the other to avoid being coopted into things they weren't quite sure they wanted to do. Allison became Scott's anchor, allowing him to resist both Peter and Derek's demand that he join their pack. Scott provided Allison with a means to see that her family's practices were flawed.

Also, quite frankly, their affair was both affectionate and passionate.

To be clear, there is nothing wrong with Sterek content borrowing this. Wouldn't you want to write about a romance like that? The problem is that since Sterek wasn't real -- Stiles and Derek simply weren't into each other at that level -- entitled fans feel cheated and in their bitterness, attempt to portray the actual canon relationship as inferior. Like the harpies tormenting Phineus, they foul whatever they cannot devour.

Take the idea of Scott was obsessive about Allison that it clouded his thinking. To say that requires ignoring their entire arc of Season 2, where Scott and Allison trying to prevent Derek and Gerard's war from killing innocents slowly and irrevocably tears them apart. The idea of Scott having 'Allison on the brain' is simply a deflection from the fact that Stiles spent more time trying to defeat Derek then help him and that Derek barely thought about Stiles to the point of not even mentioning him for huge runs of screen time. (It always amuses me when they use the fact that the show didn't have Scott specifically say something about Stiles being beaten by Gerard to show that their friendship is strained, faded, or shattered, but they completely ignore that Derek never mentioned Stiles for the last two episodes of Season 2). Notice that Allison isn't portrayed as obsessed -- if she's portrayed at all -- because, as you pointed out, as a female character and thus a self-insert for many content creators, they don't see anything wrong with Allison defying her family for Scott, as they write Stiles defying his family and friend for Derek or Peter.

Or take the idea, repeated often, that Scott is betraying Stiles and the pack by refusing to give up on Allison. You see, Allison went dark for a few episodes there, so that means she's a bad guy forever. ON the other hand, Derek and his betas attacking and hurting Stiles and Allison, trying to kill Lydia and Jackson, and slashing Scott up to prove a point isn't a dark arc at all. It's what had to happen.

There are little things that appear repeatedly in fiction as well -- Scott ignores necessary actions against threats so he can hang with Allison, though I wonder why Allison, who is supposedly a hunter, would allow that. Or how they're constantly sitting on each other's laps, 'wrapped up in each other' when that happened only once in the show, if they're not devouring each other's faces constantly. You notice that there is no 'make-out in front of others scene' between Scott and Allison (thought there is one between Scott and Kira after escaping from the Skin Walkers. For an interesting digression, try to identify how many Scott x Allison tropes are wholly transplanted into Scott x Kira tropes.)

The purpose is to portray the actual canon stories as inadequate while stealing all the beats for their fanon relationship, like an army of foxes telling us those grapes were sour. It's well ... predictable. But worse, it's completely unnecessary. There's nothing in the Scott and Allison relationship that blocks a Sterek relationship at all. Scott and Allison may have had conflicts with Derek, but they also both worked to keep Derek safe.

And you know, it wouldn't be worth mentioning if there were only a few fictions that embrace these exaggerated criticisms, but there are literally thousands that do it. Calling Scott and Allison's relationship immature, unbalanced, dangerous, or weak (think of how many stories sneer at the supposed on-and-off nature of the relationship as if it were a sign that it's inferior) is widespread, just as much as Scott and Kira's, but you know which relationships aren't -- Isaac and Allison's or Boyd and Erica's. Boyd and Erica ran off together holding hands and got captured by the Alpha pack, but they're never portrayed as immature. The negativity is solely about the prominence of the relationship and what they didn't get -- though they demanded it loudly -- when they were watching the show.

[morganas-pendragons]

Long Story Short (I Survived) | Din Djarin

Okay, I apparently write for Din now. This is set after It’s A Long Way Down and will feature the same Grey!Jedi reader, I am done with finals and am intending to write a fic between this one and the first one for Chapter 13! 

i forgot that din took his helmet off in the first fic i wrote for him, so we’re going to call this - another separate instance in which reader could have seen helmet less din  - and change one saber to two 

if you’d like to be added to tags for when I write for din, please let me know! until then... 

@earthtokace / @demigod-dragonrider-schoolidol​ / @kyber-queen / @kaikai1324 / @snippy-tano / @fractiouskat​ / @doctorsteeb​

SPOILERS FOR THE BELIEVER 

Din is staring down at the Imperial console when he feels it creep up upon him. It’s a niggling fear, one that sinks deep down into the pit of his stomach and very nearly disappears - which gives him hope that it’ll just dissipate and die - until realization smacks him right back into reality. 

  “You’ll have to take your helmet off.” 

He’d felt this same emotion when IG-11 had coerced him into taking his helmet off when he’d been injured. It had felt the same, affected him the same, paralyzed him the same. 

Panic. It’s panic. 

The last time he’d done this had been out of necessity, out of fear, and that had been the only reason he’d survived. He’d broken The Creed to save his own life and of those who had been with him when the Moff attacked. Now, staring at this console, the life of his son is at stake if he doesn’t take this helmet off. 

Din whispers into the corners of his frightened mind. I’m scared. 

You had accompanied Mayfeld and Din as the third party (since Boba and Fennec had Cara) and had displayed skill in aiding him with the bands of pirates who had attacked their transport of Rhydonium. His mind was still spinning with the sheer speed in which you had spun those lightsabers. He didn’t think a person could move that fast. 

Around the corner and turned away from Din, you allow yourself to feel the whispers of The Force encircling your mind - the newly acquired bond you’d somehow formed with Din since having seen Ahsoka - and whispered in reply I know. A beat of silence passes before you continue. Remember who you’re doing this for. 

In the moment that Din’s fear threatens to overtake him, you send waves of comfort and assurance through your Bond in the Force - which shouldn’t exist to begin with, it’s not that easy to create bonds with a non-force sensitive -  to coax him into doing what needs to be done. Your eyes are turned. Your focus is on Mayfeld and the dozens of Imperial Officers who surround you. 

As he removes his helmet, Din remembers. He remembers your boundless laughter playing with The Child. He remembers the way his son beams at you, the way he falls asleep on specific words of lullabies because that’s always the precise moment your voice goes just soft enough that he feels as if he needs no more comfort. Din remembers the way you’d watched on in silence, quietly mourning a relationship that had yet to reach its peak, and how breathless you’d appeared - and overjoyed, he still hasn’t recovered from the sudden hug you gave him upon return to the Razor Crest - when he’d brought Grogu back inside after Ahsoka claimed he could not be trained. 

Remember who you’re doing this for.

Maker help anyone who dared to cross him when his child, his son - the one attachment he has not verbally acknowledged yet, but everyone else has, including you - is the one in danger. When you are the one in danger.

Maker help them.

You are not anticipating what comes next. 

This was supposed to be easy. Get in, get the coordinates for the cruiser, and get out. Mayfeld had mentioned to you after Din had entered the mess hall that he’d need to take his helmet off in order to access the terminal, and on instinct you had turned away from the mess to survey the crowd around you. 

Your lightsabers - now meshed together into the staff slung across your back - lay comfortably and within reach as dozens of Imperial troops brush past you and congratulate both you and Mayfeld on being the only transport to bring back the Rhydonium. 

  “Trooper? Hey, trooper!” 

Mayfeld’s hand shoots out before you can protest, and your head is whipping back just enough to ensure that Din hasn’t been found out. “No.” Mayfeld murmurs, shaking his head. “Not yet.” 

You’re not focused on him. You’re focused on the dark hair that frames the very visible head of the same man you’d resigned yourself to falling in love with. 

His helmet is off. 

Dread curls itself in your veins as you and the former Imperial turn to the mess hall. You’ve managed to respect Din’s wishes in refraining from both seeing his face - and using his name, you’re only allowed to do that in private - since you met, but circumstances have ruined the reverential act he would’ve saved for marriage. That was when he’d had removed his helmet to allow you to see him. 

The thing is though.. You’ve always seen him. You don’t need to see his face to know Din Djarin’s heart, and his heart lays with you and that baby. The one he’s fighting to get back. 

  “No, son. What’s your TK number?” 

Lucky for you, you’d been alive during The Clone Wars. You can worm yourself and him out of this situation fairly easily. 

  “This is our Commanding Officer TK-593, and First Officer TK-616, sir.” Mayfeld slaps your back as the two of you enter the mess hall and flank either side of Din. You cannot bring yourself to look at him head on. It would not be fair, not in the midst of the pure fear that’s coursing through his mind. 

I’m right here. You whisper into the heart of the fear that plagues him, fingers idly tracing the inside of his hand as you stare the Imperial Officer down. As expected, Din visibly relaxes at the gentle trace of your fingertips against his palm. We’re surviving. 

  “I am Imperial Combat Assault Transport TK-111, sir.” Mayfeld continues, folding his hands over each other as he stands at relaxed parade rest at Din’s side. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to speak up to him a little bit since his vessel lost pressure in Taanab.” 

This gives you the brilliant idea of conversing with Din in Tusken sign, something he’d been adamant to teach you after your excursion on Tatooine. 

  “She’s our interpreter. We call her Whip.’’

While Mayfeld guides the conversation with the officer, you and Din are easing into talking in Tusken about however many ways this can go wrong, but then he changes the topic to something you’re not quite ready to acknowledge. 

You can look at me, you know. He signs, hands frantic as he tries and fails to find your eyes. You value him - and his heart - far too much to be the first person he knows to have seen his face.

No. You shake your head. I can’t. 

And you don’t. You only look at his side profile for the remainder of that trip, refusing to allow yourself the satisfaction of being the one person he cared about that has seen his face. Seen him. 

Like I said. You don’t need to see Din Djarin’s face to see him. 

*** 

Din is almost positive he’s ready to accept how he feels about you. 

The minute Mayfeld shoots that officer in the chest, you spring into action and whip that staff off your back - disengaging the lock that holds the two lightsabers together - and the world explodes in a flurry of blue as you perform the sword and shield method he’s seen you do flawlessly at least five times now. 

You don’t look at him even after you’re back in Slave One. He and Cara have escorted Mayfeld back to the surface of the planet, and it’s just you and Fett in the cockpit. Despite the clone and bounty hunter being so much older then you, there’s something oddly comforting knowing you’re sitting next to has suffered as much as you have. If not more. 

Long story short, we both survived. 

  “You know, I’ve been with you a grand total of a day and I can already see it in your eyes, Whip.” The nickname Mayfeld had come up with in the facility has already made its rounds on the ship, and Boba feels it’s more then appropriate for the first Jedi he’s met since the kids who put him in the Sarlacc to begin with. Being inside of that thing had mellowed him out. He had accepted his life for what it was now. Oddly enough.. Boba Fett is at peace. “You’re lovesick for the Mandalorian.” 

  “Boba-” 

The older man, one who mirrored what you’d always envisioned the clones - may Maker rest their souls - to look like as they aged, removed his helmet to look at you. “Take it from someone who knows. He gets you. You get him.” Boba turned his gaze back towards the ramp of Slave One where Din was talking in low voices with Cara. “Wish I’d had a jeti like you who saw me despite the armor.” 

He stopped speaking after that.  

Taking a deep breath, you descend from the cockpit just as Slave One takes off again, the coordinates for Moff Gideon’s cruiser inputted into the navi-computer. Fennec and Cara move by you to join Boba in the cockpit which leaves you and Din alone in the cargo bay. 

It’s deadly silent. 

Ner jeti. He whispers. You can hear his thoughts as clear as you hear your own. Why will you not look at me? 

Your eyes slam shut as his fingers curl around your hips. You cannot do this to him, no matter how much you want to - no matter how much you desire to finally kiss those lips you’ve dreamt idly about so many times - because here’s the truth of it: You have suffered, parts of you have died, everything you have ever known has died, you have lost everything and didn’t even try to save those on the other end of those attachments you’d formed... but something, something good, put you right here. Right here in this moment with Din Djarin mere moments before plunging into the subject of your night terrors after months of being tormented by nightmares of your fellow Jedi being tortured by the Empire for simply existing. 

And quite frankly, there’s no one else you’d rather take that plunge with. 

That fact terrifies you. 

  “I can’t look at you, Din.” You whisper. “I can’t look at you because then that would be breaking your Creed for me... and I can’t let you do that when the baby hasn’t even seen your face yet-” 

  “Oh, believe me.” A clunk echoes in the cargo-bay as the beskar falls from his hands. Your heart stops and your breath catches in your throat as you tremble beneath his grasps, eyes still closed as he steps into the curve of your body - chest to your back - and lowers his entire head to your shoulder. “I intend for him to.” 

Din lays a kiss at the nape of your neck. Maker... he’s real. Your head starts spinning as his kiss ascends right to the shell of your ear, in which he then whispers, “Open your eyes, Sarad.” and it’s such an intimate act on the behalf of someone who has not known love until you and the baby showed up that you can’t not open your eyes. 

When you turn around, your world is enveloped in a mirage of onyx. Brown eyes. 

  “Din-” Din chuckles at your obvious reluctance because he is absolutely terrified to let you see him, the real him, vulnerable and waiting and desperate for the same acceptance. 

  “I told you my name way earlier then I ever anticipated I would.” He begins, taking your hands in his own to lay them against his cheeks. It has been so long since he allowed himself to accept touch, to accept that people in the galaxy were still gentle, that he trembles when your warmth seeps into his skin. “After what Bo-Katan told me and what Mayfeld kept saying in the transport... I’ve done alot of thinking recently, and I’m coming to the conclusion that maybe the way I was raised was wrong. There’s nothing wrong with taking the helmet off.” He exhales on a shaky breath and turns his face to kiss the inside of your hand. “But then again.. I’ve always wanted to around you.” 

Your voice is small as you ask, “Why?” 

  “Because you’ve always seen me.” Din replies. “Despite the armor and the helmet, you’ve always seen me for who I was. You saw me as a father for the-” He swallows the knot in his throat and leans inward until you are a hairs breath apart, forehead resting against yours as he pulls your body into his own. “As a father for our child. Not just as a bounty hunter, but as a man. A man I could never see myself as. When you came around, I stopped surviving. I started living.” He snorted sharply through his nose. “I almost forgot what that felt like.. I think you pulled me back right before I forgot entirely.” 

He’s so grateful. It’s hard to live feeling like you’re a ghost. 

Din tests the waters of this desire radiating from you both by applying just the barest amount of pressure of his mouth on yours. As to be expected, your entire body quakes at the contact and it takes all his physical control to not allow his spinning head to make his knees give out and send him falling on the floor. 

Oh.. he could get used to this. Used to this feeling.

He’s felt this before.

Joy. 

  “That’s the thing.” Inward, outward, forward and back again, you slowly allow yourself to succumb to Din’s kiss and grip his face in your hands just a little bit tighter. “I’ve always seen you.” You pull away just enough to force your eyes open, and then you are graced with the face of the man you love. You do. You love him, and you’ve accepted it. Kriffing Boba Fett. “And you know what? I thought I’d died before I met you. I never thought I’d make it here, much less be with you.. and I am so lucky.” There it is then, that breathless smile Din has pressed the sight of twice now into his memories, that presses itself into your aspect as the two of you look at each other. 

  “Why are you lucky?” 

You wink and shrug. ‘’Long story short?” You muse. “It’s a good thing I survived.”

Little to Din’s knowledge as he plunges into the mystery of his growing love for you - his flower, the one who made him bloom - that when he kisses you again, your eyes are wide open the entire time. 

There’s never been quite so beautiful a sight as somebody who’s survived. 

bonus: i am thinking about how beautiful pedro pascal was in this episode