#except. once again removed from the thread

[garuye]

Uhhhh. Uh. Big lady

POV you bumped into an incredibly tall lady at the beach and she'd like to help you up

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

THE HISTORY BOOK ON THE SHELF. ( HOTD x Reader )

AUTHOR NOTE! Thanks for all the love. <3 pairing: King Aegon ii Targaryen x Targaryen! Little Sister! Reader prompt: When the small council plans to marry off once again, you turn to your older brother for help. word count: 1, 000+ words

You were the youngest and third daughter of Alicent and Viserys. A few months younger than Helaena and Aegon's little shadow in your childhood. Your older brother at first hated it, the way you cling onto him and gawk at him with an innocent awe.

It was your ninth name day, your Father had not paid much attention to it, but your Mother had ordered a celebration for it. You had trailed after him, babbling about nonsense as he tried to lose you. It was at dinner that night that everything had boiled over. Instead of receiving gifts, you had taken to giving everyone a gift.

He had not expected anything. He hadn't been the most kind to you. But was surprised when you had gifted him an embroidered cloth with Sunfyre on it. It was not the best and some threads were loose, but you proudly had told him you learned embroidery for him. Seeing those big doe eyes of yours his opinion changed. He adored you. You were the only one in the family that did not care about his worsening reputation. You just...adored your big brother, flaws and all.

It was why it killed him on your eleventh name day you were shipped off to the Reach, married off to a Lord as old as your Grandsire. He was haunted by your wails, of the way you clung onto Helaena and Aemond, the two of them wailing as Ser Cole carried you off to the carriage.

His young sister, the only one in the family who truly cared, was sold off like a piece of cattle. Not even your cold Grandsire was able to protest the marriage as politically it was a good match and good enough reasoning for the small council to approve it. 

As years ticked by, you gave birth to two children, a stillborn daughter and a healthy son. Your husband kept you away in the Reach, so no one in your family had seen you since you were twelve and given birth to your only surviving son.

He remembered the look in your eyes, so void and almost dead. Of how you tried to stay positive. Saying, "Tis' not so bad. He mostly ignores me, except when he wishes to bed me. But even then tis' not so bad, he finishes quickly."

When he became King, he swiftly ordered you to return home, regardless of your husband's wishes. No one would take his baby sister away from him. Not whilst he was still alive and had the crown placed upon his head.

Watching you bounce your son on your lap, he attempts to pay some attention to the small council, but his eyes keep straying back to you. It was odd to think that you were now a Mother and all grown up. Snapping out of his little daze, he glances back at the small council, each member arguing intently. Furrowing his brows in confusion, Ser Criston slides a piece of parchment in front of him, an uncomfortable look on his face. Raising a brow at what he had just returned to, he glances at the parchment, reading the words quickly. 

Your cunt of a husband was dead, finally croaked in his sleep. There was no reason for you to go back to the Reach. You could stay here in King’s Landing once more. Softly smiling at the good news, he goes to speak up when Lord Lannister stands up from his chair, slamming his hands down on the table. His face red from anger, his eyes wild like an untamable beast, and voice booming loud enough that it would make a dragon’s roar put to shame.

“To speak of the Princess in such a manner is dishonorable, I will see to it personally that your tongue is removed, Lord Wydle.” 

“The girl is of age, she has proven she can bear heirs, healthy heirs. To not give her hand to another Lord would be foolish.” 

“We need allies, the common folk are starving and soon the coin will run out. Surely as Master of Coin you can see reason, Lord Lannister.”

“Your grace, please, listen to reason we should⎯”

It takes a moment to realize what they had been discussing so intently. Then it clicks, they were speaking of having you remarry. 

"What?" He whispers, his voice shaky and full of disbelief.

"No, Aegon, please don't make me do this again. Please." You whisper, tears building up in your eyes.

"It would be best to have your sister marry someone⎯"

"Think of the war, your grace⎯"

Seeing the tears building up in your eyes, it reminded him of all those years ago when you were whisked away to the Reach. Struggling to speak up and dismiss their suggestions, you kneel in front of his chair, gripping onto breeches as you beg and plead for clemency to their plans. Your son starts to wail on the other side of his chair, making motions with his hands to be picked up. 

Feeling his heart break a little at the sight, he shifts his gaze from you then your wailing son then back to the small council. Everything is hectic and he doesn’t know who or what to focus his attention on. Does he console you? Does he tend to your wailing son? Does he handle the small council? Struggling to find his voice, he just stays frozen in his chair. 

“Please, please, do not make me do this again, Aegon.” You beg, “I did what was asked of me before. Please do not ask this of me again.”

“We need allies, your grace. The Princess is still desired by many men, men who will look past her past marriage and son. Think of the kingdom⎯”

“Send treaties, then!”

“Please, Aegon. I ask as your sister, not a member of the Court. Please do not make me do this again. I do not wish to marry again. Please do not send me away again.” You beg, your voice cracking. 

Watching as the tears begin to fall from your eyes, he clenches his jaw tightly, anger boiling up at the sight of you. His precious little sister, the one person in all of the Realm that he truly cared for, was crying by his small council's hand. Slamming his hands down hard on the table, the room goes deadly silent, minus the soft sniffles of you and your son. 

“There will be no marrying off my sister! If you wish for such alliances as much as you claim, do offer your daughters instead, for I will not be doing the same to my sister nor my daughter.” 

“Your grace, if you would just⎯”

“I am King, no?” He snaps back, “There will be no questioning of my decision. The matter is settled.”

----

@fragileheartbeats

@danytar

@nightvers

[kbwrites]

The Lord's Favorite CH.4

synopsis: the night after what you shared with Sukuna leaves you even more unsure of your place. The problem is... Sukuna is unsure as well..

prev ← → next

⚝content: trueform!sukuna x f!reader, angst, sukuna is scared of feelings so he gets angry

⚝wc: 1.4K

⚝a/n: sorry about the wait but here it is!

The morning sun filters through the heavy curtains, creeping into the room, warm rays stirring you from your peaceful slumber. A chill runs down your spine, the events from last night rushing back into your mind.  You instinctively curl into the mattress, dread tightening in your chest as you resist the urge to open your eyes. The memory of his rippling muscles—taught with desire as he devoured you whole. Mind, body, and soul now owned by Ryomen Sukuna. 

Slowly—you allow yourself to wake, the oppressive silence of the room pressing down on you. Gathering the courage to look around, you cautiously open your eyes and realize with a mixture of relief that you are alone in the bed.

The space beside you, where Lord Sukuna had lain, was now empty. Sheets twisted and tossed, a testament to the night that felt like a fever dream—except it wasn’t a dream. It was real, painfully so. His touch still burns on your skin, his commanding voice echoes relentlessly in your mind.

You take a deep breath, you push the silken sheets aside and let your feet touch the cold, polished floor. The fear still gnawing at you as you take in the imposing surroundings. Everything in the room feels foreign–Dark, velvet drapes that hang heavily over the tall windows, their rich fabric absorbing the morning light. The walls are adorned with intricate tapestries and carvings, each telling a story of his conquest and dominance. 

Every detail, from the plush carpet underfoot to the gilded frames of the artwork on the walls, speaks of a life far removed from your own. It’s a world of excess and control, where Ryomen reigns supreme, and you—despite his affection—remain firmly beneath him.

You instinctively reach for the familiar comfort of your servant clothes. But as your hand moves across the bed, searching for the coarse fabric, you come up empty.

Your brow furrows in confusion as you glance around. Your gaze lands on the edge of the bed, a silk robe draped over. Its soft fabric shimmering in the low light. You could work your whole life and probably not be able to even afford a thread from the fabric.

You hesitate, staring at it. Where are your clothes? The thought circles your mind, tinged with a growing sense of unease. Did Uraume have them removed? The realization sends a ripple of uncertainty through you, as if a small but crucial part of yourself has been taken away without your consent.

With hesitant fingers, you lift the robe, the cool, smooth fabric slipping through your grasp like water. As you drape it over your shoulders, the robe clings delicately, the comfort it offers is strange, almost elusive, leaving you feeling both sheltered and exposed all at once. The unease sits heavily in your chest as you stand in front of the mirror, the robe whispering against your skin as you move. It was beautiful… and yet did nothing to quell your swirling thoughts.

As you move towards the door, each step feels like you’re walking on knife’s edge, the fear of encountering him again weighing heavily on your mind. The corridors are eerily silent, the massacre of your former colleagues still weighing heavily on your mind. With each step, the walls seem to close in around you, the grandeur of  Ryomen’s domain feeling more like a labyrinth than a sanctuary. The echoes of your footsteps are swallowed by the silence, the tension in your chest growing with each step.

You push open the heavy doors to the dining hall, Sukuna is seated at the head of the table. Two arms rest casually against his broad chest, while the others handle a cup and a delicate scroll with an air of nonchalant grace. His focus unwavering as he converses with Uraume.

You stand there, momentarily frozen, your heart pounding with a rush of uncertainty. Sukuna’s gaze flickers briefly in your direction, a fleeting, detached acknowledgment that sends a shiver down your spine before he returns to the scroll before him.

“You’re awake,” His voice rumbles through the room. 

“Yes…I... Good morning.” You reply, voice trembling slightly.

You look to the left, where the separate table that Sukuna had made for you was. Your body instinctively moves towards it, seeking comfort in the familiarity of your designated space.  But, just as you approach the modest seating, Ryomen clears his throat.

“I have placed a seat at my table.” His declares, voice booming with authority. His eyebrow raises slightly in a subtle display of impatience as he observes your hesitation. You walk towards the long polished table, no other seats besides the large one at the head where he sat and a smaller seat—plain and unadorned—awaits at his left side.

As you sit in the smaller chair, your gaze drifts over the spread of food. The array of dishes—rich, aromatic, and intricately prepared—lies before you, the inviting scents mingling with the weight of your uncertainty. You hesitate, caught between the urge to partake and the fear of overstepping.

His eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of annoyance evident in his gaze. The king lets out a soft, exasperated sigh, the sound resonating through the room.

“Eat.” He finally mutters before turning his attention to his own plate. You dig into the food, realizing how much of an appetite you had worked up. As the savory tastes hit your tongue you sigh contently. Uraume had really outdone themselves this time. You become absorbed in the rich tastes and textures, savoring each mouthful with growing appreciation, you’re completely unaware of Sukuna’s intense gaze. His eyes, sharp and unblinking as his eyes fix on you with curiosity.

Sukuna's gaze remains fixed on you. The room is silent except for the soft clinking of cutlery and the occasional rustle of Sukuna’s scroll, but beneath this calm facade, tension simmers.

In his mind, Sukuna wrestles with an unsettling question: You are nothing... a mere servant, so why do you stir him so? 

Why does the thought of you make his heart beat the slightest bit faster?

Why did he never wish for you to work again? For your delicate fingers to only ever touch him?

The troubling ache in his chest, a visceral disturbance that he cannot quell, fuels his growing irritation and frustration.

His grip on the cup tightens so painfully that the delicate porcelain begins to tremble, its integrity threatened by his crushing hold.

 Sukuna’s internal struggle reaches a fever pitch, and the suffocating silence around him becomes unbearable.

Finally, unable to contain his mounting anger, Sukuna slams his cup down onto the table with a force that rattles the dishes. The sudden noise startles you, and you look up, your eyes wide with fear as you see the dark storm of rage flickering in his gaze.

“You—” Sukuna’s voice erupts, sharp and laden with frustration. “I am starting to think you are aware of more than you let on…”

Your gaze flickers up from your meal, confusion etched on your face, only to ignite further fury in Sukuna. He rises with a sudden, predatory grace, his towering presence casting a menacing shadow. “Do you think you’re so insignificant that you can’t grasp the depth of your impact?” His voice dripping with disdain.

“My lord, I—” you stammer, but the words catch in your throat under the weight of his ire.

His eyes lock onto yours with fierce intensity “Have I given you the impression that you have the right to challenge me? To.. stir these–” He pauses irritation bubbling over.

With a swift, contemptuous motion, Sukuna pushes back his chair, the scrape against the floor echoing like a battle cry. His eyes burn with unbridled rage as he storms out, the doors slamming shut behind him with a resonant crash.

You are left alone, shaken and trembling, the weight of his scorn and frustration heavy in the air. What could you have done to upset him? The way he handled you with such care last night was a stark contrast to the venom he had just spewed. Maybe what you shared had just been a fleeting attraction, and maybe you were a fool for ever thinking that Ryomen could see you as more.

In the solitude of his chambers, Sukuna paces, the rhythm of his steps a mechanical counterpoint to the chaos in his mind. The severity of his outburst gnaws at him, a bitter aftertaste that refuses to be swallowed. The way you shrank under his gaze, trembled at the sound of his raised voice.

 He grips the edge of his desk, the solid wood grounding him as he wrestles with the swirling chaos in his mind.

The sight of your fear had struck a nerve, and beneath his exterior, he grapples with the unsettling realization that he has caused you distress. And with the new unsettling feeling of how exactly to do something he hadn’t done in his centuries of existence…

Apologize.

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[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

There's apparantly a ratty little blanket that Astarion brings with him into whatever tents and caverns he goes to that has been dubbed his "safety blanket"-- and now I'm obsessed with seeing a ficlet about that. *puppy eyes* <3

Hiiiii sorry for the long wait. Been busy since school started and also really tired. Hope you enjoy!

You let out a quiet sigh, staring up at the roof of the tent as you have been for the past…you've lost count how long it's been since you first laid down in your shared bedroll with Astarion. Tomorrow is the day you take the fight back to Ketheric Thorm and despite knowing that his immortality has been removed, you can't help but feel nervous about the fight that lies ahead.

Turning over to your side, you realise Astarion is just as restless as you are, and is fiddling with the worn blanket you've caught only glimpses of previously. He hugs it closely to his chest, playing with a corner of the fabric and you lean in closer.

"Can't sleep either?"

Astarion scowls in response, quickly stashing his worn blanket away and turns over to face you, leaning forward to plant a chaste kiss to your lips. You smile when his gaze softens, even if it's just for that split second and laugh when he huffs in response.

"I was about to trance when you disturbed me."

"Sure you were," you hum, tucking a white curl behind his ear. You feel him shift, pressing closer against you and feel his arms wrap themselves around your waist. Each breath you let out ruffles his hair and you feel his cool skin beneath your fingertips. His ratty blanket peeks out from where he hastily tucked it beneath the corner of his pillow and you gently pry it out, the rough fabric scratching against your skin.

"I'm surprised you keep something like this. I pegged you for someone who prefers luxury and comfort."

You feel Astarion tense, his clawed fingertips pricking your skin and you shift, wondering if you should give him some space. Your worried gaze meets his crimson eyes and you sense a hint of sorrow in those eyes. He shakily inhales, then exhales and crumples into your embrace.

"That…" His voice trails off. "That's one of the few things I ever owned. Before you, before all of this."

"I'm sorry," you murmur. "I shouldn't have."

He shakes his head, "you were bound to find out about this some day."

He blindly reaches for the blanket, hugging it to his chest when you hand it to him. He looks so small, so vulnerable when he curls around the blanket, it makes your heart ache for him. His scars shine pale underneath the moonlight, yet another reminder of the life he once led, of the shackles he has yet to fully throw off. In that moment you vow silently once more to help him strike his chains off, to watch as he tastes true freedom.

When Astarion speaks again, his voice is soft, the complete opposite of his usual tone.

"All the spawn always fought over the beds in our room, all the beds except one, tucked away in the corner. That bed was always reserved for me, everyone knew I always came back covered in fluids and no one wanted to go anywhere near the bed that was possibly contaminated with those fluids. No one wanted to touch the blanket on it either, but I was fine with that. It meant the bed was mine, the blanket was mine, and I was happy about it. Cazador stole everything from me — my life, my body, my everything. To have something to call my own, it made me happier than anything ever could. It felt like a small defiance in Cazador's face, to still retain something when he tried to strip me of everything. When I fled the castle, the only thing I could bring along was this blanket and the clothes on my back."

He plays with a loose thread dangling from the edge of the blanket, letting you gently rub circles on his back. He presses against you, leaning into your warm touch. You press a kiss to the top of his head, relishing in the comfort your beloved vampire brings simply by being right next to you.

"I'm surprised it's still in one piece," you trace a finger over the fabric, feeling the little bumps where it has been stitched over. "Did you patch the holes up yourself?"

"Of course I did. As if I'd let anyone else touch something so precious."

Still, he makes no motion to pull his precious blanket away from you. Your hands brush against each other, sending tingles up your spine, a quiet chuckle slipping from your lips.

"Will you teach me how to sew?" His eyes widen at your suggestion, and then the smirk you're all too familiar with forms on his face.

"Under my tutelage? You'll learn well, but you won't ever be as good as me."

You laugh, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "That's all I need."

He smiles a genuine smile that lets his fangs peek through, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Underneath the moonlight he looks ethereal, the moon's glow outlining his figure. He then closes the distance between the both of you, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss that you wish will never end, but your lungs beg for oxygen and you are forced to break the kiss.

"You have more than just the blanket now. I am yours, every fibre of my being, forevermore." You press your forehead against his, closing your eyes as you breathe in his familiar scent. He cradles you in return, soaking in the warmth you exude.

When you open your eyes once again, there's a glimmer in his eyes that wasn't there before. He nuzzles into your shoulder, smiling contentedly and drifts off into a trance, his worn blanket left forgotten. You hold him in your arms, feeling sleep finally take over, all stress forgotten.

There are words left unsaid, but they will be spoken in due time, that you're sure of. After all, a life waits for you at the end of this journey, wherever it may bring you. Somehow deep down, you know this to be true. The words can wait until the time is right, but until then, you're contented to know that you are his and nothing can ever change that.

[skaldish]

As much as I love Ireland’s Immortals for a lot of reasons, I’m kind of bummed the author doesn’t seem to detect the same pre-Christian substrates that I do within the medieval works.

For example, I’m noticing what appears to be genuine pre-Christian narratives nested within in the medieval story The Second Battle of Moytura, particularly in the bit about Bres’s conception. I’ve not seen a single author address it so far, and most boil down this conception-event as “Elatha and Ériu fucked on the beach.”

But it's not.

For those who aren’t familiar, here’s the passage in question:

Now the conception of Bres came about in this way. One day one of their women, Eriu the daughter of Delbaeth, was looking at the sea and the land from the house of Maeth Sceni; and she saw the sea as perfectly calm as if it were a level board. After that, while she was there, she saw something: a vessel of silver appeared to her on the sea. Its size seemed great to her, but its shape did not appear clearly to her; and the current of the sea carried it to the land. Then she saw that it was a man of fairest appearance. He had golden-yellow hair down to his shoulders, and a cloak with bands of gold thread around it. His shirt had embroidery of gold thread. On his breast was a brooch of gold with the lustre of a precious stone in it. Two shining silver spears and in them two smooth riveted shafts of bronze. Five circlets of gold around his neck. A gold-hilted sword with inlayings of silver and studs of gold. The man said to her, "Shall I have an hour of lovemaking with you?" "I certainly have not made a tryst with you," she said. "Come without the trysting!" said he. Then they stretched themselves out together. The woman wept when the man got up again. "Why are you crying?" he asked. "I have two things that I should lament," said the woman, "separating from you, however we have met. The young men of the Tuatha De Danann have been entreating me in vain-and you possess me as you do." "Your anxiety about those two things will be removed," he said. He drew his gold ring from his middle finger and put it into her hand, and told her that she should not part with it, either by sale or by gift, except to someone whose finger it would fit. "Another matter troubles me," said the woman, "that I do not know who has come to me." "You will not remain ignorant of that," he said. "Elatha mac Delbaith, king of the Fomoire, has come to you. You will bear a son as a result of our meeting, and let no name be given to him but Eochu Bres (that is, Eochu the Beautiful), because every beautiful thing that is seen in Ireland—both plain and fortress, ale and candle, woman and man and horse—will be judged in relation to that boy, so that people will then say of it, 'It is a Bres.'" Then the man went back again, and the woman returned to her home, and the famous conception was given to her.

In case you’re not familiar with the cast of characters here: Ériu represents the physical landmass that is Ireland. Elatha is a fomorian king. The fomorians are thought to be sea-dwelling supernatural beings of some kind. People have equated them to the titans of the Greeks and the jötnar of the Norse, but I think this is a false equivalence and that the fomorians may instead be reflections of an older pantheon of gods.

I think this because of the weird, somewhat-disjointed way everything is described in this passage. From my experience reading the Norse myths, when a text has this kind of nature it’s because it’s saying one thing while meaning another.

There’s a theory out there that Elatha was originally a sun-god due to his dripping-gold imagery. But personally, I think the descriptions of him and his vessel are meant to represent this bad boy:

And the reason why I think Elatha represents Halley’s Comet (or another comet of rare and exceptional appearance) is for a number of reasons:

First, unlike the sun and all the usual fixtures we see in the firmament, Elatha appears once to Ériu and doesn’t return. His appearance is not only unanticipated, but so spectacular that he woos Ireland in a way that no other celestial body has done before, despite their repeated attempts.

Second, Elatha’s vessel is described as being of a great size and indistinct shape, which slyly hints that its nature is something other than a boat. (Also, the fact this sky-vehicle is characterized as a seafaring vessel rather than a chariot suggests this is a very old story.)

Third, the sea is described as calm and still as if it were a level board. If you were sailing on such a sea on a moonless night, it would probably look and feel as though you were sailing into open space. This is evoking the imagery of the sky by using the imagery of the sea, suggesting we’re in fact talking about the former by hiding it behind an unusual description of the latter. (It’s also possible this story preserves the kind of atmospheric conditions that occurred during this hypothetical visitation of Halley’s Comet. Who knows?)

And finally, the fomorians are said to be “from the sea.” Later interpretations of this cast them as sea-raiders or something like aquatic demons. But theoretically, this could have come from a older belief that the gods came from “beneath the sea” in the sense that they came from “beyond and beneath the horizon, where the sun rises and sets.” If cosmic bodies were thought to be gods, it would have looked like they entered and exited the material realm via water, because Ireland—being an island—is surrounded by the sea on all sides.

(This in fact pairs very well with the theory that the early Irish believed bodies of water were portals to the Otherworld, evidenced by the number of offerings found deposited in them. If they watched their gods rise and set from the ocean, it’d make sense they’d view any body of water as a way to access the gods’ otherworldly realm.)

So now, with all that said, this puts the visuals behind Elatha and Ériu squarely into Proto-Indo-European territory—Their meeting echoes the archetype of the Sky God copulating with the Earth Goddess. Normally I’m not one for P.I.E. comparisons, but this feels pretty on the nose and I’m curious whether it has academic weight.

If so, it also suggests their son, Bres, may have once been a significant figure in pre-Christian Ireland; much different than the half-rate villain he’s cast as in the Second Battle of Moytura. This would also explain why his wife is Brigid, a goddess who was likely just important back then as she is now (supposedly she’s a reflex of a Dawn Goddess).

The overall plot of Moytura itself is an Irish equivalent of David and Goliath—in other words, very Christian—but this is just one of several nuggets of older myths I see scattered within it, disincorporated but otherwise preserved. The presence of these nuggets are hard to detect because they’re supposed to be; they’re written in such a way that our minds automatically smooth over the small, granular disruptions they cause in favor of plot continuity. But this is exactly how people would hide information inside information as a way to preserve it; they would exploit loopholes in the way cognition works so that these things would go by undetected. I saw it with Snorri’s Prose Edda and I see it here.

Unfortunately, it seems the Irish had to take more aggressive measures than Snorri to hide this information, so the substrate of their old mythology is wedged in really deep. It’ll take me months just to find all the threads in Moytura alone, and even then I don’t know how much can be resurrected from it.

[stillbornfrost]

Hello! So I messaged you to ask you about what you're open to writing about and i was wondering if you could write a cookie run kingdom fic but specifically i was wondering if you could write headcanons for Yandere Ancients? I really like the way you write your stuff!!

HELLO YES HI!!

I absolutely take requests and omg thank you so much for the kind words!!! You're feeding my writer ego and I am EATING. Also yes, I do write for Cookie Run Kingdom and Yandere Ancients??? Say less. I’ve got you. Buckle in!

Yandere CRK Ancients x Reader Headcanons

Pure Vanilla Cookie

He looks like the safest choice, doesn’t he? All so soft voice, warm smiles, gentle healing hands. But that’s the danger—he never raises his voice. He lowers it.

The kind of yandere who thinks he’s saving you from the world, and maybe even from yourself.

If you get sick or injured, even slightly, he takes it as a “sign” that you shouldn’t be out and about without him.

“You don’t have to suffer anymore. I’ll take care of everything, my dear.”

Gaslights you with a smile. Says things like “Oh, I never said that,” or “You must be exhausted. Maybe you just imagined it?”

You’ll find the castle staff has stopped speaking to you. They avoid eye contact.

You want freedom? He gives you a “garden” to wander in—an enchanted dome you’ll never get past. But oh, he visits daily with fresh pastries and love-drunk eyes.

Hollyberry Cookie

She doesn’t mean to scare you—but she absolutely does. Loud affection, bear hugs that crack ribs, and the way she throws a punch at anyone who dares to stand too close.

Brags about you constantly. Literally introduces you to people as “my little berry tart.”

You tried to leave once. She cried. Then smashed a stone pillar with her bare hands.

“Don’t do that to me again. You’re mine. You belong with me!”

Has absolutely tackled you mid-escape and then sobbed into your clothes while holding you like a lifeline.

You get everything you want—except freedom. She can’t handle the idea of losing you.

Loves you so hard it’s smothering. You’re surrounded by feasts, music, laughter... and invisible guards who are all under strict orders to never let you leave her sight.

Dark Cacao Cookie

The most chilling part? He’s calm. He never yells. He just speaks in low, cold tones that freeze the blood in your frosting.

Keeps you in the highest room of his kingdom. Says it’s to keep you “above the dangers of the world.”

“It is my duty to protect what I cherish.”

Doesn’t understand why you’d want to leave. Of course you belong here. With him. Always.

He watches from the shadows—personally and through his warriors. You might feel alone, but you never are.

He lets you think you have a choice. That you could walk out. But when you try, the snow thickens, the blizzards howl louder, and suddenly you realize... the mountains are alive, and they answer to him.

There’s a terrible kind of tenderness in how he brushes frost from your hair and says, “The world cannot have you. You are... mine to keep.”

Golden Cheese Cookie

She’s a queen in every sense, and in her mind? You’re her favorite treasure. The crown jewel. Her possession.

She gives you everything. Gold-threaded robes, diamond-studded accessories, meals fit for deities.

“What more could you want? You have me.”

Throws banquets in your honor. Has bards write songs about your beauty and “devotion.”

If you ever try to assert independence, she laughs like it’s a joke... until her eyes go sharp.

"Why would you ever leave the one who gave you everything?"

Anyone who gets too close to you is quietly removed. Publicly discredited. Exiled. You notice the disappearances after a while.

The palace is vast and golden—but feels like a glittering tomb. She’s always watching. Always smiling. Always yours.

White Lily Cookie

Pre-transformation Lily is delicate, poetic, and painfully obsessed.

“We’re two halves of a dream. You understand me, don’t you? You have to.”

Writes long, rambling letters to you—even when you’re just in the next room.

As Dark Enchantress? That obsession turns cosmic. She’ll bend reality for you. Break kingdoms for you. Burn the world and offer you the ashes like a bouquet.

“You’re the only one I spared. That means something. That means everything.”

She convinces you that the rest of the world hates you. That only she can love you completely.

Every time you resist, her mask of calm cracks a little. Her rage is like a storm contained in a teacup—one wrong move and the porcelain shatters.

You’re not her prisoner. You’re her chosen god. And she will not let you fall into anyone else’s hands. Ever.

[intuitive-revelations]

Theory: Something serious is up with the TARDIS

I had been wondering about this all series, but after Rogue today, it's finally been confirmed that something's going on with the TARDIS (on top of all the other arc threads going on!).

The moment I picked it up was in The Devil's Chord, where the TARDIS makes a strange groan and creaks after landing back in 1963. Ruby thinks it's from Maestro, but the Doctor says it's "something else". As of today it's happened again, twice! Once in the episode itself, once in the next time trailer. The exact same sound effect!

Someone on reddit pointed out a few weeks ago that this sound appeared even earlier too, in Wild Blue Yonder (notably also when we first saw Susan Twist, had gravity changed to mavity, and welcomed the Pantheon into the universe). Each time, it's also had attention drawn to it. Here's a video of each scene, followed by a direct comparison of each sound:

(I did have a quick glance to see if it appeared elsewhere, maybe even during Flux. As far as I can tell however, Wild Blue Yonder seems to be the only non-S14 appearance.)

What's more, going back to that Reddit thread, someone pointed out what the Wild Blue Yonder script says about this moment:

And then the TARDIS seems to moan. The Doctor fascinated. DONNA: Is it working? THE DOCTOR: I think so. Strange. He reaches out, touches the TARDIS, wondering. And that 'strange' will come back to haunt him, one day. But now...

(Suddenly the TARDIS freaking out over Donna's spill might make a bit more sense...)

So what the hell's going on?

Well, between a trailer scene and some news that just came out a few hours ago as of writing this, I think I may have an idea. Given it's based on trailer footage uploaded and then removed from YouTube, I'll put it below beneath a read more:

In a removed Disney+ teaser trailer we get two frames of the Doctor screaming out into space (with Mel behind him). Except it's not from "his" TARDIS:

It's the f*cking memory TARDIS!

And here's the thing. Not only was this trailer scrubbed from the Disney+ and BBC channels, but in the other trailers, this clip is entirely different! Not only is Mel gone, but the TARDIS interior is now Fifteen's own, and the TARDIS is in a different, generic region of space.

Just before this, we also see a similar nebulous region of space matching the unmanipulated clip.

But why on Earth is this such a big deal, that the BBC/Disney would go full MCU and give us a deliberately altered clip? The only previous time I remember Doctor Who doing this was for Series 10, hiding the plot point of the Doctor's blindness. It's not because of Mel, who literally appears in the released trailer. It's also seemingly not because of the background, despite it also being altered (unless the two moons are a clue with the planet being Gallifrey or something - the thought had occurred to me - but that's such a tiny detail, and we also only see one sun). Instead, it must be the Memory TARDIS. But why?

In-universe, I have no idea. On one hand I'd be delighted to get some answers as to its nature. Assuming it's connected to the groans we've been hearing, then it could be the TARDIS undergoes some sort of metamorphosis into this state? But we've seen the TARDIS change all the time, whether for safety, to recover or whatever. I also can't imagine general audiences are falling over themselves to find out the in-universe explanation for a Classic Who re-release framing device. Not to mention, apparently the sound will go on to "haunt" the Doctor...

...maybe the TARDIS straight up is taken out of commission in some way? And the Memory TARDIS isn't the same ship, but the Doctor's way of saving the day without her? Maybe even remembered into existence Fitz/Amy style?

Out of universe however, it's just been announced yesterday that we're getting more Tales of the TARDIS.

And not just more omnibus stories with past characters returning for in-universe commentary... but with Fifteen and Ruby! What's more, it's apparently a one-off, right before the finale (but, note, after the first part next week).

Which means it's important. Possibly extremely so, given the edited trailer scene. It might even serve as an interquel, given Fifteen and Ruby are somehow in it.

I've seen two common theories. Either a) it will be Pyramids of Mars, and we're getting Sutekh in the finale (presumably with Fifteen and Ruby partially because of bringing back Elizabeth Sladen obviously not being an available option - and even if you thought up another character, eg. Luke, I doubt Tom would be interested, at that point anyway), or b) it will be something tying into Susan returning.

Honestly between the remaining trailer clips (eg. sandstorms and dusty planets), a tease RTD supposedly gave in DWM, and an old interview with him where he supposedly floated the idea of bringing back a Classic Who for a finale and airing the original serial on BBC3 beforehand, I'm kinda leaning towards the prior, even though it wasn't at all on my radar.

However, this still doesn't actually answer what's up with the TARDIS.

It could quite literally be anything. However, here's a few ideas, some reasonable some weird, that I have come up with:

Old age / stress. This is a weird one, but oddly enough something I had thought of once in the past, and I just saw someone else come to the same idea on Reddit. The idea is that while the Doctor has a new regeneration cycle and now a good few years, if not decades or more, of rest and recovery, the TARDIS may struggling in it's own right (especially if it is somehow old enough to have once been the Fugitive Doctor's). However, while this could be something interesting to explore, and I think isn't entirely mutually exclusive with other options, I can't imagine going anywhere near a storyline of the TARDIS itself 'wearing thin'. Besides, if we did, I like to imagine it would have been foreshadowed with size leakage, as per Name of the Doctor.

Relating to the above, could it be something linked to the TARDIS splitting in The Giggle? However, the sound starts before then (not that that means much to the TARDIS, but still).

Laws of rationality breaking down. This one makes the most sense in a lot of ways, between the expanded universe (particularly Christmas on a Rational Planet) and Flux, we've seen the TARDIS cannot survive in an irrational universe. While time has stabilised for now, we're still seeing magic and other Old Time forces encroaching in on the Web of Time. I'm a bit torn with this one however, as while it works from a lore and writing perspective, plus matches with this starting in Wild Blue Yonder (right after the Mavity incident... interestingly), it seems odd it's not more connected with what happened in Flux? Why are the sounds and effects on the TARDIS completely different?

Something to do with the Doctor's fobwatch. In Rogue, the Doctor blames the sound on indigestion. We know we're getting more Timeless Child related stuff - could this somehow be linked to Thirteen dropping the Division biodata module deep into the TARDIS? Would be a weird time to pick this up though, and I'm not sure exactly how that would have had such an effect.

The most actually likely, but least possible to theorise about: it's something time-wimey to do with Ruby, the villain(s) of the story, and/or Susan Twist, especially given this started after her first appearance.

Regardless, I'm just excited to see what's up with the Memory / "Remembered" TARDIS, because it's seems we're about to learn something...

[clementineofmine]

What if...

What if...

Five, in a last fit of rage and defiance, summons the energy to attack Reginald in the Oblivion machine. With only one arm, dizzy from lack of blood and loss of his marigold, Five's desperate attack is swatted away like a flea. When Allison pleads with Reginald for clemency, their father makes the split second decision to throw Allison into the furnace instead of the nearly depleted Five. The addition of her marigold gives the doomsday machine enough power to achieve its purpose.

Five's last vision before he fades into oblivion is the image of his siblings dying in front of him, once again helpless to save them.

Sometimes later, to Five's surprise and horror, he wakes up. He is in a hospital bed, tended by competent but cold nursing staff that call him "Mr. Hargeeeves" politely and never answer any questions. Late at night, he pulls at his powers, but with only one remaining hand nothing happens. Eventually, he leaves the hospital, simply walking out in the middle of the day, and finds himself in the midst of a city that is Not Quite like the one he remembers.

He wanders the strange City, heading as best he remembers towards the Academy. It's not there. A nondescript housing block sits in its place. Griddys is gone too, as is every recognizable place from the dusty memories of Five's childhood. His entire life is erased, except for the name Hargreeves, which he finds engraved in stone on every municipal building and etched in metal and glass on many of the corporate ones.

Five finds guards with Hargeeeves stitched on their uniform lapels are everywhere in the city, but each of them ignores Five, silently watching as he commits petty theft, then a series of increasingly public crimes and antics. There is one, and only one, exception to their imposed silence. Time after time, Five tries to get close to Reginald, first demanding, then bargaining, then sneaking, then assaulting his way into the ominous tall guilding bearing his father's name. None of these tactics work. Five is rebuffed again and again by the well trained guards who politely but firmly send him away.

Alone, truly alone, Five eventually leaves the City. He finds a small hunting cabin with worn but comfortable furnishings covered in a thick layer of dust. Life is harder out here, but Five isn't so far removed from his survival days, and the skills come back quickly. Over time, he sees Reginald's goons less often, and eventually stops seeing them at all.

One winter day, Five begins doing the math again, the stiff fingers of his one remaining hand hesitantly, reluctantly, then angrily scratching wobbly notes on random scraps of paper. These scraps grow and multiply over years until the creaky table, then most of the cabin itself, is filled with his writings. These tombs of equations, scratched out in increasingly confident strokes over decades, will eventually be catalogued and preserved by his followers as history, but for now, they are simply the proof of a solitary one-armed man accepting his destiny.

Eventually, Five wanders away from his self-imposed isolation, seeking out those who will serve his purpose - academics and engineers and malcontents and even the whack doodle conspiracy theorists - those are the most important ones actually, the ones who can almost see where the lines between realities blur, those threads of space time that are now hidden from Five. With his followers, Five eventually, painfully, finds those lines again and crack them open, using manual technology that recreates the spatial-temporal ripping that used to come as naturally as breathing to Five. Digital would be easier, he knows, but he purposefully chooses technology that can't be tracked, can't be traced by Reginald.

Five is once again turning the corner towards old age when they finally leave this world he never called home and set up shop in a pleasant and non-descript corner of reality. By this point, and by design, his team functions without him, creating a bureaucracy that quickly takes on a life of its own, living and breathing, but most importantly, finally freeing up Five to pursue his own interests.

He barely takes notice when they place the shiny new plaque on his desk. He never turns it around, never mentions it, perhaps because he already knows what it reads: Temps Commission, followed by Five Hargeeeves, Founder.

[renmackree]

WIP Wednesday

I was tagged by the wonderous @hedwig221b and for once, I'm taking time to do it! Have some more of my Necromancer!Stiles

“She fell down the stairs –” Stiles started, but Lydia was already stepping down to the small stain on the ground. She removed the charm bracelet from her wrist and tucked it into her pocket, resting her hand on the ground. Stiles watched as Lydia closed her eyes and listened to the room around them, getting down on her hands and knees to press her ear against the floor. Minutes passed and Stiles stared at Lydia while she listened with her eyes closed, boredom creeping in like a fog. “Is she singing the Banana Boat song?”  “Shut up, Stiles.” “I’m just asking if you’re hearing anything.” Lydia sighed, “Music, bottles smashing, someone calling her name, someone crying they need to help her – someone saying they should go because they weren’t supposed to be there. And… and… someone asking me stupid questions so I can’t concentrate.” Stiles made a face at the dig. He could take a hint and decided to take a walk around the cellar, trying to see if there was anything else that could find. This part of the investigation wasn’t really something he could help with – while he could directly see and interact with the Eidolon guise once it had been summoned, Lydia was the only one who could find the Klotho. Balance and Partnership, Stiles repeated the mantra his mother said over and over when she was alive.  “Here!”  Jerking his head in her direction, he walked back to where Lydia was on her knees again, pulling a shimmering thread from the floor. It danced in the fluorescent light and looked as delicate as spiderwebs but Stiles knew it was as strong as steel. Nothing could snap the Klotho except a Banshee’s scream. Slowly she grabbed the little spool from her pocket and began spinning it around the wooden dowel until it was completely filled. Lydia handed it to Stiles, clapping her hands together as she stood up. “It’s not as long as we’d like it, but it should give you a good twenty minutes.” “More than enough time to confirm if it’s an accident,” Stiles agreed. He slipped the spool into his pocket and patted it a few times.

Low stakes tags: @cw0ffeefandomaddict; @rugbertgoeshome; @dear-massacre; @violetfairydust;

@endwersed; @thotpuppy; @keldjinfae; @teencopandthesourwolf; @definitivelydrivel;

I'm sure some (all) of you have been tagged already, but !

[mrjsbunny]

Boredom

Ledger!Joker/reader

Warnings: choking, exhibitionism, squirting, masturbation, shoe humping, verbal humiliation, public humiliation, minor knife!play (no injuries), nickname use: bunny, reader is referred to as a girl indirectly so I will not be using AFAB (female reader and gendered language)

J has been planning this for a while. A “triple header”, he keeps calling it. It has a lot of moving parts and a lot of people that need to be on the same page. You understand why he’s busy. It doesn’t make it any less frustrating to sit across from him and have 0 attention from him whatsoever.

The dim glow of the fluorescent lights, the humming accompanied. It would drive anyone mad after a while. This has been his life- your life- for quite some years. Passing the time is no easy feat. J is giving a freshly-revised run down of the plans, his goons are clinging to every word, as are you. Your interest has much more to do with how the words tumble from his marred lips. He slows his speech to think and nobody dares interrupt to fill in the obvious blanks. He’s the boss here, through and through.

You idly fidget with the armrest of the only soft chair in this room. Only the best for his baby, even if the “best” is relative to the worst conditions possible. Pulling the threads slowly, running your fingertips over the seams. You’re almost bored enough to count the stitches. J still holds your attention as now he’s removed his tie completely, smoothly wrapping it around his knuckles to make a tidy coil to set on the table next to him. He tilts his chin upward on his left side, cracking his neck and his eyes shift to you for a moment. He stares you down from the top of his nose, pressing his lips together and squinting like he’s trying to see what you’re up to. Not that there’s anything to be up to.

J returns to the schematics in front of him, running his middle finger over a small section, studying the layout. His tongue juts out for a split second, swiping from the middle of his top lip to the right corner of his mouth, staying there for a moment while he thinks. He’s too pretty for his own good, you think. Surely other people can spot the sensuality.

It’s getting much harder to distract yourself. Not from the boredom, but from J. From every little movement he does, every glance you receive from him. You’re in thin leggings and a light sweater but you’re burning up in this dingy, void, concrete room. Tugging lightly at the sweater for a bit of a breeze, you continue to watch J. He’s getting more frantic now. His plans are getting pushed back by new information and problems arising. There’s not enough manpower here, “we can’t be in two places at once, boss…”, the timing is off, blah blah blah. You scoot your chair under the table, far enough to drape a leg over one arm of the chair and not have it be noticed.

The goons are busy, J is busy, the room is simultaneously too bright and too dim. The only thing you can focus on comfortably is J. Your mind wanders to the previous night. A whisky and wine fueled frenzy between you and J. There’s fingerprints spattered across your hips and thighs, though not visible at this moment. You press on one you recall the location of. It almost feels like his hands again. You breathe deeply and sigh. It’s not loud enough to catch anyone’s attention, it seems.

J started this meeting still in his suit. A terrible choice given his first move when he’s stressed is to remove articles of clothing. His suit jacket is laid on the back of his chair, his tie is gone, still sat next to him on the table. He’s got suspenders today, but they are off his shoulders and dangling around his hips and legs. There’s very little difference between what he looks like right now and what a businessman at the top of a skyscraper at that very moment looks like. Except maybe the makeup. But who knows, truly.

You’re definitely wet at this point. There’s no question. Your senses have been bombarded with nothing but J. The smell of a discarded cigar wraps your throat. The sound of his tongue clicking in contemplation. The sight of him. It’s not entirely your fault for fantasizing about him.

You decide it’s only fair if you have to sit in on these meetings that you get to have a little fun too. A little entertainment. Starting by repositioning, you extend your one leg still draped on the arm of the chair ever so slightly. Your other leg swings out to the opposite side with your foot on the floor, spreading your legs as far as possible under these conditions. Glancing around to make sure nobody has noticed your odd maneuvers, to your relief they’re all still focused on J. And J is always more focused on something else besides you in these meetings. You rest your cheek on your hand lazily and casually place your other hand over your clothed pussy. Your eyes dart around briefly to take note of everyone’s awareness. Nobody can tell.

Now’s the time where J is telling individual goons their specific roles. None of them have real names it’s more of a game to guess who J is referencing. He might call them out by their clothing, maybe their hair. They never know until he does it and by God they had better catch on quick when he does. He’s pointing around the room but still staring at his blueprints and journal full of notes.

You take great care in slipping your hand into your leggings, careful not to make it look like, well, like you’re sticking your hand in your pants. Once your freezing hand makes contact with your bare clit, it’s over. There’s no turning back now, your body wouldn’t allow it. You inhale sharply at the temperature difference, reveling in it. Temperature play isn’t new to either you or J. You start with slow, firm circles. Collecting your mess to help you glide over your clit. Your poker face is strong, it has to be this time. The desperation has seeped into every nerve ending and they will not let you forget that.

One goon happens to glance over in a moment of pondering and notices you look sort of flushed. But he quickly averts his gaze because it’s none of his business in the first place. J keeps rambling. It’s getting louder as more confident, long standing guys bounce ideas off of J and naturally the conversations get more intense. The room is a low drone of 20+ people chattering and arguing. You take the opportunity to ramp up your actions. You slip two fingers in your pussy and curl them to your liking over and over. It’s not nearly enough to satisfy you but it does feel nice. You keep watching J as he pours himself over his work. His hair falls in his face as he leans further over the table. He shifts one leg forward and the suspenders lay perfectly over his strong thigh that you long to be straddling. You let your eyes slip shut, hoping it just looks like you’ve fallen asleep in the chair. You speed up your fingers and angle your hand so you can circle your clit with your thumb. You sigh through your nose and try extra hard not to furrow your brow.

After a few minutes of the loud talking and you touching yourself, you slow down and take a break. Just leaving your hand in your leggings and breathing. J is giving a final rundown of the plan, any remaining kinks can be worked out without the entire group present.

“This isn’t…monetary so there’s no cuts to be made. Any profits are mine to keep because I say so, and- don’t stop. I didn’t tell you to stop.”

J has one hand perched on the table on its fingertips and the other sits at his side, resting on his leg. The goons stare at him, waiting for an explanation. For all they know this is still part of their briefing. Your eyes shoot open, immediately to be caught by his staring directly at you, something he hasn’t done for most of the night. You don’t speak or react.

“I’m not dumb, sweetie, I could smell you the moment you got wet. Nobody else in here could fill the room like that.” J’s lips curl into a taught smile, scrunching his nose and narrowing his eyes in a demeaning expression that dropped as quickly as it came.

“Out. Everybody out.” J says calmly. The rooms occupants file out quietly but quickly. You make a move to get out of the chair.

“AHT. Not you. Sit down.” J says through gritted teeth. You sink back into the chair sheepishly.

J swaggers over to you with one hand in his pocket and the other twirling a pen.

“Bunny, bunny, bunnyyyy.” He sing-songs his way down the table.

“You’re so funnyyyy.” He sings again once he’s standing over you. J leans down next to your face. You’re frozen in his presence. It’s suffocating.

“Awww you look nervous,” J feigns a concerned expression which is broken by a creeping grin spreading across his face, “Sweets? Do I not give you enough attention?” He asks with a small nod and a saccharine tone.

You scoot the chair back a little and close your legs, keeping eye contact with J. He points at you with the pen, then points at another chair nearby, a much smaller folding chair. It looks uncomfortable. You glance at the chair and back at him before raising yourself from your seat and timidly making your way to the new one, closer to the head of the table where J once commanded. You cast your eyes to the floor, still embarrassed by what J had said in front of everyone.

“Hurry u-p.” J chastises and pats your bottom twice to move you along. You scurry to the chair and sit down. Keeping your back straight and your feet planted. Posture is presentation, and presentation is everything. J taught you that. J breathes a heavy sigh and paces a half circle behind you, only ever letting you see him in your peripheral. He stops directly behind the chair, places his hands on your shoulders, and crouches. The leather of his shoes squeaking and the stretch of his pants fabric echoing in the ever silent warehouse. You can hear the jingle of a wallet chain and the swish of his suspenders scraping the floor. He runs rough fingers over your sides, gripping your waist and hips for a few moments.

“Don’t move.” J warns. He reaches out for the tie sitting on the table in front of you. You don’t dare turn your head to watch but you take note of him tying the fabric into a loop.

“You know, you’re worth way more alive than dead.” This is J’s way of saying, ‘trust me, I’m not going to kill you.’ J stands upright and dangles the looped tie in front of your face, like a dog catcher trying to trap a feral hound. You see he’s made a slip knot to make the loop. The tie smells like him, it’s your bait to override your instincts and get you to put your neck through, you think. It’s not even intentional, the sway he has over you. He’s intoxicating in all the ways you’d been warned about in men.

“Easyyyyy does it…”, J slides the slack fabric over your head, careful to not catch your hair between it and your skin. Slowly he starts pulling the loose end. Your skin prickles with fear and anticipation as the sound of the cloth cinching becomes deafening. It feels like forever and you still haven’t felt the tie get snug. That’s when J leans next to your face, his nose pressed to your temple, his lips grazing your ear,

“Deep breath.” You have about 2 seconds to gasp before he yanks the end of the tie up and back. You instinctively grab for the constraint around your throat and garble. J loosens the tie slightly, but leaves it snug to your skin. He fishes in his pocket for a second and walks around to your front, still holding the loose end of the tie in one hand. His other now holds a small pocket knife. He flicks it open and places it between his teeth so he can reach down and bat your legs open. Placing himself between them he grabs the knife again and slips it flat against your stomach down into the waistband of your leggings. He pulls away from your skin and twists the knife so the bite of the blade can tear the fabric. Once he has a decent enough slit he sets the knife on the table behind him.

“You didn’t flinch.” J notes. He looks back up at your face, though still looking down at you from his towering position.

“It’s what’s best for me.” You reply. Knowing that’s what J wants to hear. He likes subtle reminders that the version of you before him is entirely his doing.

J hums and refocuses on the torn leggings.

“Rip them the rest of the way off.” J orders. He never has to be too stern with you. Or with anyone. He’s established himself as the boss, and a powerful man doesn’t have to yell to get his point across.

You blindly pat your lap for the fabric so you can comply. Keeping eye contact with J, you pull the flap until you hear stitches popping, reaching your other hand to pull the remaining fabric in the opposite direction. J drops his gaze from yours to watch you expose yourself to him. His grip on the tie tightens involuntarily and you can feel the pressure getting greater. Whining quietly you rip the leggings until your whole lap is bare.

“Hmmm, no panties?” J asks as he takes in the sight. He seems a little surprised, raising his brows for a moment before setting his face back the way it was.

“Alrighty, doll, continue.” J says as he moves back behind the chair again. You falter a moment but catch on quick, moving your hand between your legs to continue your previous antics. J tightens the tie once again, limiting the amount of air you can draw in. You moan, the sensations heightened by the fuzzy feeling in your head from lack of oxygen.

“Thaaaat’s it, bunny. Give me a show.” J praises.

“It’s not enough, J, I can’t- EUAGH-,” the tie is impossibly tight now.

“Not enough?! I kick out all my men just to play with you and you tell me it’s not enough?” J knows exactly what you mean. He didn’t have to stop the meeting just to play with you. Oh, but he did, though, didn’t he? This is much more fun than arguing with degenerates. J knows your own hand is not enough. If it were, he’d have just sent you somewhere else to deal with it. He wants his fun, too. J comes back around to your front again, but this time he straddles one of your legs. He then lifts the leg that’s between yours and places his shoe-clad foot over your hand and crushes it to your core. You yelp and whimper a little, stopping the movements he had just told you to start.

“Move your hand.” J says coldly and releases some pressure from your hand. You do, hesitantly. The gritty sole of his shoe firmly presses down on your pussy as replacement. You gasp into a moan and thrust your hips wildly up into the new sensation.

J snorts a laugh and looks at you with slight disbelief. Shaking his head and clicking his tongue.

“This is a lot, bunny. You’re lucky I condition these shoes, or else you’d be paying a price for ruining them right now,” J would never make you pay for anything. Not with money, anyway. You’re still humping his shoe with fervor, you’re sweating from the effort and still fighting the fabric around your neck, choking you.

“Sir-“ you grunt out, “wait, sir, I’m really close.” You warn him. He doesn’t make a move.

“I know.” J informs you gently. He’s enamored with your mindset. You do so well with him it’s almost like he molded you from scratch.

Staring up at him with wet, pleading eyes. Your face red, hair stuck to you with sweat. You’re begging him silently to give you just a little more.

J stares blankly back at you. If it weren’t for the extremely obvious bulge in his pants, pulsing every few seconds, he would come off bored. Like he would rather be anywhere else. But you know him better than that.

“You can do it without my help.” J replies. You whine for real this time. A desperate whine to plead with him. It never works to whine to J but you insist on trying it every time. This time, however, he gives you a little something extra. J reaches down with his free hand and flips up your sweater to expose your breast. He pinches your nipple with his thumb on top, pressing down into the knuckle of his pointer finger. You groan and roll your hips into his shoe, hard. He releases the harsh pinch and continues rubbing the pad of his thumb over the bud. Your hips stutter and seem to get stuck in a raised position. Your body can’t decide if it wants more. You can’t control the urges, you’re at his mercy. J takes the opportunity to press the toe of his shoe harder into your clit. He pulls the tie a bit tighter, giving you the perfect buzz in your head to match your body.

“J- J….oh my God-,”

“I’m flattered.”

“I think I’m gonna cum-“ you couldn’t even count a single beat before your orgasm crashes over you. J keeps the tie firm, watching you seize up in a silent scream. There’s a subtle trickle sound on the chair followed by a short gush. He looks down to see his shoe is glistening and there’s a liquid dripping over the edge of the chair.

“Oh, bunny…what am I ever going to do with yoooou,” J hums. He removes his foot from the chair and loosens the tie around your neck for the last time. He slips it off over your head, sets it behind him on the table, and leans back against the edge of it. Eyeing you in your afterglow.

You catch your breath and peek up at J. He’s watching you, making sure you’re actually getting your breath back.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hold it.” You apologize for the mess you made on the chair and floor.

“That’s not what you think it is, bunny.” J chuckles and turns to put away his plans, “You’re not the first gal to surprise herself with me.” He finishes packing things up and looks at you. Your face fallen because you never like to hear about his previous escapades. J walks over and grips your face between his fingers.

“Hey….” You don’t respond and avert your gaze, “hey, I was kidding.” J rolls his eyes and ruffles your hair.

“I’m hungry.” You tell him.

“Hi, hungry, I’m Jack.” You don’t laugh, you’re too tired.

“Okayyyy okay. I’ll make us something.” J is careful not to make it sound like he’s doing something just for you. He offers you a hand to take and leads you out of the warehouse for the night.

[kindasleepywriter]

Loving Comfort - Nesta x Reader

Link to my masterlist

Summary: A fae's cycle is a rare event, but it comes with a long list of discomforts. Luckily for you, your mate is by your side to make things better. (Word count: 1k)

Warnings: Menstrual pain, implied blood, smut.

Note: Inspired by this request! Thank you so much for the ask, sorry it took so long!

Everything hurt. Pain radiated through your abdomen, starting just below your ribs, reaching down and through your body with occasional lashes in your lower back. Cramps and aches like nothing you’d ever felt.

Never felt since your last cycle, you corrected yourself.

Every time, it caught you by surprise. You would think that, after decades experiencing it, you would be better at managing it, but that was certainly not the case. Fae cycles were irregular and much less frequent than humans’ and other species, but nature balanced it out by making them worse. Much, much worse.

You felt like an idiot for not having seen it coming. For weeks you had felt more tired than usual, and in the last few days you had started to feel a dull ache right below your stomach and occasional headaches. You had simply brushed it aside as stress.

All of the signs added up in your head in a single second when, in the middle of training with the Valkyries, you felt the unfortunate moisture underneath your leathers and pants. You had let out a swear and finished the fight quickly, excusing yourself rapidly, mourning the plans you had for the next few days. Once the bleeding started, the excruciating pain wasn’t far behind.

All of it had resulted in your current position, curled in bed like a cat, clinging on to a pillow like your life depended on it, silently cursing the Mother for this supposed blessing. You had skipped training for the second day in a row and, despite the pain, you were also bored out of your mind.

A quick knock at your door shook you from your queasy state.

“There’s no one here” you groaned; the barely audible words nonetheless making your head throb even worse.

The door opened slowly, Nesta’s familiar figure striding into the room unbothered by your comment. She tried to give you a reassuring smile but winced nonetheless when you let out another long whine.

“I would suggest that you train with me to lessen the pain,” she said, “but I rather like the world of the living, so I will abstain.”

“Wise decision.” You groaned. “Anyone who tries to remove me from this room will lose a limb.”

As if in support of your words, another blanket appeared around you. The house understood your pain, at least. The cup of herbal tea on your bedside had kept its perfect temperature all day, and new books appeared at your bedside at regular intervals.

Nesta sighed fondly at your empty threat as she stripped of her leathers. “Hm, no exceptions?” she taunted.

“None.”

“Even when it would help lessen your suffering?”

You looked up from your nest of blankets with narrowed eyes. You wouldn’t put it past Nesta to find some ruse to force you out of bed. “I’m listening.” you mumbled, as she leaned in the doorway leading to the washroom, arms crossed. She had completely stripped down, and you couldn’t help but lowly whistle. Your mate looked stunning despite her workout, her face slightly flushed and her untied hair falling over her shoulders in waves, leading your eyes down to her slim body.

She rolled her eyes at you, but you felt the golden thread between you tugging with love. “Your mate is standing completely bare in front of a running bath,” she said, “I believe you might be able to come to a conclusion yourself.”

Oh. You flushed as you realized, and Nesta smirked, probably sensing the warmth that rushed through you. The idea of standing up though…

“But walking hurts…” you whined again. Truly, you were almost embarrassed at your behavior, but the pain really was that bad.

She pushed off the doorframe and stepped towards you quickly. Before you even realized what was happening, she had scooped you out of the bed and stripped you of your shirt and shorts. You yelped as the fresh air hit your ass as she carried you towards the washroom, kicking the door closed behind the two of you.

She lowered you in a gentler manner, setting you on the edge of the bath. You sighed when she pulled away, your body instinctively searching for more of her comforting warmth, but she returned quickly with a damp cloth. She softly wiped it over your lower body, discarded it and then focused on you again.

You tested the water with a finger and, as always, felt it was the perfect temperature. You stood to step into it, but Nesta swiftly held you up again, pulling your back against her chest and lowering you both into the water without you moving a muscle.

The water enveloped your body and you fully relaxed against your mate, a relieved groan escaping you. “Thank you, my love.” you murmured, raising a hand to run it through her locks. She chuckled, her breath tickling your ears.

“Don’t fall asleep on me now,” she said, “this isn’t all I have planned.”

You nodded absentmindedly, distracted by the relief and the pleasant feeling of her fingers dancing on your skin. Her fingers went lower and lower, innocently caressing your outer thigh, but changed direction to stroke at the apex of your thighs. You startled at the touch and tried to turn around to reciprocate, but Nesta held you firm against her.

“Just enjoy it,” she whispered, “don’t worry about me tonight.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the only thing that came out was a moan as she expertly stroked you. You bucked slightly against her hand, searching for more friction, but her free hand kept you from moving too much. She knew what you liked most, and it didn’t take long for you to reach your peak.

You gasped when her lithe fingers entered you and pressed up at just the right spot. You writhed, begging for your release. She only kept you at the edge for a few moments, softly kissing your neck.

“Come for me.” she finally instructed, nipping at your ear.

Your entire body shook as you moaned loudly, calling Nesta’s name like a prayer. She laughed softly as you settled back, satisfied and completely exhausted.

Maybe your cycle wasn’t all bad after all.

I really am back! This req threw me for a loop because I haven't experienced a period in almost a decade lol but I really enjoyed writing it, it's my first time writing any WLW in general, a first of many i hope.

Banner created by the amazing @saradika!

[ramblings-in-imagination]

Don't Drink Lake Water For Fun: Part 6

ICU – 10:03 A.M. Post-Extubation, Day 3

The tube had been removed two hours ago.

Her throat felt like sandpaper. Her chest was raw. Breathing was possible again — but still painful. Oxygen flowed gently through nasal cannula prongs taped beneath her nose. Monitors still clung to her body: pulse oximeter, telemetry leads, IVs, and a blood pressure cuff inflating on a schedule that made her flinch.

But none of that compared to the ache in her heart.

The ache of surviving.

Y/N lay propped up at a 30-degree angle in her hospital bed, still pale, dark shadows smudged under her eyes. Dean and Sam were both there, one on either side. They hadn’t left. Not once.

Tears streamed silently down her face — without warning, without control.

“I—I’m sorry,” she croaked, barely a whisper. Her voice was a shredded thread. “I don’t know why I’m crying—”

Sam immediately reached forward, voice gentle. “Don’t be sorry.”

His thumb wiped a tear from her cheek, and in the same breath, his own eyes brimmed. One tear escaped, and he blinked hard, pretending it hadn’t happened.

“You scared the hell out of us,” he whispered. “You're allowed to cry.”

Y/N nodded, but it didn’t help. A fresh wave of emotion swelled in her chest — hot, tight, unstoppable.

“I couldn’t move… I couldn’t breathe. I heard you both, but I couldn’t get back. And she—it—wouldn’t let go��”

Dean’s hand, resting on hers, tensed.

Sam swallowed, visibly holding himself together.

Nursing Rounds – 10:20 A.M.

“Vitals are within normal limits,” the day nurse reported, flipping through her chart. “Temp’s stable at 99.2. SpO₂ holding at 94% on 3 liters O₂ via nasal cannula. Heart rate 86, sinus rhythm. BP’s 110/70.”

The attending physician smiled. “You’re post-extubation and tolerating room air trial soon. We'll keep the oxygen until your ABG shows better PaO₂. Your white count is dropping — the infection’s resolving.”

Y/N blinked slowly, barely processing.

“Her mental status is intact,” the resident added. “GCS 15, oriented x4. Neuro exam’s clean. No focal deficits.”

Dean smiled weakly. “That’s good, right?”

The doctor nodded. “She beat the worst of it. Her lungs are healing. No signs of long-term anoxic damage.”

Everyone in the room smiled — except her.

The second the team left, the air shifted.

Her chest started tightening again — not from fluid this time, but from panic. Her breaths came shorter, faster.

“Y/N?” Sam asked, concerned.

“I—I can’t—” She gasped. Her fingers curled into the blanket. “I can’t breathe—I can’t breathe—”

Dean hit the call button as Sam leaned forward. “Hey—hey, look at me. It’s okay. You’re safe. You're just panicking, okay?”

Tears streaked down her cheeks again, this time accompanied by sharp, shallow gasps. Her heart monitor beeped faster.

“It’s a sympathetic nervous system response,” a nurse said, rushing in. “Post-traumatic acute stress. She’s hyperventilating.”

They raised the head of her bed and gently increased oxygen flow.

“You’re okay,” Sam whispered, holding her hand. “You're not in the water anymore. It’s gone. You’re here.”

Dean stood by the window, stone-faced.

The panic attack ebbed — slowly. Her body trembled. Exhausted, she collapsed into the pillows again, heart pounding in her ears.

“I—I don’t feel strong,” she whispered.

Dean’s voice was quiet. “You don’t have to be. Not right now.”

Dean – Hallway, Moments Later

He couldn’t take it anymore.

Dean stepped out of the room, walked briskly to the end of the hallway, and ducked into a deserted waiting area. The second the door closed behind him, he collapsed into a chair and broke.

His hands covered his face. A strangled sob escaped him. Then another.

She was alive.

But he had almost buried her.

“She was just a kid,” he muttered into his hands. “She didn’t ask for any of this.”

He punched the armrest hard enough to bruise. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve seen it.”

His chest heaved, unable to slow his breathing — panic clawed at him, too.

But he didn’t let himself fall apart for long. He couldn't.

Dean wiped his face, sat up straight, and blew out a long breath.

Then he stood.

And went back to her.

ICU – 11:09 A.M.

Y/N was asleep again, brow still furrowed in uneasy dreams. Sam sat by her, eyes closed, reciting something under his breath — maybe prayer. Maybe a spell. Maybe both.

Dean resumed his place at her side, reaching down to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re doing better,” he whispered.

Her eyelids fluttered faintly.

One tear slipped from her eye.

Step-Down Unit – 7:46 P.M. Post-Extubation Day 1 / Post-ICU Transfer

Y/N had been officially transferred from the ICU to the Progressive Care Unit (PCU), known as “step-down”—a unit for patients stable enough to leave critical care but still in need of intensive monitoring.

Her room was quieter now. No ventilator. Fewer alarms. Just the soft beep of a bedside cardiac monitor, the hiss of her nasal cannula pushing humidified 2L oxygen, and the muted footsteps of nurses making hourly rounds.

She was afebrile for the first time in 72 hours — Tmax: 98.6°F, SpO₂ holding at 95%, and her WBC count had trended down to 11.2. The repeat chest X-ray showed improved bilateral aeration with reduced consolidation in the lower lobes. Her lungs were clearing.

Medically, she was stabilizing.

Emotionally… she was unraveling.

Dean sat on the visitor cot, pretending to read a magazine while keeping constant watch. Sam was down in the cafeteria picking up soup, protein shakes, and whatever he could find that didn’t come in a vending machine.

Y/N was lying in bed, hooked to telemetry, peripheral IV in place with a normal saline maintenance infusion at 50 mL/hr, and a PICC line flushed and locked for potential future antibiotics.

But she hadn’t spoken in an hour.

Dean glanced at her—eyes open, but unfocused. Face pale under the fluorescent lights.

“You want me to grab you something? Jello? Water? Sam’s on his way back with—”

“I’m scared to fall asleep.”

Dean put the magazine down immediately.

Y/N turned her head slightly, voice hoarse. “When I sleep, I go back there. To the water. To her.”

Dean stood, moving to her side. “Hey, hey… that thing’s gone. You beat it. You’re safe now.”

“I don’t feel safe,” she whispered.

Her eyes welled up. “My body’s here but… I’m still stuck. Like it’s under my skin.”

Dean didn’t know what to say. So he didn’t. He just stayed there.

It started small: a flinch. A twitch of the hand. Then a sharp inhale.

Y/N’s heart rate monitor beeped faster: from 84 to 112.

“Y/N?” Dean stood fast.

Her eyes went wide. Her breathing turned shallow.

“Hyperventilating,” Dean muttered, watching the rise and fall of her chest.

Y/N clutched at the bedsheets. “I—I can’t breathe—I can’t—”

Dean pressed the call button.

The nurse rushed in seconds later. “She's having a panic episode. Let’s reposition—elevate the head of the bed to 45 degrees. Grab the Ativan—IV push, 0.5 mg.”

Dean sat on the bed beside her, gripping her hand. “Hey, focus on me. Just me. Count in—4 seconds. Out—4 seconds. Come on, you’ve got this.”

Her heart rate peaked at 128 bpm before the medication kicked in. The nurse dimmed the lights and adjusted her nasal cannula. Within ten minutes, she’d calmed, though her hands still trembled with post-adrenaline exhaustion.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered through clenched teeth.

“Stop saying that,” Dean said gently.

Sam entered quietly, plastic tray in hand. He froze when he saw her sitting upright, pale and tear-streaked, but awake.

“I missed something,” he said softly.

“She had a panic spell,” Dean explained. “They gave her Ativan.”

Sam nodded, setting the food down. “Did she sleep at all?”

Dean shook his head. “She’s afraid to. Keeps seeing it.”

Y/N spoke up weakly. “It’s not just dreams. It’s… a pull. Like it still wants me.”

Sam moved to her side, brushing her hair back. “You’re not alone. Whatever echo is left—we’ll find it. And we’ll erase it.”

Her eyes filled again. “What if I never go back to normal?”

Sam knelt down in front of her. “Then we find a new normal. Together.”

02:11 A.M. — Light Sleep Detected

Nurse’s notes:

Patient lightly sedated with PRN lorazepam

VS stable: BP 108/70, HR 76, RR 16, SpO₂ 96% on 2L O₂

Patient exhibiting REM sleep; facial grimacing noted

Brothers requested room lights remain dim overnight

Dean sat against the wall, arms crossed but eyes always on her.

Sam had drifted to sleep in the chair, journal open on his lap.

And Y/N — finally — had closed her eyes.

For now, she was still. Quiet. Dreaming.

The war wasn’t over. But for the first time, peace didn’t seem impossible.

[shewolfofvilnius]

[Edit: chapters 1-2 of this fic are now out]

Imagine you're Rolan. When you were fourteen, some tiefling musician girl who moved from town to town saved your sister's bacon and got back an heirloom from your birth mother from some bullies. She then gave you your first kiss - only to leave town with her family the next day. Those turquoise blue eyes, and the fact that it was your first, sears the moment into your soul. What might have been. Damnation. Imagine thirteen years pass by. Now you're kicked out of Elturel and just survived an attack by gnolls and being treated like worse than pond scum by druids after being forced out of the only city you knew as home. But at least you were accepted as an apprentice.

And then, out of the cold blue nothing, there she walks in. The person who, half a lifetime ago, was your very first kiss. Who had always held a special tiny little corner of your mind and heart. Who, even when you dated others, even when you pictured your future, a tiny little thread of your mind and soul and heart held on to her.

Except you don't recognize her at first. She's 26 now instead of 13 . Her eyes have a certain weariness and sadness about them. You'd heard about her family; she'd lost hers too. But she didn't have Lia and Cal, annoying as they are. The person who'd kissed you was bright and colorful and full of a life yet to be lived and of rich joyful song. The person before you now has seen some shit. Blacks have replaced gem tones in her wardrobe, jewelry given way to leather padding. The lyre she still carries looks faded and ignored. She looks the part of a petty thief more than an enchanting songbird.

But those eyes. You'd know those eyes anywhere even if you'd lost every other memory from your very soul. The most vivid turquoise you've ever seen. They might be tired, but they're still her. It's REALLY her. You've worked too hard to let sentimentality interfere with your chance with Lorroakan, but gods damn it all, it really is her.

She'd made some dumb fool teenage promise that she'd find you again one day, now here you two were a half a lifetime away and both far removed from the dumb kids you once were. But damned if she hadn't gone and found you three all over again. Damned if she hadn't found you again.

(excerpt from my WIP follows)

[wootensmith]

Deja Senti

He was hollowed out. Sore. Empty. As if someone had scraped his chest cavity raw and then flooded it with seawater. He was an old shell with nothing except the tidal winds rattling through.

He couldn’t quite remember how he had arrived here in the ruins of his sanctuary. It hardly mattered, not when he was so exhausted. It’s where he always ended up, sooner or later. That same bright, breezy autumn day when he’d made his final decision, over and over again. Always this instant when he stepped through the eluvian and closed himself off from any chance at retreat. His mouth tasted of metal each time, though it was stronger now. It was a remnant of his magic silencing the Qunari, leashing the anchor, wounding the Inquisitor. If he turned his head just a little, he knew he’d see the memory of her kneeling where he had— 

“— watched you hand a week of your rations to that mother in Sahrnia. And because you…” her voice drifted in and out of his conscious thought and he did turn to look because he didn’t remember her saying those words. She was not kneeling but beside him. The hand he’d wounded replaced now with a facsimile of spell and metal, cool in his own. He stared down at it while her voice threaded through his confusion.

“That soft tune you hum when you’re painting—” He glanced behind them and saw a trail of broken armor pieces. Ah. He remembered now, the numb, exhausted stumble into the Fade. He had started trying to shed his armor immediately, fearing he would suffocate beneath it. She had helped him, removing piece after piece as he wandered, speaking to him all the time.

“— fearless even against the most powerful foes if the cause is just. And because you don’t suffer fools even when it would be easier if you did once in a great while,” she said. “What?” he asked, still too dazed to truly follow her speech. She smiled slightly. “You’re right. You did suffer me. Though I assume I am the lone exception.” He forced himself to focus. “You are no fool, Vhenan,” he protested.  “I meant: what are you saying? I don’t— ir abelas, I cannot understand.” The corners of her eyes crinkled as her smile deepened. She reached to touch his cheek with her living fingers. “You asked me once, long ago, why I loved you. I told you I would make a list. It occurred to me that you might need to hear a little of that list just now.”

He did not expect that he had any tears left after the events of the day. They came nonetheless. “Do not treat me with such kindness, Vhenan. You do not know all that I have done,” he warned her. Her hand closed around his chin, twisting him to face her fully.  “They found your veilfire murals, fanor. All of them. Between Lace’s letters, Morrigan’s piecemeal drips of information, and Cole’s fretting, I believe I have a fair idea. Though— when you are ready, I would prefer to hear the tale from your own lips. I have had years to discover what I could of you, Solas. I did not join you blindly.” She swept tears and grime from his cheek. “I do not know how to treat you without kindness, emma lath,” she added. “And I never will.”

He pressed his hand over hers. “Ma serannas,” he said. She waited for him to recover, but his fatigue defeated him first. His balance failed slightly and she caught him as he leaned too far. “You need to rest.” “No—” he started. “We need to rest then,” she insisted, knowing he could not deny her as he could himself. “We have been through a dire battle. And I am not so young anymore.” He hesitated, but then forced himself fully upright. “I must address the Titans. Every moment I wait, the Blight spreads,” he said. “I know the urgency. I have pushed myself too far in the past as well. But you have tied yourself to the Veil now, Solas. If you do not rest, your injuries may kill you and then all of Thedas. I did not join you solely because of my love for you, Vhenan, but also for all of them. I cannot let you fall.” She was stern, determined. The way she’d always been at the darkest points. He hated seeing this facet of her, every time, hated the necessity of it, even as it made his love for her more fierce.

“I will not fall,” he told her. “The Fade is already helping me repair.” He held out his palm to her. The dagger cut he had made only a few hours before already closed. She shook her head and guided him down to sit on the rocky ground. “It isn’t the injuries to your flesh that worry me, but the ones to your spirit. I do not yet know how to heal those, but you are exhausted. Rest will help. If— if there is such a thing as resting here.” He stared numbly at the spot where she had fallen once, her knees splashing into a shallow puddle behind him. He tried to shake himself free of the memory, focusing on the present. “You intend to be my guard then?” he asked, fully realizing what she’d said just a moment before.

“If by guard you mean ‘guardian’ then, yes. I would always protect you. Though I think the only thing remaining that is powerful enough to harm you is yourself. If you meant ‘jailer’…” she stopped herself with a sigh. It took her several seconds to continue, staring at the same spot he had been, perhaps with the same memory. “I could not stop you in the waking world, how would I be able to here? If you wished to flee me or the Fade— I know little of this world except what you have already shared and what little I have seen for myself.” She rubbed her cheek. “I am unsure of everything, except that I could not bear for you to endure this alone. I did not intend to be a punishment. I— ah!” Her arm erupted in emerald light and she curled into herself in pain.

He pulled her into his side, already casting the spell to calm his anchor, still muscle memory all these years later. “Ir abelas,” he muttered as he realized the spell could not quell a memory. “I do not think it’s you,” she gasped. “It’s the Fade.” “Alas, we had to come here to reach the Titans’ dreams. A safeguard. They are only accessible by passing through one’s deepest regret, something the Evanuris would never do. But now… I hoped you would not recognize it.” He frantically tried a different spell to soothe at least, the crackling snap of pain. It did not appear to subside as she clutched what still remained of her arm.

“These were the most painful moments of my existence,” she said through her clenched teeth. “Of course I remember this place. I failed, Solas. I failed and I lost you and doomed everyone else. I recognize every pebble and leaf of this place.” She shook with the effort of trying to contain the memory-anchor. She fumbled with the clasps of her prosthetic. He knew her agony was not truly in her absent arm, hadn’t been for years. But if he could alter her thoughts, draw her attention to something other than her own guilt— he helped her unclasp the prosthetic. “I was, indeed, lost this day,” he admitted, “but it was entirely my own doing. If you must remember this awful day at all, I beg you to know that you did not fail. Know it in the deepest essence of you.” 

The memory-anchor stuttered slightly. He pressed his hand to the nape of her neck and pulled her forehead to his. “I prepared for that meeting for months. Long before the Qunari tipped their hand. I knew that I would need to take the anchor. I did not intend to be so late to do so, nor for it to be here. I didn’t intend to expose all my deepest failings to you either. I steeled myself, convinced myself that you would be— that I would little more than a bittersweet memory to you. Felasil. You fail? As soon as you called out to me, I lost the battle with myself. Every word you spoke was a coup upon my resolve. I wanted to return to you as soon as it was clear you still cared for me. You did not fail.” He watched the glow of the anchor ever so gradually dim between them.

“And you can never lose me, not truly,” he continued. “It was only that long, long ago, I lost myself, Vhenan. I was still a thrall to my duty, to my failings, to the memory of Mythal. There existed no spell, no phrase, no act that could have bent my will on this day, because I did not believe that my will was mine to bend. You did not fail. And you are no punishment, not even in the cruelest tauntings this place can muster. You wish me to rest, to heal my spirit. You are the medicine for my spirit. But I don’t wish to bind you to—” She brushed the back of her fingers over his cheek to stop him. “As you are the medicine for mine. Do not send me away thinking it will save me, emma lath.” The memory-anchor seemed to be subsiding. She did not shake as hard against his grip. 

“I do not have the strength to send you away,” he admitted. “Not even enough to truly ask you to spare yourself, though I know that I should. I cannot promise you this pain or others will not return. Not here.” She shook her head slightly, still pressed to his. “It cannot return. Not this one. Not now.” “Alas, Vhenan, this is my deepest regret and will likely remain so. Every time I return to soothe the Titans it must be through this mirror. And every time we return, the anchor may overwhelm you.” Her soft laugh startled him. “The anchor? The anchor is nothing. It is the loss of you that overwhelmed me. You are here, alive, safe, here. The anchor is nothing.” “Ar lath ma,” he whispered, letting it tumble form him as if it had not sat, scorching like a live coal, upon his tongue for years. She tilted to kiss him and the thrum of the memory-anchor dissipated entirely under his fingers.

(sorry I'm so late. We had a terrible housefire and lost literally everything in October. Got a chance to play VG after Christmas and been mulling it over kind of since then. More coming, dunno when, still kind of in the middle of the sh*t at the moment, but this is my relief)

[arpmemething2]

Star Trek: The Next Generation Sentence Starters

Send one to see how my muse reacts.  Feel free to change pronouns as needed.

"He must have died in his sleep."

"I would be delighted to offer any advice I can on understanding women. When I have some, I'll let you know."

"Father said she went to a beautiful place where everything is peaceful and everyone loves each other and no one ever gets sick. Do you think there's really a place like that?"

"I said shut up! As in close your mouth and stop talking."

"When I stroke the beard thusly; do I not appear more intellectual?"

“I could be chasing an untamed ornithoid without cause.”

"I wonder if the Emperor Honorious watching the Visigoths coming over the Seventh Hill truly realised that the Roman Empire was about to fall?"

"So then I said, 'In that frame of reference the perihelion of Mercury would have preceded in the opposite direction.'"

"How old do you think I am, anyway? "

"A blind man teaching an android how to paint? That's gotta be worth a couple of pages in somebody's book."

"What a terrible way to die."

"It is possible to commit no errors and still lose. That is not a weakness. That is life. "

"It's the struggle itself that is most important.  We must strive to be more than we are."

"You are a little boy, six years old. You cannot hurt me."

"There's theory and there's application.  They don't always jibe."

"There are times when men of good conscience cannot blindly follow orders."

"With the first link, the chain is forged. The first speech censored, the first thought forbidden, the first freedom denied, chains us all irrevocably."

"Sir, I protest, I am NOT a merry man!"

“The arbiter of a demanding wargame rendered the word "mismatch" as "challenge" in his language.”

"He treated me no differently from anyone else. He accepted me for what I am. And that, I have learned, is friendship."

"Someone once told me that time was a predator that stalked us all our lives. I rather believe that time is a companion who goes with us on the journey and reminds us to cherish every moment, because it will never come again. What we leave behind is not as important as how we've lived. After all, we're only mortal."

"You share all of those qualities in abundance. Perhaps you should try to build on your similarities."

"I tend bar and I listen."

"For that one fraction of a second, you were open to options you had never considered. That is the exploration that awaits you... not mapping stars and studying nebula... but charting the unknown possibilities of existence."

"If you were any other man I would kill you where you stand!"

"There can be no justice so long as laws are absolute. Even life itself is an exercise in exceptions."

"Sharing an orbit with God is no small experience."

"Make it so."

"You see things with the eyes of a child, and that makes you more human than any of us."

“Life's true gift is the capacity to enjoy enjoyment.”

"No. Men do not roar. Women roar. Then they hurl heavy objects... and claw at you. "

"Vamoose, ye little varmint!"

"You are free to execute your laws and your citizens as you see fit."

"We think we've come so far. Torture of heretics, burning of witches, it's all ancient history. And then, before you can blink an eye, suddenly it threatens to start all over again."

"Resistance is futile"

"What you are saying... is that you are lonely?"

"There are four lights!"

"This is mutiny!"

"There are many parts of my youth that I'm not proud of... there were loose threads... untidy parts of me that I would like to remove. But when I pulled on one of those threads... it had unraveled the tapestry of my life."

"I should have done this a long time ago."

"I've seen you think your way out of worse problems than this."

"It's just that our mental pathways have become accustomed to your sensory input patterns."

"What you have done will have serious ramifications. I am truly dismayed that you told no-one of what you were doing."

“I have to set an example, now more than ever. Facing death is the ultimate test of character.”

"In order to defeat your enemy, you must first understand them."

"Swimming is too much like bathing."

"Let me get this straight--you want me to take off your head?"

"Remember, put your shoes away."

"You jewel. That's exactly what I hoped."

"So, five-card stud, nothing wild... and the sky's the limit."

"Space... The final frontier."

"If there's nothing wrong with me, maybe there's something wrong with the universe!"

"Oh, I know Hamlet. And what he might say with irony, I say with conviction: "What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In form, in moving, how express and admirable! In action, how like an angel! In apprehension, how like a god!" "

"Villains who twirl their mustaches are easy to spot. Those who clothe themselves in good deeds are well-camouflaged."

"He wants the impossible."

"Flair is what makes the difference between artistry and mere competence."

"What is it about these squirming little infants that you find so appealing?"

"Those deaths must be avenged."

"He'd listen to everyone's opinion and then make his own decision."

"Do you think you're the only one in pain? That you have a monopoly on loss?"

"I don't have all the answers, I've never been dead before."

"I have never subscribed to the theory that political power flows from the barrel of a gun."

"Wishing for a thing doesn't make it so."

"There'll be others-but every time you feel love, it'll be different. Every time it's different."

“With the first link, the chain is forged. The first speech censured, the first thought forbidden, the first freedom denied - chains us all irrevocably.”

"You must not kneel to me.  I do not deserve it."

"I do not fire on defenseless people."

"Things are only impossible until they're not"

"You have never seen death. Then look, and always remember."

"Good tea. Nice house."

"If the cause is just and honorable, they are prepared to give their lives."

"There are still many human emotions I do not fully comprehend: angry, revenge, jealousy. But I am not mystified by the desire to be loved, or the need for friendship. These are things I do understand."

"It is definitely like alcohol intoxication. The same lack of good judgment. For example, right now I find you extremely, extremely... of course we haven't time for that sort of thing."

"You have to measure your successes and your failures within, not by anything I or anyone else might think."

"If you can't take a little bloody nose, maybe you ought to go back home and crawl under your bed. It's not safe out here. It's wondrous, with treasures to satiate desires both subtle and gross. But it's not for the timid."

"You cannot justify a wantonly immoral act by citing the greater good!"

"This is down. Down is good. This is up. Up is no"

[detentiontrack]

In honor of the beast’s 3rd BIRTHDAY, here’s the top 15 CZ moments and behaviors since I found him (in no particular order) (and pictures at the end)

Ate a string, almost died, and needed a $5000 surgery with a 50/50 chance of survival that I’m still traumatized from and still paying off (he has tried to eat strings again multiple times and now strings and thread are banned from my house unless they’re locked up)

Learned how to take his cone off after his surgery and did it so much that I had to buy him an infant onesie of shame from the target baby section to keep him from ripping out his stitches

Was a homeless kitty for a year until we moved into a new house and he walked into our living room with zero hesitation and took a nap on our fireplace and was so cute he convinced my mom to let me keep him.

Got so cold in the winter he needed a little sweater, fought me like I was trying to kill him when I put the sweater on, realized he enjoyed the sweater and napped in it while purring, got warm enough and ripped the sweater off, and then got cold again and repeated the cycle constantly the entire winter

Hissed and tried to bite the man just trying to set up our WiFi and had to be physically restrained and banished to another room (BONUS: hates all men with a violent passion except for my brother, and I think CZ likes him more than me)

Scratched me so hard I have a permanent scar on my arm because I tried to take away his food bowl to wash it (I don’t do that anymore)

Was the reason slime got banned in my house (he was left unattended in the living room for less than 2 minutes while I went to the bathroom and rolled in it and had a bald spot on his back for a while from removing the slime)

Got mad at me because I worked a closing shift and was gone until 1am, so he retaliated by somehow opening my school binder and absolutely shredding 150+ pages of notes and assignments into confetti, scattering the little pieces of paper all over the room

Got mad when I went to Oregon for a week without him and retaliated with violence towards my mother. She picked him up and tried to move him to a different room, and he jumped onto her back, sunk all 4 claws into her back, and hung there for a WHILE (she had to sit down on the bathroom floor and wait for him to let go)

Gets stuck in bags every single time I bring a grocery bag into his evil lair (my room) because he tries to get inside the bag, but he’s too fat, so he gets stuck. And then becomes violent when I laugh at him and take pictures before freeing him.

Acts like a poor little baby kitty who is starving to death every time he finishes his food and I’m not there to immediately fill it back up. Proceeds to SCREAM and CRY at the top of his kitty lungs until someone saves him from his inevitable fate (dying of malnutrition)

Was a homeless cat with food scarcity the first year of his life, so if I wait too long to refill his bowl (like… if I’m out and no one else is home to hear his screaming and he goes without a full bowl of food for less than an hour) he’ll eat it all at once, and then throw up on my bed

I had to buy a home depot bucket with a lid to store his food in because when I just had the cat food bag with a clip holding it closed, one time while I was asleep (and he had a FULL bowl of food in his bowl may I add) he chewed a hole in the bag, scattered cat food everywhere, and ate so much that he (you guessed it) threw up on my bed

He psychologically tortures insects for his entertainment. Every time there’s a weird bug in my room, he can spend HOURS chasing it, hunting it, and then he lets it escape and run away a few feet, and then he hunts it again in a long drawn out hunt that always ends in him carrying the bug onto my bed and eating it loudly

One time my stepdad entered my room without permission and CZ jumped off the top of a bookcase onto his head.