#My dear... neither are canon. It's all in our heads.

[dancingtotuyo]

11. up from the dust, inconceivable love

Woman | Joel Miller X Female Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Chapter Summary: Ellie learns the truth. Your family gains a member.

Tags: Joel Miller X Female Reader. Age Gap (13/14 years). HBO Characters. Mostly cannon compliant for show & game. Timeline is changed.

Chapter Warnings: pregnancy related things, angst, hurt & comfort and no comfort?, self worth issues, canon violence, anger, child birth, spoilers for TLOU 2 (we’re entering the timeline that starts to burrow things for part 2 of the game)

Notes: huge thank you to my constants, my rocks @ramblers-lets-get-ramblinand @janaispunk for beta reading and letting me yell and scream and break their hearts.

If you have checked out Before, I would encourage you to do so for more backstory on our dear reader! The final part is out now!

Words: 5352

Series Masterlist | Author Masterlist | Playlist

“What do you think of Peace?” You ask, propped up in bed, hand over your swollen stomach. You’ve gained more weight this time, probably because you’re not in the throes of grief. 

“I mean, I’m a fan. I hope everyone is.” Joel says, trimming his facial hair with the bathroom door wide open. 

You bite your lip, admiring the expanse of his bare back. If getting out of bed wasn’t an event, you would be behind him right now, kissing his shoulders. 

“No, as a name for a girl,” you say. Joel turns around looking at you like he’s contemplating checking you into a psychiatric ward if those still existed. “A middle name, not a first name.” 

Joel sets his trimmers down, leaning in the doorway shirtless. “And what would her first name be?” 

“Willow.”

Joel furrows his brow stepping into your bedroom, your shared bedroom. “Darlin, I know we live in a commune, but we’re not hippies.”

“You bring me wildflowers and we walk barefoot through the fields. I wouldn’t be so sure.” You can’t help but laugh. Joel cracks a smile. “Do you have suggestions then?”

“Thought about naming Sarah- Katherine.”

You make a face. You know one too many Kates and Katies even in Jackson.

“It’s not a bad name,” Joel chuckles. 

“Neither is Willow.”

“Is this your way of telling me you’re a hippie?”

“Would you leave if I said yes?”

Joel shrugs “I don’t know, but I knocked you up so I guess I have to stay.” He crawls into the bed. His head is level with your stomach as he watches for movement. 

You roll your eyes. “How romantic.”

He grins up at you and then his eyes are back on your belly. He rests a hand at the top, staring, waiting in wonderment. Neither of you can believe this is all real. Your baby moves around all the time, kicking your bladder and lungs, signifying life. A life you did not think would make it. 

You thread your fingers through Joel’s soft brown hair. The outline of a foot appears and then disappears. Joel’s eyes sparkle and he kisses the same spot. He’s soft and gentle. In these moments, all your anxieties are carried away like leaves on an autumn breeze. This is your peace. 

“What other names did you have picked out for Carter?”

You bite your lip. “We didn’t have any other boys' names.”

“And if he’d been a girl?” He’s still enthralled with your stomach as if there’s been an enchantment cast over it. 

“Sarah.”

His head snaps up. 

“Tommy and I talked about her a lot when I was pregnant. She was on my mind… being a part of Sarah’s life made me realize I wanted a family… even in this world where I had no right to do so.”

You keep playing with his hair. His eyes go glassy making you wonder what memory is playing behind his eyes. You stay like that until Joel is ready to talk. Eventually, he sits up, clearing his throat. His lips touch yours. 

“What about Willa?”

You tilt your head to the side. You don’t really see how it’s any different than Willow, but you’re not going to bring that up. “I like it.” 

“And Miles for a boy.” His smile returns. He doesn’t tell you that he’s positive you’re having a girl.

“Miles is an old man's name!”

“Good, then he’ll grow to be an old man.”

You take in a sharp breath. It’s just an offhand comment, but it carries so much weight. It’s a stark reminder of the heaviness of the world, and the twinge of guilt you feel bringing another child into it. 

Joel takes your hand, kissing your palm. You see it in his eyes too. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’tve-”

“It’s okay.” Your fingers comb through his hair. He leans into your touch. His grays are more noticeable than they were a year ago, but the brown still outnumbers them. 

“Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?” he asks.

“I don’t know… I- I haven’t really let myself think about it until today.” It's true. The fact of the matter is you’re within a month of your due date. You and Joel are so close to welcoming this baby into the world and are wildly unprepared. 

“We’re getting close… We need a crib.” 

“The one I used for Carter is in the attic.”

“I can bring it down in the morning.”

“I need to get some baby clothes. I traded all of Carter’s.” 

“Looks like we have a bunch of work to do, Mama,” Joel smiles, kissing your forehead. He still hasn't told you about the swaddles and onesies tucked in the back of his drawer, but it seems you’re finally ready for them.

You cock your head to the side, contemplating the nickname. There’s a mix of emotions with it. You’re already a mother. Joel is a father, but this is a life you’re bringing in together. It’s uncharted territory for both of you. Sarah’s mom was out the door before she was six months old. Neither of you have done this part with a partner before. 

A sharp knock on the front door pulls your mind from its wandering. Joel’s brow furrows, rolling out of the bed. People don’t knock on your door often. They usually barrel right in, unless it’s bad. Your stomach drops. 

Joel is out of the bedroom, shrugging on a shirt. Dina’s voice calls through your home. “Hello?” She sounds worried, desperate. 

You swing your legs over the side of the bed. It takes more time to stand these days. If you try too quickly, your head rushes making you feel dizzy. 

“Dina? What’s wrong?” Joel’s at the bottom of the stairs now, but his voice carries. You have to stop at the top of the stairs to catch your breath. 

“Ellie is gone.”

You freeze, grabbing the railing for stability. “What?”

Joel turns around, worry etched in his face. “Where did she go?”

“I don’t know. She mentioned something about the Fireflies and a hospital, but she wouldn’t talk to me.” You make out the flicker of hurt in Dina’s face. Those two tell each other everything, or most things. You’re not sure Ellie has told her about her immunity. You all keep that one pretty close to your chests. 

“Shit,” Joel mumbles. He glances between you at his back and the front door in front of him. You see the push and pull. He needs to go after her. He needs to be here for you. 

His eyes settle on you. Your hand settles on top of your swollen belly. He’s looking for permission. You want to give it, but what if he’s needed here before he gets back. 

“She’s been off lately. I don’t know why. She won’t talk to me.” Dina seems to sense the silent conversation going on. “I can go after her, but-“

“No, I need to go.” Joel swings back toward the teenager, both hands placed on his hips. You try to bite back the panic rising inside you. He’ll be fine. They’ll both be fine. “Do you know when she left?”

“Probably sometime before the sun came up. Shimmer isn’t in the stable.” 

Joel lets out a ragged sigh, hands running over his face. You try to keep the tears away, your hormones making it difficult. 

“Will you let Maria know I’m going after her? I need to pack.” 

Dina nods, her eyes flickering up to you before she’s gone in a flash of dark curls. Joel turns around, hand resting on the banister at the bottom of the stairs. You swallow and walk back into the bedroom. 

It’s silent at first, nothing but the sounds of draws opening and closing and the soft slaps of his leather saddle bags. You sit in silence at the edge of your bed, chewing on your lip as you watch him. Ellie needs him. It echoes on repeat in your brain. 

“I can probably catch her. We’ll be back in two weeks if I don’t.”

You stare down at your ever growing belly. You could easily be pregnant when he returns, but what if you’re not? You’re fairly certain you’ll have this baby sooner rather than later, but Ellie needs him too.

“Why does she want to go back to Salt Lake?”

Joel freezes for a second, like he’s contemplating his answer. It sets an uneasy feeling in your bones. “I don’t know. Maybe she thinks some of the Fireflies are still there? That this whole cure business is still an option?”

You nod, thoughts drifting to her face when you looked at her blood a couple months ago. She looked desperate. You hadn’t seen her like that before. It was almost unnerving, like the need to be needed by humanity had returned tenfold. It made you wonder if you’d been there for her enough these past few months.

“I have to go after her.”

There’s a desperation you don’t quite recognize in Joel’s eyes, sending a thread of dread through your body. Is he leaving something out? Not telling you something? You nod, biting your lip. “I know.”

He lays his hand on your bump, fingers stretching out over it. “We’ve got time.”

You nod. “Hurry back, and be safe, okay?”

Joel kisses your forehead. “Always.”

He rides out thirty minutes later. 

You try to stay busy while they’re gone, cleaning the clinic and the house thrice over as the nesting and anxiety sets in. You ask Tommy to get the crib out of the attic as you prep the corner of your bedroom for the baby, wiping it free from the dust and cobwebs. 

Maria hosts a small get together for you pulling together some semblance of a baby shower, something you hadn’t had with Carter. It's nice, but you feel like they skirt around the questions nagging in their brains. Where did Ellie and Joel go? Will they be back in time? You don’t have answers. You have the same fucking question. Will they be back? 

The braxton hicks kick up, so much so you think you’re in labor ten days after Joel rides out. The fear that courses through your body is so paralyzing that you just lay in bed. Your body tenses with the memory’s of Carter’s labor. It’s not the physical pain of it, but the emotional rollercoaster you went through, alone. You’re not supposed to do this alone this time.  

Then, the contractions stop with no explanation and you fall into a restless sleep. You miss Joel, his warmth and comfort. His unspoken love that fills the room. You’re becoming more comfortable with the idea of it. 

You miss Ellie too, worried about what she’s going through. Providing it’s still vacant, Salt Lake won’t hold any answer for her. What lengths will she go to? How many miles will she travel in search of answers you believe don’t exist? How will she handle reality? 

You see the differences in Carter too. In his mind, Ellie and Joel have always been here. Two weeks without them feels like a lifetime to him, and to you. 

On day twelve, your front door flies open as you come down the stairs. Ellie bursts through looking frantic and frazzled. Her short cropped hair sticks up in certain places. Dirt smudges her forehead. You’re too relieved to see her to worry about her appearance. If anything, it’s expected after two weeks of travel, but your relief is short lived. 

“Did you know?” She yells. The door stays wide open behind her, rage flaming in her eyes. 

“What?” 

“Did you know?”

“Know what?” You step toward her, reaching out, but she backs away like a wild animal.

“He killed them! All of them!” 

“Killed who? Ellie, take a deep breath.”

“Joel! He killed the fireflies! They had a cure!”

Your breath catches. It’s not that Joel has killed people. You know about the years he spent as a raider. You know the cost of surviving in this world, but this isn’t the story you have been told about Salt Lake. When you asked him why she would go back, he lied. He knew. Knew the story hadn’t lined up in Ellie’s mind. 

“So he lied to you too!”

“Ellie!” Joel is stern as his frame fills your doorway. 

She spins around, the week of silence she spent next to him on the road back, wrath bubbling over and focused on him. “Tell her! Tell her, Joel!” She steps toward him. “Tell her what you did!” She shoves against his shoulders. 

“Ellie…” He repeats her name, softer this time. 

“Don’t do that!” She turns back to you, tears streaming down her cheeks. “They were going to make a cure from me, and you stopped them! You slaughtered them!”

“They were going to kill you!”

Your eyes widen, and it makes sense. Why Joel hasn’t talked about it. Why he needed to go after her. Why Ellie feels so useless. She’d been promised the cure. He’d taken that from her with a facade of an excuse.

“You should have let them!” Ellie screams until she pushes past him, rushing out of your house. 

Joel lets out a sigh, defeat evident across his features. You can’t even enjoy their homecoming, their safety, your head spinning too much. 

Joel shuts the door behind him, stepping closer like he’s expecting an embrace, but you step back, a mother’s anger building in your bones. He looks surprised. “Sweetheart…”

“You lied to her.”

“I protected her.” Joel’s eyes narrow. He’s tired and irritable. Neither of you expected a fight to ensue the moment he got home. “And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“You’ve watched her struggle with this for years!” 

“They were going to kill her!”

“Have you listened to anything she’s said?” 

You almost don’t recognize the Joel in front of you. He looks like a shell of the assured, warm man you know. You wonder if this is the version of Joel Tommy used to speak of. The one Joel has told you about during those late night chats when you spilled the depths of yourselves to each other, or you thought you had. The one who floated through his days, barely living. 

“I couldn’t lose her!” 

“Except you did!”

Joel straightens, shoulders setting in denial. “She’s alive! That’s what matters.”

“You’re missing the point!”

“You’re saying I should have let them go ahead with it! Let them cut open her head for a cure you don’t believe is possible!” 

Fire blazes in Joel's eyes. You see it. There’s no rationalizing with him about this. In his eyes, there were no choices to be made. He did the only thing. It doesn’t matter what else he has to sacrifice, she’s alive and that’s all that matters. “That’s not-”

He scoffs, cutting you off. You see the pain and hurt ripple through his body, causing him to step back from you. “Sure sounds like it.”

“Joel!”

“Don’t.” He yanks the front door open. “I can’t be here right now.” 

He disappears across the threshold in the blink of an eye leaving you with a mountain to process and a growing tension across your stomach.

Joel knows he’s in the wrong. He knows he shouldn’t have lied to Ellie, held the truth from you. He’s a grown man, of course he knows what’s right and wrong, but that admittance doesn’t do anything to calm him. He needs to get out. Out of the house. Out of the walls into the open. It doesn’t matter that he just came from two weeks out there. 

He sneaks over the wall with more ease than he should be able. Instantly, he feels the tightening in his chest begin to ease. He paces the outside of the wall like a caged animal, the series of events reeling through his mind. He doesn’t realize how much he’s been pushing it back since they left Salt Lake. Her words, her pleas, over and over. She’d given him every opportunity to tell her the truth and he kept the lie going. 

There was no cure. The words he’d utter to her after they found that couple, one dead the other infected while out on patrol. 

He’d almost told her, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t lose her. Couldn’t risk it.  

His pacing becomes more frantic as he remembers the fear he felt at the thought of losing Ellie, the fear that pushed him into wiping away every firefly that crossed his path. The same fear that put lies in his mouth before he had time to think, that kept him from telling her the truth. He knew this would happen one day, but hadn’t been enough. He’d kept it from everyone, including you. 

Tell me, she had pleaded with him, begged him and he still felt the pull to replace his lie with another. 

She’d had to poke and prod to get the words from his mouth. Had to threaten to leave before she got the truth. That hurt almost as much as the fallout. Everyone thought he was a better man than he actually was. Ellie, you, himself, but when it came down to it. He failed that test. Good men don’t make someone threaten to leave to get the truth. 

I’ll go back, but we’re done.

Joel wears a path in the fresh grass beneath his feet, letting the spring chill take over when the sun sets, leaving him in darkness. Ellie had kept her word. He’d never heard her stay quiet for so long. The loss had begun to settle in with her riding next to him. 

Joel’s muscles ache from two weeks out on the road. He misses you and Carter. He hasn’t even touched you yet. Will you let him? 

Getting over the wall from the outside proves more difficult than it had the first time. Which is a good thing, but had Joel feeling every one of his 59 years. Embarrassment creeps over his cheeks with each step toward your home. The one he shares with you, but he feels like a guest as he climbs the steps. He doesn’t catch a glimpse of you or Carter or anyone else through the windows. 

The house is silent when he enters, no signs of life except for the faint buzzing of light bulbs. His brow furrows. You wouldn’t have left the lights on if you weren’t home. Then a faint sound comes from upstairs, movement at the very least. He follows it, placing his hand on the closed bedroom door before cracking it open. 

Soft groans come from behind the cracked bathroom door followed by a whispered curse. Maria's voice follows. Joel’s throat drops into his stomach. His boots echo off the wood floor as he crosses the room. “Sweetheart?” he calls, staying on his side of the door. “Is everything alright?”

“Joel? Get in here,” you groan out. 

It sends some reassurance through him to hear you so clearly before he swings the door open. His eyes go wide at the sight of you in the tub, sweat staining your skin as Maria kneels next to you. “Shit, are you?”

“Make yourself useful and hold my hand.” 

He nods, kneeling beside you. Maria stands, grabbing a few instruments from the bathroom sink, she gives Joel a look that lets him know you’re near the end of labor. Your baby will be here in minutes. It sends a rush through him. “I’m sorry, Darlin.”

You grab onto his hand tightly. It’s wet from the bathwater sloshing around you as you fight to get comfortable. It’s a useless pursuit, but it doesn’t keep you from trying. “Can we do the apologizing later? I’m kinda busy at the moment.” 

“Yes,” Joel takes a deep breath, his heart pounding in his ears. He squares his shoulders next to you, giving an air of assurance you know he doesn’t have. “I’m here for whatever you need.”

“I think you missed most of it.”

“Not that you’ve had much to miss,” Maria says, stern. She pissed at him, which is more than fair given everything. You’d had some time to explain what happened. “We tried to find you. Her labor progressed pretty quick.”

“Speaking of which-” You let out a gasp, face twisting in pain. “I think the baby is crowning.”

“She must be in a hurry,” Joel says. 

“She?” 

“Just a hunch.” Joel smiles, kissing your head.

For the next few minutes, the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Your fight never happened because there’s only one thing on your minds, bringing your baby into the world. The world goes silent again, but not in a bad way. A way that makes you feel at peace, Joel’s warm hand in yours. It doesn’t take long until she announces her arrival with a fiery scream once Maria pulls her out of the water. 

You hold her close, tears of relief gathering in your eyes. Joel leans in, his forehead pressed to your temple, arms wrapping around you and your daughter as she pulls air into her lungs. 

“You did great, Sweetheart.” He whispers into your hair as he kisses your cheek, cupping your daughter’s head. “She’s beautiful.”

Your eyes flicker between him and your newborn. It’s the moment you’ve been envisioning for months, the one you thought you’d get with Gabe when Carter was born. A little piece of you mends. Your child soothes against your skin. 

After you’re both cleaned up, Joel helps you into bed, then settles beside you. She sleeps in your arms, tiny fist clenched around one of Joel’s fingers still curled up in your softest bath towel. You brush her cheek softly. 

“I believe we decided on Willa Peace?”

“Did we?” You tilt your head to the side, a grin verging on your lips. “I thought we weren’t hippies.”

Joel shrugs, tracing your shoulders. “I had a lot of time to think about it the past couple of weeks.”

“Joel…”

Dirt still traces over his face. He hasn’t had time to clean off since he got back. You catch the faint smell of sweat on his clothes and skin. “I know.”

“I would have done the same thing to save her. You know what I think about cures.” You keep your gaze on your child. It only reminds you what you brought her into. “You lied to her over and over when she needed the truth.”

“I was trying to protect her.”

“I wish you would’ve told me.”

“I know.”

“This only works if we’re open with each other.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are.” You bite your lip. “I’m going to need some time with this one.”

Joel nods, arm wrapping around you. “I know.”

You lean into him, enjoying the quietness that surrounds the three of you.

“Willa Peace Miller,” You smile. “Has a nice ring to it.”

“Yeah.” Joel hums beside you. “Can’t believe she’s actually here.” 

“And we’re both okay.”

He nods, and neither of you can tear your eyes away from the precious little being in your arms. You hang on every rise and fall of her chest, everything micro movements, the soft flutter of her eyes that never quite open. It all feels so fragile, so sacred. 

You remember similar moments with Carter. When the grief and the world got too loud, you would lay on the floor or bed with him on your chest asleep. The weight of his small body was a tether that kept you from flying away. 

Even in this moment, as your heart inexplicitly expands, you feel that thread of fear winding itself through your body. Another person to love and protect. Another person to keep from the jaws of the world. Another person you can’t bear to lose. 

“You know,” you say, pulling Joel’s attention. “If you were ever gonna pull those baby clothes and blankets out of your drawer, now would be the time.”

His brow furrows and then eases with realization. “How long have you known they were there?”

You let out a soft chuckle. “I washed them the next time you went out on patrol. I wasn’t going to leave those filthy things in your drawer.”

“You were going through my things, I see.”

“Next time don’t try to hide something in your drawer from the person who washes your clothes.” 

Joel laughs, easing out of the bed to fetch the items from the drawer. “Got it, I’ll be sneakier next time.”

“Can you get the onesie with the yellow flowers?” You bite back a smile. He doesn’t know how you often pulled the drawer open and just gazed upon the items. It helped you visualize it all even when the fear threatened to take over. Another child, and here she was. You’d been most drawn to the little yellow flowers. 

Joel laughs, grabbing the onsie and the swaddle with little yellow flowers to match. You’re gentle with her as you work the small article of clothing over her tiny body. It’s a bit baggy, but you can’t complain. It just means she can wear it for longer. She sleeps through all the jostling as if she’s fully absorbed her middle name. 

She’s settled back into your arms when a soft tap echoes on your door. “Mommy?” Carter’s voice comes through muffled. 

“You can come in.”

The door flies open as your son bursts through the door, grin spread wide on his face. Ellie stands behind him, looking like the space might envelope her.

 “Aunt Maria said I have a baby sister.” 

“You want to meet her?” you ask. 

Carter nods eagerly, dashing toward your bed. Joel catches him before he can jump onto the bed beside you and potentially on you. 

“Daddy!” Carter’s eyes go wide. He hasn’t seen Joel in almost two weeks. 

Joel laughs, arms tightening around the boy. “Hey, bud.”

Your eyes meet Ellie’s. Her eyes are red, bags deep underneath. You motion her next to you. She hesitates before sliding onto the bed beside you. She’s timid, keeping to the edge, eyes flicking over you and Willa. 

“You can get closer.” 

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I never got to hug you earlier.” 

She looks down, eyes scanning over your comforter like she’s reliving her homecoming. Once she’s close enough, your arm slips around her shoulders, tugging her close. She nuzzles into your side like a child seeking comfort. “You’re alright?” she asks.

“Yeah… we both are.” You say, kissing the top of her head. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“But I’m still sorry you’re going through this.”

Ellie seems to sink into your further, eyes pinned to Willa. She doesn’t answer you. She doesn’t look at Joel as he sinks next to you with Carter, but you feel her tense when he does. 

“What’s her name?” Ellie asks. 

“Willa,” you reply. 

“Baby Willa.” Carter grins proudly. 

And the five of you sit there together in silence. You try to push it out of your head that it’s the last time you all might be together for a while. Even now, you feel the underlying anger rolling through Ellie’s body. This is a wound that’s been festering. It’s going to take time to heal. 

Eventually, Ellie slips from your side without a word to leave. She’s barely out the door when Joel goes after her. 

“Ellie,” Joel says, catching her on the front porch.

Her head whips around, expression set in stone. “I’m here for them, not you.” She keeps her voice low to not be overheard by nosy neighbors. “They’re my family. Do you understand?” 

Joel’s apology catches in his throat. He’s been apologizing the whole way back from Salt Lake. He knows there’s nothing he can say to rush this process. He made a decision, and these are his consequences. “Yeah… I got it.”

“Good.” 

She doesn’t give him a chance to say anything else.  

The bed is empty next to you, the sheets cool to the touch. Your eyes blink open. Cool moonlight shines through the window. You glance at the bathroom door. No light shines through the crease. Joel’s name is on your lips, interrupted by his voice. 

“Do you like the butterflies?” 

You turn to your side. Joel sits next to the crib, talking to Willa. She’s awake, moonlight reflecting off her big eyes. She’s content and still. 

“Your big sister liked butterflies. When they come out in the summertime, I feel her around me.”

She stares at Joel, mesmerized by his voice. Your eyes float upward to the mobile Joel made. He hadn’t explained it to you, but you already knew. Sarah had pinned them all throughout their Austin home. You keep one stuck to the window above the kitchen sink. There’s one tucked in his nightstand drawer. 

“I think she sent you to me.” He lets it sit there, contemplating the weight and depth of what he said. “I think she sent you to me, your momma, Ellie, I suppose she’s your big sister too, Carter. All of you.

“Her name was Sarah. She would have loved you.” He chuckles. “She used to ask me for a baby brother or sister. I didn’t know your momma yet… Well, I guess I did, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.”

You stifle a laugh unsuccessfully. Joel’s eyes lock on yours. He smiles, shooting you a wink. He looks younger under the moonlight, more at ease. The creases in his skin are less apparent. 

“Your momma, she’s quite a bit younger than me.” The smile stays pinned to his face. “It’s not so creepy now- least that’s what she tells me- but it would’ve been then, and I was a decent fella back before the world went to shit. Besides, between you and me.” He leans closer to Willa’s ear, but his eyes are still on you. “Your momma had a pretty big crush on me back then.”

You groan, heat flushing your cheeks. It shouldn’t be embarrassing, but it is. You chuck his pillow at him. Joel catches it, laughing. It’s the kind that sits deep in one’s chest and bubbles up with the purest kind of joy. You can’t help but smile. 

He slowly stands, grunting as he does. You hear the familiar pop of his joints. He leans into the crib. You notice Willa’s eyes have fallen shut. “I love you, my little wildflower.” He kisses her cheek before falling back into bed next to you. 

His arm wraps around your waist. Pulling you close, he steals a kiss on your forehead. “I’m getting too old to sit on the floor like that.”

“You’re getting too old to have a newborn, yet here we are.” Your fingers run through his hair. 

“Still can’t believe she’s here… you’re both healthy.”

“Neither can I.” You glance back at the crib. She’s just a few days old and already, you can’t imagine life without her. 

Tears well at the corner of your eyes. Your heart has grown so much. You thought you couldn’t open it to more people, yet here you are. The you of 4 years ago would be too terrified of losing this life to give it a chance, the price of pain too high. Yet here you are, embracing it, taking that risk, because this is living, and the love and belonging far outweigh the potential for pain even as it grows with every passing day. You fell into the trap,and it’s a crowded one, but it’s a happy one. 

Joel kisses your cheek. “You should get some sleep before she wakes up hungry.” 

“Mmm,” you hum as his hands move soothingly over your back. “Someone not named Willa woke me up.”

Joel chuckles. “I’m sorry, Sweetheart.”

But even now you feel your eyelids getting heavier. 

“Did you mean what you said?”

“About?”

You let your eyes fall shut as Joel massages out a knot in your back. You lean into it. “About Sarah sending us to you.”

“I did.” He kisses your forehead. 

Taglist: @pedrotonin @amyispxnk @joeldjarin @ilovepedro @justagalwhowrites

@missladym1981 @jessthebaker @annieispunk @ashleyfilm @moel-jiller

@eloquentdreamer @lizzie-cakes @hiroikegawa

[onepiece-polls]

I love your polls and it’s great you try to be on both sides to give fair chance to everyone, but the way you talked about shanks/buggy is crazy They’re fine together but in canon they’re brothers and your shipping googles got so tight you actually sounded like you could believe they’re anywhere close to canon which is u know stupid af

lmao, okay, this came out of nowhere 😂 Like... I talked about that months ago. But okay.

Anyway, Shuggy is canon. They're making out behind you right now.

[nofomogirl]

Good Omen's problem with having two canons

They're fundamentally different. That's the problem. That's my point.

For quite a while I focused almost exclusively on the new season of Good Omens, but now I am slowly delving into analysis that takes the entire show into account, and I've encountered a little obstacle. Namely, things from S1 can be really tricky to interpret.

Fair warning: this post is going to zig-zag between various points but I want you to trust me and take this scenic route with me. It will take us somewhere eventually, I promise.

The Arrangement

It's one of the core elements in the Good Omens universe and at the same time a perfect example of the issue I want to discuss. So let's have a closer look together.

In the book, the Arrangement is presented to us in two passages:

the first one, where it is first - very briefly - mentioned:

Aziraphale had tried to explain [free will] to him once. The whole point, he'd said - this was somewhere around 1020, when they'd first reached their little Arrangement - the whole point was that when a human was good or bad it was because they wanted to be.

and the second one, where it is properly introduced and explained:

The Arrangement was very simple, so simple in fact, that it didn't really deserve the capital letter, which it had got for simply being in existence for so long. It was the sort of sensible arrangement that many isolated agents, working in awkward conditions a long way from their superiors, reach with their opposite number when they realize they have more in common with their immediate opponents than their remote allies. It meant a tacit non-interference in certain of each other's activities. It made certain that while neither really won, also neither really lost, and both were able to demonstrate to their masters the great strides they were making against a cunning and well-informed adversary. (...) And then, of course, it had seemed even natural that they should, as it were, hold the fort for one another whenever common sense dictated. Both were of angel stock, after all. If one was going to Hull for a quick temptation, it made sense to nip across the city and carry out a standard brief moment of divine ecstasy. It'd get done anyway, and being sensible about it gave everyone more free time and cut down on expenses.

In the show, the Arrangement is presented to us in two original scenes in the cold opening of S1E3:

(I am quoting most relevant dialogues only)

537 AD, Wessex:

C: So we're both working very hard in damp places and just canceling each other out? A: Well, you could put it like that. It is a bit damp. C: Be easier if we both stayed home. If we just send messages back to our head offices saying we'd done everything they'd asked for, wouldn't it? A: But that would be lying. C: Eh, possibly, but the end result would be the same. Cancel each other out. A: But my dear fellow... well, they'd check. Michael's a bit of a stickler. You don't want to get Gabriel upset with you. C: Oh, our lot have better things to do than verifying compliance reports from Earth. As long as they get paperwork they seem happy enough. As long as you're being seen doing something every now and again. A: No! Absolutely not! I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing. We're not having that conversation, not another word!

1601 AD, The Globe Theatre:

A: I have to be in Edinburgh at the end of the week. A couple of blessings to do. A minor miracle to perform. (...) C: I'm meant to be heading to Edinburgh too this week. Tempting a clan leader to steal some cattle. A: Doesn't sound like hard work. C: That's why I thought we should... Well, bit of a waste of effort, both of us going all the way to Scotland. A: You cannot actually be suggesting what I infer that you are implying. C: Which is? A: That just one of us goes to Edingburgh, does both. The blessing and the tempting. C: We've done it before. Dozens of times now. The Arrangement- A: Don't say that! C: Our respective offices don't actually care how things get done. They just want to know they can cross it off the list.

S2 doesn't actually reference the Arrangement. But it does reuse the dialogue about free will where the 1020 date is dropped. We will get back to it.

The challenge of adapting Good Omens

Good Omens shares a certain characteristic with all of Terry Pratchett's solo books I've read - it couldn't care less about "showing instead of telling". Which I love, just to be clear. A book is a written medium. It's made with words and one of words' major strengths is that you can use them to just tell things point blanc.

Good Omens does it a lot and it's fantastic.

Look at that second passage from the book I quoted earlier.

From just those few sentences we learn a lot about the relationships between:

Heaven and Hell (opponents and competition)

Aziraphale and Crowley (two individuals in the same position and in direct contact with each other)

Aziraphale/Crowley and Heaven/Hell (field agent and a remote HQ that are not in direct contact)

Aziraphale/Crowley and Earth (two individuals and a space they live in)

Heaven/Hell and Earth (a board where the game is played, only winning or losing matters, what actually happens on a board does not)

It's really an extra condensed worldbuilding gem sprinkled with humor, so it's no surprise it's become one of the most iconic passages from the book.

I mean, just browse through some interviews with David and Michael - especially the ones from 2019 - where they explain what Aziraphale and Crowley are about. You'll be hard-pressed to find any where they don't reference that specific paragraph, consciously or otherwise.

But it's only this neat on the pages of the book, where narration like this takes mere seconds to absorb. It's impossible to convey the same information in a visual medium with anywhere near the same efficiency.

The fact that the majority of Good Omens is like this was, in my opinion, a main challenge the adaptation faced. The book is very narration-heavy. It's full of fun facts about characters, side jokes, hilarious comments, etc. Some of that precious material was salvaged by introducing God as a narrator, but there was only so much of it you could squeeze into a TV show. The rest had to either be fit into dialogues or lost in translation from the written medium to the visual one.

Obviously, in the case of the Arrangement, it was the dialogues.

Book canon and show canon

We all know they're not the same. Neil Gaiman also pointed it out several times. But I think our mistake is that we still tend to think about them as complementary.

Look at the Arrangement again. The show canon seems to merely expand on the book canon. Add extra details and fill in the blanks. The Arrangement works the exact same way, except now we also know more about how it started.

If we compile what we know from the book with what we know from the show, we get a more detailed timeline:

Crowley first proposes the Arrangement in 537 (show).

The Arrangement starts in 1020 (book), ie. Aziraphale finally agrees to it (show - deduction); we don't know for sure if it's a "basic version" (not getting in each other's way), or a "full version" (doing each other's jobs) but we can assume it's the former.

In 1601 "full version" of the Arrangement is in place for some time (they've done it dozens of times) but Aziraphale still objects and needs convincing.

But read that description from a book once more.

Does it really fit into the version of events shown in the TV series?

The Arrangement in the book is something that just happened. A natural, and in a way inevitable result of Aziraphale and Crowley's circumstances. We are never told who came up with it first because it doesn't matter. Because it could have been either of them. Because after five millennia on Earth, they were both ready to do it. They were both of the same mind. For all we know it might have been an unspoken agreement all along!

But for the show, the creators had to come up with a good reason for the Arrangement to be discussed out loud. And what could be a more natural situation for someone to describe and explain an idea than trying to sell that idea to someone else?

For that practical reason - among many others, no doubt - the Arrangement is not only explicitly Crowley's idea, but an idea Aziraphale vehemently rejects at first. He needs to be convinced and even when he finally relents he's never entirely comfortable with it. He keeps objecting and it requires Crowley's constant effort for them to keep cooperating in any way.

The fact that Aziraphale is reluctant gives Crowley a perfect reason to keep convincing him ie. talk about the Arrangement. But the fact that he needs to explain and keep convincing Aziraphale means that Aziraphale is no longer a person who understands the same things and feels the same way.

That is a huge change.

Of course, you may say that what I've written about the Arrangement in the book is just my interpretation. It's true that technically there's nothing there that would contradict the events from the show in any way. The thing is, the events in the show aren't very compatible with the overall characterization of the ineffable duo in the book.

Evolution of Aziraphale and Crowley

You might have read that our leading pair was originally conceived as a single character that Neil and Terry eventually decided to split into two separate individuals.

My reaction when I first learned about it was: "Of course they were! That makes so much sense!" Because honestly, as a person who watched the show first and then read the book, I was surprised at how few differences there were between the two in the original text. If you squint your eyes really tight, you can see how book!Aziraphale and book!Crowley are two versions of the same character. They're far more similar than their show versions.

Most importantly, their attitudes toward Heaven and Hell are pretty much identical. Perfectly mirrored in every regard. What Hell is for Crowley, Heaven is for Aziraphale. What Hell is for Aziraphale, Heaven is for Crowley. In. Every. Possible. Way.

Allow me to present some evidence from the book.

Exhibit #1: the end of the scene where Crowley convinces Aziraphale to interfere with Warlock's upbringing

'You're saying the child isn't evil of itself?' he said slowly. 'Potentially evil. Potentially good too, I suppose. Just this huge powerful potentiality, waiting to be shaped,' said Crowley. He shrugged. 'Anyway, why're we talking about this good and evil? They're just names for sides. We know that.' 'I suppose it's got to be worth a try,' said the angel. Crowley nodded encouragingly. 'Agreed?' said the demon, holding out his hand. The angel shook it, cautiously. 'It'll certainly be more interesting than saints,' he said. 'And it'll be for the child's own good, in the long run,' said Crowley. (...)

When Crowley first points out that good and evil are just names for sides, and then insists it's something they both know, Aziraphale doesn't react in any way. That's because these aren't things that book!Aziraphale disagrees with. He does indeed know it and doesn't deny it.

Also, please note just how cynical the angel is here with his comment that influencing the Antichrist would be a more interesting project than influencing saints!

Both would be rather OOC for show!Aziraphale.

Exhibit #2: the scene just after Warlock Dowling's birthday party, when it becomes evident he is not the Antichrist

'You said it was him!' moaned Aziraphale (...) 'It was him,' said Crowley. (...) 'Then someone else must be interfering.' 'There isn't anyone else! There's just us, right? Good and Evil. One side or the other.' He thumped the steering wheel. 'You'll be amazed at the kind of things they can do to you, down there,' he said. 'I imagine they're very similar to the sort of things they can do to you up there,' said Aziraphale. 'Come off it. Your lot get ineffable mercy,' said Crowley sourly. 'Yes? Did you ever visit Gomorrah?' 'Sure' said the demon. 'There was this great little tavern where you could get these terrific fermented date-palm cocktails with nutmeg and crushed lemongrass-' 'I meant afterwards.' 'Oh.'

Can you imagine this kind of exchange in the TV series? Can you imagine show!Aziraphale being this realistic about Heaven, and show!Crowley so naive about it? There's no way.

Show!Aziraphale genuinely believes that Heaven is good at its core.

Book!Aziraphale knows Heaven isn't any different than Hell and would punish him just as ruthlessly and unfairly as Hell would Crowley.

Show!Crowley understands both Heaven and Hell on a very deep level and is highly aware of their true nature.

Book!Crowley buys a piece of celestial propaganda about ineffable mercy and actually expects Heaven to be forgiving.

Let the magnitude of that difference sink.

Exhibit #3: same scene, a bit further

'So all we've got to do is find it,' said Crowley. 'Go through the hospital records.' The Bentley's engine coughed into life and the car leapt forward, forcing Aziraphale back into the seat. 'And then what?' he said. 'And then we find the child.' 'And then what?' The angel shut his eyes as the car crabbed around the corner. 'Don't know.' 'Good grief.' 'I suppose (...) your people wouldn't consider (...) giving me asylum?' 'I was going to ask you the same thing. (...)'

This is just a cherry on top, really.

Yes, in the book, when things go pear-shaped, both Aziraphale and Crowley consider seeking asylum on the opposite side.

Do you need more proof that book canon and show canon really aren't as compatible as they may seem?

Free will

As promised, let's get back to that dialogue because while it may not be obvious at first glance it really illustrates perfectly the problem arising from balancing between two canons.

Here is the full quote from the book:

Aziraphale had tried to explain [free will] to him once. The whole point, he'd said - this was somewhere around 1020, when they'd first reached their little Arrangement - the whole point was that when a human was good or bad it was because they wanted to be. Whereas people like Crowley and, of course, himself, were set in their ways right from the start. People couldn't become truly holy, he said, unless they also had the opportunity to be definitively wicked. Crowley had thought about it for some time and, around about 1023, had said, Hang on, that only works, right, if you start everyone off equal, OK? You can't start someone off in a muddy shack in the middle of a war zone and expect them to do as well as someone born in a castle. Ah, Aziraphale had said, that's the good bit. The lower you start, the more opportunities you have. Crowley had said, That's lunatic. No, said Aziraphale, it's ineffable.

And here, for comparison, is how it was reused in S2E3:

A: There is a stolen body in that barrel! This is wicked! C: Oh, I'm down with wicked! Anyway, is it wicked? She needed the money. A: That is irrelevant. Look, I am good. You, I'm afraid, are evil. But people get a choice. You know, they cannot be truly holy unless they also get the opportunity to be wicked. She is wicked. C: Yeah, that only works if you start everyone off equal. You can't start someone off like that and expect her to do as well as someone born in a castle. A: Ah, but no, no. That's the good bit. The lower you start, the more opportunities you have. So Elspeth here has all the opportunities because she's so poor. C: That's lunacy. A: No, that's ineffable.

I'll be honest with you - I didn't like that scene in the show. It felt jarring and off. Aziraphale was acting like it was his first day on Earth and it was frustrating to watch.

Then, on one of the rewatches, just as I was rolling my eyes at "that's ineffable", a bulb lit in my brain. That line didn't work there because it wasn't created to be there! In the book and in S1 "it's ineffable" was kind of Aziraphale's catchphrase but in S2 it only appears this once. More importantly, in the book and S1, the fact that the angel would say that was all a build-up to the scene when he threw it in Heaven's face at the Tadfield Airbase. Using that word in S2 was like trying to make a running joke that has already reached its destination run again.

And just like that one line the entire dialogue didn't fit because it wasn't meant to be there. It was created for an entirely different context.

What's the difference?

Firstly, book!husbands' conviction was very shallow and it wasn't uncommon for both of them to spout slogans without meaning them. Therefore, book!Aziraphale's words didn't carry that much weight. The very fact that the conversation took place at the same time they formed the Arrangement tells us something about how serious he was. But show!Aziraphale's relationship with his beliefs is different, so when he says things like that it's a much bigger deal.

Secondly, the book explicitly states that Aziraphale and Crowley only developed free will on Earth, due to extended exposure to mankind. The show never really makes a stand on the matter but based on what we've seen so far I think we can safely assume that angels and demons are capable of making their own choices as much as humans do.

In other words, in its original context, the conversation was just Aziraphale talking about a concept he didn't fully grasp, quoting propaganda he didn't fully subscribe to. He was being ignorant and mildly obnoxious in an endearing way.

But using the same dialogue verbatim in the Resurrectionist carried a completely different meaning. Aziraphale who utters it in the show has no reason to be so ignorant about free will. Aziraphale who utters it in the show genuinely tries to defend Heaven. Most importantly, Aziraphale who utters it in the show, doesn't just idly bicker with his friend about general things but is judging an actual human individual that's right in front of them. That, more than anything else, makes it sound heartless and ignorant.

What is the problem with having two canons, exactly?

It's time to wrap things up.

In the opening paragraphs, I've mentioned that I've noticed the issue while interpreting scenes from S1, and yes, that was the case and I do believe that the existence of two canons is especially problematic for S1. That's because pretty much every scene in S1 is potentially like that dialogue about free will in S2, except subtler and harder to spot.

A grand majority of what we see and hear in S1 comes directly from the book. But while words and actions were kept, in some instances things that gave them their original meaning might no longer be valid in the show universe. Sometimes they easily take new meaning, and we don't even notice. But sometimes there's this dissonance that's not as easy to work around.

S1 deviated from the book and created its own canon. But the difference didn't seem to go very deep and it seemed perfectly reasonable to use some trivia from the book to shed some extra light on the content of the show. I used to do it in my head, even though I was aware of the changes that were made.

But S2 expanded the show canon so far beyond what was in the book that I'm really not sure it makes sense to compile them anymore.

There are a lot of things that were only explicitly stated in the book that I keep clinging to. But perhaps it's time to let go...

Thank you for your patience.

I know all of the above isn't exactly a revolutionary discovery, but I needed to get it off my chest before writing anything else.

[themotherofhorses]

bewitched

pairing: alys rivers x fem!targaryen!reader, minor aemond targaryen x fem!targaryen!reader

summary: she is many things— this witch, and observant is one of them. alys rivers can see the way your older brother stares at you, that mix of heavy lust and longing darkening the violet in his eye.

it is quite cute, she thinks. such a shame she's decided to claim you for herself.

warnings: explicit language. aemond acting like book!aemond in the beginning (violence and death). seduction. mention of canon-typical targcest between siblings. oral (f receiving) and fingering. tiddy sucking. slight breeding kink. alys straight up stealing aemond's bitch.

masterlist

Without any further thought, you had followed your older brother on his sixteen days’ march to Harrenhal, riding alongside him at the head of his army, some four thousand strong. Your mother had protested it a great deal, demanding you stay back and remain with her and your broken older sister.

But you were Aemond’s in the way Helaena’s was Aegon’s, and where he went, you followed.

And it was you, his sweet little sister, who did her best to calm him down when, twenty days later, word of the fall of King’s Landing finally reached him. At dinner, Aemond felt thrice the fool, you knew, and cried out curses at his uncle and the “river scrum” and Rhaenyra, over and over again. His fury was fearsome but never directed at you. He loved you too much. That night, you held him close, cradling his head against your breasts as the two of you slept.

The following morning, he began his onslaught.

Under the dawning sun, Aemond soon killed Ser Simon Strong in a duel, cutting the old man to pieces before feeding the corpse to Vhagar. Ser Simon was the great uncle to Larys Clubfoot, you then remember, grimacing at the blood puddling across the castle’s courtyard. Larys Strong. Harwin Strong. Lyonel Strong. Bits of his limbs were scattered about too, a horrible mess of muscle and skin and greyed hair. The sight made you sick to your tummy.

Bring me his grandsons! Aemond demanded soon after, freckles of dried blood staining his cheekbones and brow. And every man or boy with Strong blood in his veins. The Stranger does not discriminate in his wielding, and neither will I!

You watched in tears as one by one, your brother’s men dragged out both man and boy, some no older than your niece and nephew. Their screams broke out across the courtyard as their bodies stacked in a pile almost three feet high. Clutching Aemond’s sleeve, you begged and pleaded mercy for the children, and for the womenfolk huddled within the wards.

“See reason!” you cried. “They are innocent in all this, the babes especially! Do not let your anger deceive you, my dear brother!” But Aemond was unmoved by your words, to your utter dismay.

No trueborn Strong was spared nor any bastard, both adult and child. All except Alys Rivers.

You pled mercy for her as well, and Aemond surprised you by granting it. He gestured for two soldiers to shove her back inside Harrenhal, safe and alive, before asking if you were finally happy. Your lips curled at the bite in his tone, and the madden glare in his eye.

“This is unlike you,” you told him. “I do not like it.”

Aemond rolled his eye. “And I do not give a shit, sweet sister. If you wish to cast blame onto someone, let it be our eldest whore sister and her damn husband. Ser Simon was a traitor to the crown, and died a fitting traitor’s death.”

“But this was unnecessary, Aemond! You’re many things, yes, but cruel is not one of them.”

“Do you honestly believe that?”

“I know it!” you insisted.

Aemond sighed. His sword was back belted to his hip, hidden by the cloak he wore. “We’ve entered a war, sister. Fairness and humanity do not survive long on the battlefield. Do not expect much compassion during these times.”

You frown. Was Aemond always like this?

Suddenly you wish to be at home, tucked within the Keep’s stone walls, in your mother’s arms. Perhaps if you closed your eyes, you’d be back in the gardens, smelling the warm earthy smell of early springtime and feeling the cool wind play with your hair.

I want to go home now, you wanted to say when you reopened your eyes to find yourself still at Harrenhal. I don’t wanna be here anymore. Anywhere but here.

You did not know this man in front of you. Not anymore. He was no longer your older brother and protector, the man you would soon wed when the moon turned again, and the one you loved with your whole heart. Your eyes drifted back to the corpses stacked atop each other, bloodied legs and arms and messy heads strewn all over the redden dirt.

With nothing else left to say, you turned and left.

She is many— this witch, and observant is one of them. Alys Rivers could see the way your older brother stares at you, that mix of heavy lust and longing darkening the violet in his eye.

It is quite cute, she thought. Such a shame she’s decided to claim you for herself.

Alys felt no guilt at that. You had saved her life, although she hadn’t the slightest inkling as to why. Or, maybe she did, actually. She herself was older by many decades, raven-haired, and as tall as the Prince Aemond himself. Her breasts were still heavy with milk from all the highborn children she fed throughout the years. She was a wet nurse, a bastard woman.

There were so many pretty maids, all of your own years, at Harrenhal, and yet you never once entertained them as companions.

No, instead your pretty eyes remained on her.

As the evening sunlight streamed through the castle’s windows, Alys arrived at your bedchamber, guised as a servant. In her hands, she carried a tray of plated roasted deer, goat cheese, and nutty bread, still steaming from the furn. You’ve barred yourself shut in your room for the better part of the day, too upset with your brother’s carnage to venture beyond the walls. The hour had grown late, and you must be starving.

“My princess,” she greeted softly, bowing when you let her in. You stand by the window, gazing outside at the east gate, near the Tower of Ghosts- one of the five immense towers bent and lumped and cracked from the Balerion’s fire during the conquest. As dark and ruinous as it now stands, it was still hauntingly beautiful. “Might you be hungry?”

You sniffled. “My appetite has fled me, I’m afraid.”

“At least try, child.” Alys set the tray on the desk, before taking a step back to study her new prize.

Up close, you’re very much a Valyrian beauty, with hair as silvery as moonglow and deep purple eyes. There is a certain softness and sweetness to you that strikes her fancy, from the elegant way you hold your posture to how you trailed after your brother, the prince. Her eyes fall to your breasts, and she licks her lips.

“Thank you…um…” you paused shortly, unsure of her name.

“Alys Rivers.”

You nod, smiling. “Ah, yes, Alys. I remember now. Thank you for the food,” but then you shake your head, chuckling, “But I don’t think I can stomach any food after today….brutality. I feel sick just remembering such…”

Alys felt the same way as well, though she didn’t fault the little princess for such. It was all your damned brother anyways.

An awkward silence soon followed, and it left her wondering if both you and her had swallowed your tongues in that moment. She didn’t know what to say or do, so she cleared her throat and offered you the chalice of wine she brought too. “Here, sweet princess. A bit of wine to wash away these ill thoughts.”

“Thank you, Alys.” You took a sip, quickly relaxing your shoulders. Mmm, very nice. “I wish mercy on Ser Simon Strong, and his grandsons too, may the gods give them all rest.”

Ser Simon was her great uncle too, Alys thought with some sadness. “He was an old done man, my princess,” she said, lacing her thin fingers together. She wore two silver rings on each hand that sometimes she twisted when anxious. “I like to think he lived a good life before now. He died with bravery and a sword in his hand, the way many in House Strong dream of passing.” Or dreamt, I should say. I’m the only one left, next to Larys.

The two of you spoke for the rest of the hour, moving to sit comfortably on the settee at the foot of the bed. Alys Rivers was a complete joy to be around, and very beautiful. As she talked, you took some time to admire her. Her green eyes shone like bright emeralds, and her hair was long and dark as the midnight sky, falling thickly around her ample breasts. Maybe it was the wine tonight, or perhaps her voice, but you were struck with the sudden urge to kiss her plump, pink lips.

So you did.

You leaned forward, kissing her— softly at first, until she wrapped her arm around your waist to tug you closer. Nobody had ever kissed you before, not even Aemond, although during boyhood he made several attempts to steal a kiss. Her tongue found yours in a short dance before you broke away from her, a tad breathless now.

“Princess,” Alys whispered, hands falling down to your shoulders.

“Apologies!” You buried your face in your hands, embarrassed. “I cannot believe I just did that—my sincerest apologies, Alys. I don’t know what overcame me, I—” your voice was muffed as you hid away from her gaze.

She just laughed. “Was that your first kiss?... Have you been deflowered, sweet princess?”

You shook your head.

“Really?” Her dark eyebrow lifted in surprise. “With the way your brother looks at you, in truth I would’ve thought his babes were already in your belly.” Prince Aemond hasn’t bedded you yet? Alys was astonished at that. A silver flower still blossoming prettily in the rosebush, ripe for plucking? A slow smile spread across her lips.

“Aemond—he hasn’t…we’re to be married when we return to King’s Landing, I believe.”

“Do you like him?”

“I do. He is a good brother, and he will be a fine husband, and father too!” You said in a quivering voice, trying to calm your breathing. “He loves me, I think, and I love him too.”

But Prince Aemond had made you afraid of him today, she could smell it on you, even if you would never admit it aloud. This was very good. She could use it to her advantage. “Ah, I see. Well, in that case, I wish you two a fruitful and blessed marriage. You’ll make a fine wife when the day finally arrives, little princess.”

That made you pause. “I don’t know…” you mumble, picking at the skin around your nailbed.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well…our elder brother, King Aegon, he took Aemond to a brothel on his thirteenth nameday. He likes to joke that our brother is well-educated in pleasing a woman. I worry that I’m not…I’m not up to his standard. Or that he may not desire me afterward.”

Alys drew back, shocked. Up to his standard? Non-desirable? Does she take him for an utter fool? For what man wouldn’t wish to bed a Targaryen princess like yourself?

She scoffed, leaning her face so close to yours that you could feel her warm breath against your lips. It sent goosebumps prickling up each arm. “Men always love a blushing maiden in their sheets. They may return to the whores in due time, but they’ll always welcome a maid in their bed, however inexperienced she might be.”

Your breath hitched at her words. Could she…maybe….? Your eyes fell back down to her heavy breasts. She was a wet nurse, after all, and confessed to being pregnant with several children of her own. Would that mean she is well experienced in pleasure…? You debated the thought in your head, weighing the consequences of asking such.

Is it really whoring if it is with another woman? It is not like I’m laying with another man….she would be a teacher, not a mistress. You closed your eyes, thinking of Aemond. And Aemond would never know. I’d never tell him.

“Will you show me?” you blurted. “Teach me, so that I might be somewhat educated in pleasure?” Maybe it would take your mind off of this morning too.

Mischief twinkled in Alys’s pretty green eyes. “If it pleases you, my princess.”

Alys is quick to lay you down on the bed before climbing over you, straddling your waist. “I can hear your heartbeat. Do not be scared, little love. Passion is a love song, and lovemaking is merely the dance that follows.” She then takes both your hands in hers, placing them on her breasts. "I am yours to do whatever you wish, my princess." Encouraged by the look she gives you, you rub her nipples with your thumbs, before leaning to take one in your hot mouth to suckle.

She moans, cradling your head closer to her chest. “Good girl,” she whispers, eyes shutting as you flick it back and forth with your tongue.

Your other hand squeezes her other breast, enjoying the way it feels between your fingers and the moans flooding from her lips. You want to ask her if you’re the first woman she’s ever been with and if this moment is as special to her as it is to you. But her tit is still in your mouth and steals all the words away.

After a few more minutes, she pulls your mouth away to kiss you, letting you taste a bit of her tongue. “Very good,” she murmurs against your lips, kissing you again and again. “Did you like my breasts, sweetling?”

“Mmmm,” and you tug at her bottom lip between your teeth. “I did a lot, Alys. They're so soft.”

She giggles before pushing you back down, your head sinking against the pillows. Her soft hand drifts across your belly, fingers skimming below the curve of your breasts down to your hipbones and waist. “You’re so beautiful,” she says aloud, her voice thick with awe. “I dreamt of Targaryens before, but you’re far lovelier than them all, little princess.”

Your brother has been blessed with your hand, she thinks, with a mix of both sincerity and bitterness. Men never deserve such tantalizing fruits. They are all the same in their words and actions. They never truly appreciate the gods’ given gifts.

Her green eyes remain on your naked belly, imagining a soft swell to it. You’d be such a lovely mother, she’s sure. She could never give you a baby, though, but maybe….her eyes look up to yours, noticing the faint glimmers of lust clouding the pretty violet hue. It is a mirror to your older brother, Prince Aemond.

Alys thinks and thinks, taking the time to fondle your smaller breasts.

Prince Aemond could plant the seed…and she could then tend to it.

Alys’s hand continues downward, finding the mound of fine silvery hair between your thighs, grinning when she feels how wet you are. “I wonder if your cunt is as sweet as your lips,” she wonders aloud, more to herself. You bite your lip, watching with large, doe-eyes. Alys moves herself between your thighs, her pretty face hovering over your soppy pussy.

“You are just so lovely, sweet princess.” She flashes you a quick smile while running a finger through your folds, gently easing you open. Above her, you tremble.

She then presses a soft kiss to your clit before sucking it into her mouth, tongue drawing small circles around it. “Ohhhhh,” you moan, face scrunching in blissful pleasure. Alys switches between sucking and lapping at your cunt, her eyes flickering up to watch the way you react to everything. There are tiny beads of sweat lining your browbone and temple, and your fingers are slowly turning white from the tight grip on the cream sheets.   

Scream. Allow me to hear those cries. Let the entirety of Harrenhal learn who’s claimed you tonight.

Your hips buckle up against her mouth as your head lolls to the side, breathless whimpers leaving your lips when she works two fingers inside your cunt, scissoring and pumping and stroking your sweet spot until all you can see are flashes of blinding white. “ALYS,” you shriek, bringing the sheet to your mouth to bite down as hard as you can to muffle the rest of your screams. “Oh, gods be good, Alys!”

You don’t wish for your beloved Aemond to hear you, nor anyone else.

Oh, but you taste so fucking good, Alys thinks, savoring your arousal on your tongue. She continues to eat you out, as well as fucking you with her fingers, partly dreaming of a wonderful new life where she wakes up every morning between your shaky thighs, breaking fast with every sweet orgasm she pulls from you.

My princess, mine own dragon.

Several seconds later, your legs twist around the older woman’s body, breasts heaving as your whole body shakes and shudders. Your pussy clenches tightly around Alys’s fingers, a sign that you’re close to cumming. “Cum for me, sweetling,” she coos, kissing the inside of your thigh- once, twice, thrice. She feels victorious in a way, a great pride simmering within her as she eyes the way your peak comes only closer and closer.

Prince Aemond One-Eye may have sacked her Harrenhal, but she sacked his baby sister, and made the little princess her own sweet whore.  

“Would you like for me to bring your dear brother next?” she asks.

You shake your head, panting through the moans and whimpers and gasps. “He—he won’t…take me—ah, until our wedding night—”

“I have a way of fixing that,” Alys says, leaning to lick a long strip up your pussy. She has many love potions and philtres to entice the prince, a collection that would surely inflame his deep passion and lust for his sister. Although, she thinks in amusement, it shouldn’t be that hard. He wants you as badly as she did, mayhap even more. “You’ll be heavy with his child soon, sweetling, his bastard’s fire blazing in your womb.”

“He won’t father a bastard. Aemond hates bastards.”

“He’d father anything if it comes from your loins, sweet one.”

You cry, flinging your head back as you come undone at her fingers and tongue. Alys drinks everything you give her, mouthing tiny spells against your cunt. One for fertility, the second for a blessed marriage, and the third for protection. Except it won’t be between you and the prince.

Alys Rivers always did prefer women to men.

taglist for "bewitched": @chainsawsangel @sweethoneyblossom1 @dahlias-and-marigolds @ilikeitbetterangsty @inlovewithhisblueeyes @the-cult-classic-bitch @666-aiko

taglist for everything aemond: @randomdragonfires @aemvnd @moonteas @chompchompluke

[citrineaura]

Beta Wally....?

Now before I start, I know I said this would be posted specifically before 2024, but due to me having a bad habit of procrasination, it just never happened. I'll try not to let my bad habit win the next time I try to post something!

As I said in my update, I wanted to talk about Beta Wally; the Wally before our current Wally. This current version of Welcome Home is extremely creative, with all of the voicelines, easter eggs, the restoration team, the holiday updates- just the intelliigence of it all is amazing.

However, I wish I could've seen, alternatively, how the website would be like with Beta Wally. I tend to ponder on that sometimes because Beta Wally was an...interesting character.

Well, the man was evil. I think we can agree on that. So had Clown decided to go with his former version of Wally, it would probably be a lot more scarier. Our current Welcome Home is a horror project likely because of the company PlayFellow Workshop itself, but I think if we had Beta Wally, it would be a horror project because of WALLY.

From what we know, Wally was a dark character in the non-canon version. He supposedly created Barnaby- my guess is it was an act of rebellion, "I know I'm a puppet, but I can take one of you puppeteers and reverse our roles; how about that?" is the vibes I got, personally.

Then there was the picture where he asks,

When he asked, from what was once daytime outside his window became pitch black. If that event, according to that storyline, happened after he created Barnaby which I'm sure it is- then he just asked that question to be morbid. So now we know Beta Wally also liked dark humor.

We all know that famous picture of Wally doing the baphomet pose. I, and many others, have thought this to be that he likes being "The Most" to a point where he desires to be in control. Worship if you will. I guess that's what happens when you're the prey, you'd just prefer being the predator.

There was also a very important character named Sunny. If my memory serves me correctly, he was a bird similar to Poppy. Sunny seemed to be the "Frank" in that storyline. What I mean by that is, our Frank is usually the first to act accordingly, and is a very logical puppet that wants the best for his friends- that is how Sunny is in the old storyline.

There is a photo of Wally's hand reaching towards Sunny's head in a threatening manner:

The "We're all going to get rid of it for good!" being repeated in a cult-like manner, is the result of mental manipulation by Wally I reckon. I just don't think Sunny was about to put up with him, even if it meant he had to be dismantled.

And if you remember Frank laying down in a pile of discarded puppet pieces, there's a similar vibe going on except neither Wally or Home is the villain in our current storyline.

This is the creepiness I'm talking about. Somehow his eyes in the old artwork is a lot scarier! And the puppeteer forcefully putting flowers on his head? Wally is charmed and yet not. His eyes looks like he wants to praise the puppeteer for gracing him with beauty but also unalive him at the same time.

And generally, Beta Wally just seemed like a sassy character. Despite his venomous nature, I'm sure he would've been hilarious.

Yes, you definitely ring alarm bells that alerts us of how much of a danger you are, Wally dear. Even your shirt has the same colors as a vintage TV that's in error!

Anyways, that's all I really wanted to talk about. I just like pondering on what could've been.

If you've made it this far, you're the most! Ha. Ha. Ha.

[embracing-the-ineffable]

Good Omens, staying skeptical, and the mystery and the lie at the heart of Gravity Falls

-Neil Gaiman, 29 June 2023

I recently came across this post by @apathetic-revenant, which goes into extensive detail about a whole secret meta lie generated by Alex Hirsch, creator and head writer of Gravity Falls, midway through the show.

It went like this: the show was very focused on mysteries, codes, ciphers, etc, and early on a character discovered a mysterious journal with an unknown author, and this drove the plot. There were clues placed in the show so that people could solve the journal author's identity, or more probably so that it would all make sense in hindsight after the big reveal. However, the show ended up with a larger-than-expected fandom who started organizing online in a way the creators hadn't expected or planned for, and they were worried everyone would collectively solve the mystery too easily, too soon, and the suspense and appeal of the story gradually unfolding would be lost.

So they took a fake BTS photo that appeared to reveal the journal's author and "leaked" it online. To give it credibility, the show's creator posted "Fuming right now" and then deleted the post soon after, once they were certain it had been seen and screenshots taken. The Gravity Falls fandom then stopped trying to solve the mystery, as they believed the answer had already been revealed. It was a solution "targeted toward delaying that group problem-solving, without actually affecting the experience of any individual person watching the show."

Ok, Good Omens fandom. Are we Gravity Falls all over again? Are we also experiencing meta lies?

Is it possible that Amazon's marketing department has just released a new promotional video about Aziraphale & Crowley's "timeline of interconnectedness" (discussions here and here ) where they honestly:

got several of those timeline dates wrong, including labeling the entirety of seasons 1 and 2 as belonging to the same year?

mixed all the season 1 and 2 clips together so they're completely interconnected and out of the order they were presented to us so far?

didn't consult with Neil Gaiman for even a moment to be sure they had their facts straight? (Or literally anyone else who's spent years working on it? Or even someone who has just watched it once while paying attention?)

didn't understand the way most series tell a story by moving through time in a realistic linear fashion?

When Neil said today that "time is fine" in response to questions about the timeline of interconnectedness video, was he trying to misdirect the fandom away from the mystery that's clearly hidden throughout both seasons (and especially season 2)?

The Good Place seems suddenly more relevant than I'd imagined:

Neil has told us that his Tumblr posts aren't canon. He's also said:

"Never trust the storyteller. Only trust the story."

"Writers are liars, my dear, surely you know that by now? And yet, things need not have happened to be true. Tales and dreams are the shadow-truths that will endure when mere facts are dust and ashes, and forgot." -Both quotes are from The Sandman [link]

So here's my plea to whichever part of the fandom might read this: Stay Skeptical. It's wonderful to talk to Neil about his characters, the worlds he's created, his writing process, his views on world events, his sense of humor, his kindness, his compassion and empathy, and his good advice & encouragement for the entire range of the human experience. I respect him very much, and I'm thrilled he's here on social media talking to all of us. (Except he doesn't have social media, obviously. He's like Schrödinger's Social Media Neil-cat.)

I'm looking forward to all the surprises I'm certain are in store for us (and Aziraphale and Crowley) in Good Omens season 3. I trust Neil (and Terry!) to deliver our beloved characters to a very satisfying ending. But I don't trust Neil to honestly answer all of our questions on social media - and neither should you.

Especially not when he's already blamed obvious season 2 changes to the Bentley on the "lighting" (as just one example).

With lots of thanks to the members of the @ineffable-detective-agency - including @bbbitchvibbbez, @kimberleyjean, @maufungi, @noneorother, @theastrophysicistnextdoor, and @thebluestgreen for all their excellent fact-checking, ideas, and discussions!

Interested in diving further into all the Good Omens mysteries? I have more posts plus Clues and metas from all over the fandom, here.

[sunspearesque]

The Bereaved Dunes

Summary:

In the Bereaved Dunes, where shadows weep, A tale of love and sorrow, bound to keep. Elia, my sun, in your memory I tread, Through sands of despair, where tears are shed. I should've taken you far away, my dear, To Dorne's warm embrace, where skies are clear. But fate had other plans, a cruel twist of hand, In the Bereaved Dunes, where sorrows expand.

A/N: I've often wondered, 'How did Oberyn receive the news of Elia's death? How did his mind grapple with such a profound tragedy?' This curiosity served as my inspiration for writing this piece. It is crucial to delve into the pivotal event that laid the foundation for all of his subsequent actions. This prologue marks the genesis of my upcoming series, 'Whispers of Vendetta,' wherein Elia's death remains canon (and I made use of some famous lines from ASOIAF books), though I've allowed myself creative freedom in depicting Oberyn's reaction and the events that follow. Big thanks to my sweet, sweet friend @palioom for her unwavering support <3 I hope this piece meets your liking xoxo

Rating: M

CW: angst; canon character death (Elia Martell); grief/mourning; sibling loss; brief description of death/injury

WC: 1.6K

Read on AO3 • moodboard

283 AC

"We cannot simply remain still… spineless, awaiting news of her safety and that of her children!" Oberyn's voice rang out, filled with fervor, as he directed his words at his elder brother.

Doran, vexed by his brother's persistence, hissed back in retort, "I've entrusted four of our most skilled soldiers with her protection, Oberyn! They will ensure her safety. Cease your incessant hovering!"

Oberyn's eyes bore into Doran's, smoldering with anger and worry, "They had better return with her unharmed, or I shall part their heads from their bodies myself!"

Twelve agonizing hours passed without any word of Elia. Silence hung heavy in the air, and Oberyn's unease deepened. He understood that the Dornish princess was not their highest priority, knowing that no one would make her safety their concern—not even her husband, the father of her children.

Her husband, that fucking bastard.

I should have spirited her and her two children away to Dorne the moment she sent for me. The instant he crowned that Stark girl as the queen of love and beauty, forsaking his own wife. I should have sensed the despair in her ever-saddened eyes. She sat there, abased and broken, her belly swollen with his child. Those smudged words in her letter, likely stained by her tears, should have served as reason enough to bring her back to Dorne, where she truly belonged among her people and her land.

Elia was no viper; she was more akin to a dove—gentle, serene, fragile yet resplendent, graceful, and generous to a fault. She was too generous for the rapacious beasts that surrounded her. Here in Dorne, she walked among vipers, none of them would ever harm her. In King's Landing, she had found herself surrounded by dragons and lions… who had torn her asunder, both figuratively and literally.

Every hour drifted by like a languid stream, sowing a tempest of dread deep within Oberyn's core. Why does no one share in my fear? Neither her kin, nor our people dwelling here. Why does the world remain unperturbed? Am I truly the only one who understands the depth of their malice? Their hatred for us? For her?

Oberyn paced his brother's solar ceaselessly, a restless specter, his sword ever-present at his side, primed for any declaration. Doran, seated nearby, muttered words beneath his breath, prayers? curses? who knows; their nature concealed in the shroud of his quiet contemplation.

Suddenly, the reverberation of frantic footfalls pierced the air, accompanied by the panting of a disheveled soldier. "My... My Princes, Your Highness," the soldier stammered, his voice trembling as tears welled up in his eyes. Words eluded him, his courage shattered. "They have… they've killed the King... they've taken the Princess's life... and her children's." Oberyn lunged forward, seizing the young man by the throat, his rage ignited like wildfire, "I will sever your vile tongue if such words pass your lips again!" he hissed, fury coursing through every fiber of his being. How dare he utter such blasphemy?

Doran shouted at him, a frantic plea to prevent his brother from inflicting harm. Oberyn's grip on the soldier's neck tightened, threatening to snap it in half, "how dare you speak her name with such lies!" Oberyn's face was but a hair's breadth away from the man's.

"Oberyn!" Doran's voice boomed louder now, snapping his brother from the abyss of his wrath.

Reluctantly, Oberyn released the man, who fell to his knees, coughing and gasping, muttering apologies amidst his tears, "I apologize, my prince... I apologize... I apologize," he babbled frantically, his form trembling.

Oberyn stood frozen in place, the world around him becoming a cacophony of muffled sounds. Blood surged in his ears and pounded in his head, rendering his limbs feeble and numb. The frantic movements of those around him and his older brother's inquiries and orders blurred into obscurity, leaving only the sensation of his own scalding skin, burning him alive. He longed to rip his garments from his body, to tear his flesh asunder, as the air grew oppressively thick and sweltering, suffocating him as if he were submerged beneath water. The tingling sensation in his fingertips and the throbbing pain in his right eye pierced his consciousness. It was as though he were aflame from within, feeling the molten flow of his blood beneath his searing skin.

Their shared life flashed before his eyes in an instant. He remembered her fragility, how he cradled her in his arms and heart. Those days when he pushed her wheelchair with gusto, eliciting laughter from her. She was a year his senior, yet her fragility and ailment demanded his physical protection. In turn, she fortified his spirit, offering solace in a world that sought to alter him. He visited her chamber daily, sharing tales of their parents and elder sibling, and she listened, offering comfort and understanding. He was her bastion, and she was his serenity. He was her army, and she was his peace. They were inseparable, and the notion of existence without one another seemed unfathomable.

The sun no longer bathed Dorne in its usual warmth on the day her remains returned to their homeland. That Dornish sun, once radiant, now dawned upon a lifetime burdened by sorrow. She had been his sun, his compass… and he, the unwavering sunflower, had turned to follow her every step. But now, he stood alone, adrift in a sea of grief and rage.

The maesters had begged him to avert his gaze, especially from her visage—or what remained of it, to be precise. They wished to preserve her memory, to shield the image of her serenity from the abhorrent tragedy she had endured. Oberyn, however, bore the weight of her demise squarely upon his own shoulders. He harbored the belief that it was his heedlessness, his momentary acquiescence to his brother’s commands, that had led to her tragic end. And as penance, he needed to engrave the gruesome sight of her shattered skull and broken mandible to his brain, so that the searing memory might forever scar his psyche.

He craved the pain, the unrelenting thirst for vengeance, for it was this anguish that would serve as a relentless reminder. He needed her tragic fate etched into the very fiber of his being, so that if ever a trace of empathy for these monsters dared to creep into his thoughts, the vivid memory of what they had stolen from him—the essence of his sweet Elia—would rip through his soul, leaving him wounded, but resolute in his pursuit of justice.

The absence of a sibling is an ineffable experience… alexithymic; one that defies the boundaries of expression. You see, a person's existence in this world is akin to that of a tree; the parents, the grandparents, and all the ancestors serve as the unwavering stem, the robust trunk that grounds and anchors one's very being. Your children, they are the intricate roots, extensions of your essence that traverse the world, existing as a continuation of you, and you, in turn, live life through them. But siblings... they are the branches.

To lose a sibling is to lose a part of yourself, a limb perhaps, one that may not kill you but certainly inflicts the agony of phantom pain. It lingers, this spectral ache, an ever-present reminder that punctuates your happiest moments, like a persistent thorn in your side, incessantly prodding you to remember what you have forfeited. It leaves behind a lingering melancholy, not potent enough to suffocate you to death, yet substantial enough to hinder the prospect of living life to its fullest.

But how does one even go about living life in the semblance of normalcy?

For a sibling is more than a mere bearer of shared genes; they are witnesses to your enduring connection with stubborn parents, companions in the labyrinthine maze of childhood, fellow travelers through the terrain of trauma. They are the ones who have beheld every facet of your being, every iteration of your existence.

In the years that followed, he embarked on a ceaseless flight, fleeing from her shadow, from the haunting memory of their love. Her name, once a melody on his tongue, now tasted acrid, too laden with pain to be cherished or recollected. His heart, once a sanctuary of devotion, was now filled with a venomous brew of hatred, anger, and an insatiable thirst for retribution. He yearned to hunt down every man across the Seven Kingdoms, to rend their flesh from bone with his own bare hands. Yet, deep within, he nurtured a more profound loathing—for himself, for his own frailty and cowardice.

Her death had sapped his strength, of that he was certain. He could no longer gaze upon the sun without wincing, nor could he behold the graceful palm trees that adorned every corner of Dorne without feeling his gut wrenching, as though it were on the verge of rupture. Even the taste of figs, her favored fruit, had become an agony to bear. And when he cast his eyes upon his own brother, he could not help but wish it had been he who suffered such a wretched fate, rather than his sweet Elia.

On bended knee, he knelt beside her sandstone tomb, on the eve of his departure from Dorne, where he would spend the impending years in solitude, far removed from the land they had once shared. Whispering amidst tears that welled in his eyes and his aching heart, And unbowed, unbent, and unbroken, you must rest, my Sun.

[bg-brainrot]

WHaBFHtLA - Astarion x GN!Reader - Chapter 4: In this Lifetime

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Elf!Tav)

Genre: Reincarnation, Angst, Mystery, Slow burn

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Canon-Typical Violence, fluff, grief

WC: 2k words, 4/?? chapters

Summary: Now 99-years-old, you've managed to ignore your worst impulses to run off to Baldur's Gate. One night's reverie finally breaks you.

Ao3 | [Ch3][Ch5] | WHaBFHtLA Masterlist

You hear it over and over again in your life, the advice passed down from your elders, from so many before you. Meeting people from past lives is never a good idea. It never goes the way you want it to. ‘This one is different, our bond was so strong.’ That's what they all say.

So for decades, you’ve been a good child, listening to your parents and keeping your interests purely theoretical, focused on research and nothing more. But your dreams are making it more and more difficult to keep to books…

Your reveries of the Hero’s life have begun to include more of what happened after the events of Baldur’s Gate. Of a life with a certain roguish vampire, going into the Under Dark, helping the spawn there. They’ve included adventures to Avernus, Waterdeep, a settlement on the outskirts of Reithwin where refugees started a new life. You encounter familiar friends, make new ones, lose friends along the way. The memories were full of laughter, hardships, and love– like a good book, the life pulled you in intimately.

So with every day that passes, it feels like the memories from the Hero’s life only grow more immersive. You feel engrossed in a way you haven’t felt with any of your other lives, to the point where your current life feels like someone else’s, not the other way around.

Naturally, you’ve researched this. It wasn’t an entirely uncommon occurrence to have such intense reveries of a past life. It seems to happen when your most recent life was, well, turbulent to say the least. Scholars were of two minds on the subject: either these memories are meant as a severe warning, an attempt to warn you away from making the same mistakes twice, or they are meant as a way to grieve a great loss, if you had lingering regrets that you couldn’t quite reconcile.

You’re honestly not sure why your past self is hellsbent on these intense memories, but you do know how they make you feel. As the years pass, you feel more and more of an abject loneliness, down to the very marrow of your bones. Now at 99 years of age, you wonder if that feeling will ever come to pass.

Tonight, as you lay your head down to rest and enter your trance, you feel that ache acutely. You feel like something is missing, and you hate it.

That’s why, when your eyes open to a pair of ruby red eyes, you’re not sure if the contented sigh that escapes your lips is coming from your present or your past-self. “Astarion,” you hear your past-self say, their voice as familiar as your own at this point. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing much darling,” he says, eyes focused on you quite intently. “Just memorizing every detail of your face so that I never have to go without.”

“When do you go anywhere without me?” you retort. You both are laying in a large, lush bed. You’re unable to tell what time of day it is, as the curtains are drawn tight, but by the way neither of you are dressed and Astarion’s hair is in a beautiful disarray, you think you’ve just woken up.

He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you toward him. “I wouldn’t even dream of going somewhere without you. However– regrettably– I do have to blink on occasion.”

You laugh, and find yourself going along with your past-self’s actions once more. It’s odd being this in sync, but you don’t mind it. “Ever the charmer, love. I thought you’d have had plenty of my face after so many years.”

“Impossible,” he scoffs, running his available hand through your hair in gentle, repeating strokes. “After only a hundred years, my dear? You’ll have to ask me again after another few hundred.” His tone is playful, goading you to challenge his resolve. 

Your past-self hums happily, but your present-day mind is somber now. You know that, no matter how lovely this moment is, they don’t get another couple hundred years together. That, in order for you to be alive, witnessing this very moment, this domestic bliss is well and truly in the past.

Luckily, as Astarion’s lips meet yours, your past-self’s emotions overtake you, drowning out the building sorrow, melting away the concerns. All you can think is about him, the feel of his lips gently breaking yours apart, the playful lick of his tongue, his fingers squeezing your side firmly as he pulls you even closer.

It’s a lovely sensation to lose yourself in, a welcome one. So when your past-self pulls away from him, you want to smack them. At least give me this, you think. But no, Astarion was in their arms, not yours. Astarion lips were pressed to theirs, not yours. This was their ardent love, not yours. It leaves a bitter feeling in your mouth, as it did every time you’d been forced to remember the reality of it.

“You joke, but that’s something that’s been on my mind,” you say after catching your breath. “We really should have this discussion about… well, us.”

Astarion ignores your words, kissing your nose, trailing kisses along your face, down your neck. Your body warms under his loving attention, your hands move instinctively to run through his hair. Your fingers play with a few strands of his hair, soft as goose down when there’s no pomade in it, before they give a soft tug.

“Astarion,” you say, a stern tone to your voice. In this moment, you’re confused by your past-self’s feelings. They want to give in to his doting affections, that much is clear, but there's a little thorn of worry that won’t go away. 

“Mmm?” he asks, moving up to nip at your ear. “What’s that? You need me to ravish you? Gladly, my–”

“It’s been more than a hundred years together, Astarion,” you say, stopping his playful nibbles right in their tracks.

He pulls away from you, red eyes clouding over as he takes in your expression. “Is this the part where you say you’ve grown bored of me and tear my undead heart from my chest?” His words are joking, his face is anything but.

“Of course not, my beautiful, melodramatic love,” you say with a sigh. “Quite the opposite. I may not look it now, but I’m aging, will continue to age. I just want to make sure, before I grow too old, collect one too many wrinkles–”

“No such thing,” he says, silencing you with a glare.

Your eyes roll, but a smile still finds its way to your face. “Fine, let’s say you lose interest in me for some other reason–” 

“Impossible.”

“Astarion,” you say, pleading now as you grab his face between your hands. “I know you don’t want to have this conversation, but please just listen.” He nods silently in your grasp, eyes suddenly taking great interest in your shoulder. “Thank you. I just… I want you to consider what you want your life to look like. I won’t be around forever and you…”

“I will be. Forever sounds miserable when you put it like that,” he continues, a look of distaste on his face.

You shake his head in your hands. Even your present-day self wants to shake him, how dare he treat his life so flippantly? “Forever will be fantastic. Because you will be in it.”

“So what do you propose,” he starts, an edge creeping into his tone. “That I find another vampire to steal away with?”

You shake his head again. “No, you could never make it work with a vampire. You’re far too interested in my body heat.”

He laughs and it sounds hollow. “You make it sound like I'm nothing better than a needy cat.”

Both of your bodies shake with laughter at that and you release his head. “Well, if the paw fits.” You ignore the angry look he shoots at you and continue. “I guess I’m just asking if you want to set a limit to this? It’s very likely that an elf in their 700s would be too elderly for you to find, erm, interest in.”

“Darling, have you forgotten? I’ll reach 700 before you do,” he replies, looking at you as if you’d suddenly told him one plus one did not equal two.

“I know that, Astarion.” You think he’s being willfully ignorant at this point, and from the frustration you feel from your former-self, they likely think the same. “But you won’t look a day older than you do now, and you shouldn’t have to feel obligated to stay with someone who will.”

The pale elf looks at you, his red eyes scanning your face, much like he did when you first entered the memory. “I honestly could not care less what you look like, love. As long as it’s you.”

Your heart clenches at that, and you have trouble telling which of your bodies is the one reacting to his words. “Truly?” you ask, and the word comes out quiet, fear catching in your throat.

“Truly,” he repeats. “Besides, if the burden of being eternally magnificent falls upon me, I will gladly bear it for you.”

You lightly smack him on the chest at that, and Astarion catches your hand deftly in his. 

“In case it needs to be said,” he begins, before placing a single, soft kiss on your temple. “I will always love you. Whatever you look like, no matter how many wrinkles end up on your face. In this lifetime and the next.” When he pulls back to look at you, his eyes are filled with so much warmth that you are certain he means it.

His next kiss is slow, deliberate. It may have been your hundredth kiss or your hundred-thousandth for all you knew, but it was every bit as meaningful. As your arms wrap around him and he sets his mind to ravishing you, you’re not sure where your past-self ends and where you begin.

When you awaken from your trance, you feel so very loved. Not the you of the past, but you, right here, right now. He said he loves you. It warms you like a hearth on a cold winter’s day, it fills a part of you that you didn’t realize was missing. The world looks brighter, sounds sharper, feels as if it is an entirely new realm to explore.

You know what you must do now. He has always been the reason that your past-self has been so insistent, and now you understand why. You must find him. 

Of course, you’re not yet an adult. And you don’t have an established life away from your parents yet. And you have no clue what you will do if you don’t find him. All very valid concerns fighting for answers you don’t yet have.

Naturally, your parents vocalize them to you, even now, as you pack your bags, past the point of any logic.

“Enough,” you say, with a strength that stops your parents in their tracks. “This isn’t some childish whim. I have thought long and hard about this for nearly a century, and if I think any longer when I could be doing, I may as well burst into flames.”

They remain quiet for a moment. Your mother then asks you the question that you’ve been trying to avoid asking yourself, “Do you… love this man, the one from your dreams?”

You look at her for a moment. You’d practically lived an entire lifetime’s worth of important moments from the Hero’s life, certainly more of that life than any others. But it’s not just time spent in reveries, it was how this man invaded your every waking thought, compelled you to him unlike anything you’d ever felt before, unlike anything you’d learned in your studies. So you answer truthfully, “Maybe. I certainly won’t find out unless I find him.”

So you leave. You’re not certain where Astarion is yet– Nothing as helpful as an address came up in your reveries nor your studies– but you know where to start. 

Taking a teleportation circle to Baldur’s Gate, you remember the name you wrote down in your notebook so many decades ago, the very same elf who helped start the settlement in the outskirts of Reithwin. Halsin.

[fandoms-rants]

Andrew Minyard, Neil Josten & Andriel Quotes Part 3:

(Quotes that remind me of (and/or I think they would say in canon or fanfics which I hope someone will write) Andrew, Neil or both of them and/or therir relationship)

"Do you not understand? I will not settle for anything less than a soul-deep, electrifying connection." (Andriel to Everyone who doubts them)

“Hearts are wild creatures, that’s why are ribs are cages.” (Andrew)

“I have a very intelligent mind but a goddamn stupid heart.” (Andrew **gay panicking** before he kissed Neil the first time)

“Light is easy to love. Show me your darkness.” (Andrew to Neil)

“She’s a combination of sensitive and savage.” (Neil about Andrew)

“Underestimate me. That'll be fun.” (Andrew)

“She will rise. With a spine of steel, and a roar like thunder, she will rise.” (Andrew post-canon)

"According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves." (Andriel)

“The initmacy of being understood.” (Andriel)

“If you don't want a sarcastic answer, don't ask a stupid question.” (Andrew)

“Why aren't you scared of me? Whyy do you care for me?” (Andrew to Neil and Neil to Andrew)

“The silent ones are the most observant ones.” (Andrew)

“He pretty cute for a Monster.” (Neil about Andrew)

“"I am coming for all the monsters that ever touched him, I am coming for all the ones who twisted his stars into shadows, They turned him into a nightmare, So I'm going to be theirs." (**Neil about Andrew**)

“"When a devil falls in love, it's the most hauntingly beautiful thing ever. And you should be terrified, for he will go to the depths of hell for her." (Andriel)(You choose who the devil is ;)

"Hold him gently in your hands. He has been cracked enough as it is, and his heart is more shattered than he lets on." (Neil about Andrew)

"I defy the stars; I defy Heaven and Hell. The laws of the universe say that the man I love is lost to me. I say: Watch me save him." (Andrew during Baltimore)

"Golden child, Lion boy; Tell me what it's like to conquer.” (Neil to Andrew) Fearless child, Broken boy; Tell me what it's like to burn." (Andrew to Neil)

“I will not have you without the darkness that hides within you. I will not let you have me without the madness that makes me. If our demons cannot dance, neither can we." (Andrew to Neil and Neil to Andrew)

“"Survivors have scars. Victims have graves.” (Andriel)

“I became good at pretending. I became so good that after a while the lines blurred between my truth and fiction. And sometimes, when I did a really good job of pretending, I even fooled myself." (Neil)

“I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because 'romantic' doesn't mean 'sugary? It's dark and tormented — the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can't attain.” (Andriel)

“I am almost never serious, and I'm always too serious. Too deep, too shallow. Too sensitive, too cold hearted. I'm like a collection of paradoxes." (Andrew)

“If only my heart were as cold as I pretend it is, maybe I could get over this." (Andrew)

“I became bitter and untouchable. I craved affection but even the mere thought of someone caring made my stomach turn." (Andrew)

“I like the scars because I like the stories. Bravery, stupidity, pain-none of them come free." (Andrew to Neil)

“You can tell how dangerous a person is by the way they hold their anger inside themselves quietly." (Neil about Andrew)

“I will love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence and as justice loves to sit and watch everything go wrong.” (Andriel)

“You and Atlas are one and the same my dear, cursed to hold a weight you can't bare and still standing not because you can but because you have to.” (Neil to Andrew)

“Lift with your knees, Atlas, the heavens are a burden but in the starlit ink of constellations you have written: Endure." (Andrew)

“"I'm someone who's mostly dead inside but still has a little hope for something extraordinary, which, as I said, is the worst breed of human, because it means I know everything is bullshit, but that I secretly hope for the day when it might not be." (Andrew)

“My abuse isn't poetic. it was not justice or necessary. The earth left me to die and there is no such thing as karma. The gods watched idly by as i was killed in that house and not a damn person tried to help me.” (Andrew)

“You are allowed to grieve over the child you could've been.” (Neil to Andrew)

“"I spent my childhood learning how to fear, and now I spend my adulthood learning how not to." (Andriel)

**Im imagining this in a butcher!Neil or mafia!Neil AU. As a courting gift Neil brings Andrew the heads of all the men who abused him.**

*WARNING: About copyright, Quotes come from various places(ie. FanFiction, Tv, Movies, Music, Pinterest) so use in your own fanfic stories at your own.. I can’t think of the word but you know what I mean.*

[dickwheelie]

here have the first few paragraphs of my retired holmes/watson fic that is currently at 13k and counting. hoping putting some of it out there will force me to finish it in a timely manner lol.

this is sort of a combo of canon and granada holmes, based on whatever vibes were necessary in the moment. enjoyyyy if ya nasty

____________

It was I who came to him, a few months before the end.

He had written me several times from his lodgings in the Sussex Downs, and so I had his address on hand for a visit I took in late June of that year. It was, I admit, a bit of a whim on my part, otherwise I would have sent a letter ahead, but then again I did not expect to be turned away and had only intended to stay for a few days, perhaps a week at the most. The fact of the matter was that year the summertime ennui had struck me with more strength than I could ever before recall, and with my practice closed for the season and my bachelor's apartments lonelier than ever, I felt I had no choice but to pay a visit to my old friend and colleague.

Holmes had retired to a rather modest cottage in the countryside, with a sizable bee farm, as he had so often spoken about in our younger days. I knew of this from his letters, of course--apparently the honey business was doing remarkably well--but it was another thing entirely to wander up the long drive and hear the incessant buzzing and humming crescendo as one approached the lines of wooden hives that dotted the back yard of the house.

I knocked at the front door with the head of my cane, which by then I was using full-time, but when no staff nor retired detectives arrived to greet me, I wandered round to the side of the house and through the back gate, which was latched but not locked. It was then that I caught sight of him, sitting smartly upon a metal bench at the apex of a small flower garden, a thin silhouette with a proud posture overlooking the lines of the beehives. His back was to the house and thereby also to me, but the bench sat a little off to the right from the gate so that I could see the outline of his profile. That proud, hooked nose, that pointed brow, the thin lips; in silhouette against the late afternoon sky he looked just as he might have back in our rooms at 221b, staring down at Baker Street from that upper window which at one time or another saw the entire world passing by underneath.

It was not my intention to surprise the man any further than my unexpected visit would undoubtedly do already, but taking a few steps across the grass towards him I realized that my footfalls were entirely silent, hidden beneath the unending buzzing of the bees. I might have called out to him, or made my presence known in some less startling way, but I did neither of these as I approached, silent as an Indian tiger in the underbrush.

At least, I had thought so. I was not a meter behind him when a sharp, clear voice cut through the breezy afternoon air.

"My dear Dr. Watson, you might have phoned ahead. I believe that is what the younger set call courtesy these days."

I could not help the bark of incredulous laughter that emerged from my throat as Holmes turned on the bench to face me, his eyes shining with mirth. Up close, with the full light upon him, I could see that he had changed considerably since our last farewell; his face, lined as mine now was, was even more angular than it had been, and indeed it was only those keen, grey eyes that had remained untouched in our decade apart. His hair was entirely silver, a quite distinguished look for his brunette, in my opinion, than the pale grey I had been left with.

He held a cane now, too, which rested now between his knees as he sat. His fashion, I observed, had not changed an iota; not in style, nor in color, nor in cut.

An almost unbearable fondness rose in my throat then, looking upon him in that moment, so familiar and yet so strikingly new. Perhaps if I had more of my wits about me I could have put all that he had taught me to some use and gleaned some clue as to his recent dealings, where he had been that day, what he had eaten . . . but I confess all my faculties faded away in the face of that wry smile, identical to that I had seen countless times across the breakfast table, in the armchair by the fireplace, facing me in a train car, next to me in a cab or in a concert hall. I had not realized, until that very moment, what a drought I had been in.

"Holmes," I said before any hellos, for they could hardly be of any use between us now, "you must tell me how you knew."

Read the rest on ao3!

[conellu]

My Heart’s A Rabid Dog Trying To Put It’s Teeth In You

Yoshikage Kira x Reader

Briefly mentioned: Koichi/Reader (platonic), Rohan/Reader (platonic/romantic)

Canon Divergent AU

Soulmate AU

Also Posted Here

You didn't hate him, you couldn't hate him, he was your soulmate after all. Whatever you did to deserve such a vile soulmate in a past life, you decided, had to be absolutely despicable.

You hated him.

You hated him.

You hated him.

You repeated the sentence in your head over and over again as you watched him loom closer, eyes fixed sharp on you in a way that made you regrettably feel warm. You didn't hate him, you couldn't hate him, he was your soulmate after all. Whatever you did to deserve such a vile soulmate in a past life, you decided, had to be absolutely despicable. He wore a warm, faint smile as he gently grasped your hands and pressed a gentle kiss against your cheek. Your stomach erupted into butterflies despite your anger towards the gesture, face blushing as though you were kissed by someone who wasn't a monster.

He hummed as he collected the dishes, glasses, and silverware, content with his life while you sat in anger and disgust. Your body screamed at you to join him, to be as close to him as possible at all times, he was your soulmate after all. Your stand had made occasional appearances tonight, as per usual, as your soul did not care that the man you were fated to be with was a monster - someone who destroyed countless families and lives for his own selfish gain. Your stand mingled with Killer Queen, evaporating into nothing every time you got a hold of yourself.

You stared daggers into the back of his head as though by spite alone he would die and you could leave, no longer bonded to him. It would be a lonely life, your soul would call out for his until your own death, leaving you to cry and whine at night. But, you thought, that would be a more tolerable life than the one you were living now. Unfortunately, soulmates could not hurt each other. This was the only reason Yoshikage Kira had let you live. Part of you wishes he coduld have killed you, wishes he made your body explode. Maybe you could join Reimi after your death and you could help again, you could fulfill what you wanted to do before meeting his eyes.  You could apologize to her and everyone that you got stuck with the one soulmate you wished you never had.

"Now, now dear..." He started, tone edging on parental as though you were just a child and he had to chastise you. "I made sure our dinner was your favorite. Are you upset because I am to find a new girlfriend tonight?" His stupid smirk was audible, fueling your disgust and hatred for the man. "Are you jealous?" He asked, turning towards you.  he leaned against the sink as he took in your facial expressions, revealing nothing but spite and hatred for him.  He supposed it couldn’t be helped, after all you did have to witness Sheer Heart Attack render Jotaro nearly dead (you thought at the time he was dead, Kira correcting you during one of your many breakdowns) and him repeatedly slam Koichi’s head into the ground.  Even though that had been a couple months ago by now and he had made his own progress as accepting you as his fated one.

The sudden eye contact made your heart skip a beat, regardless of your own hate for the man your soul ached for him. Of course you were jealous, deep within you, you craved to be his only. The feeling made you sick to your stomach and he knew it. He knew that despite your utter, deep hatred for him that you loved him.  Despite him being a prick, seeming to get enjoyment out of toying with you, he didn’t enjoy the sitation at hand. You didn't have a choice and, to be frank, neither did he.

He wasn't extremely pleased with the situation either, anxiety and anger had pooled in him soon after he met your eyes. His world burst into color and he knew he was screwed. Soulmates cannot hurt each other, so he was unable to use Killer Queen on you. Even the idea made him feel upset, despite his initial want to make your existence disappear. Living each and every day with an empty pit in his stomach, his being calling out for you in a pitiful attempt to bring you back, did not sound very pleasing to him. In spite of it all, his anxiety and anger disappeared rather smoothly. When he strung you along to his house, your body light in his arms, he assessed the situation fully. He was, in a perverted way, living the life that many wanted. Few people connected with their soulmates at his age, not to say that 33 was old but most of his peers had long since met theirs well before their 30s.  He had gave up hope around the time he hit 27 of finding his soulmate, perhaps he already killed them before realizing what he had done or they died in some other situation. But to meet your soulmate and immediately be able to live with them?  That was unheard of, regardless of the draw that two fated lovers feel towards each other there were common practices they would have to go through before living together typically.

Life at home was a sadistic imitation of a domestic life, you stayed in the house and made sure everything was clean, put away, and ready for him while he worked. He would come home to a clean house and to you, his dear soulmate. He would give you a kiss on the cheek before going to work and upon coming home, your stands would greet each other as though they had been apart for longer than a few hours. You would ask him how work was, inform him of what was for dinner (unless, of course, he had to get a new girlfriend, then he would fix dinner for you), and sit in relative silence until bedtime. Your nighttime routines entangled each other with ease, of course you didn't have much to do given the fact you were away from home and your belongings so you had little choice but to bend to his routine. While you two did sleep in the same bed, you curled up under your own set of blankets as far away from him as possible. Without fail, you would wake up clutching onto him and before you were able to process that you were, in fact, disgusted with your soulmate you would nuzzle into his neck and inhale his scent, smile against him and plant soft, barely there kisses. To be honest, the mornings had become Kira's favorite time of day rather quickly. Before he knew it, he considered it part of his routine and looked forward to it subconsciously. Before he could reciprocate, or even tighten his arms around your form in a burst of extreme pleasure to his soul, you would yank yourself away and get up, starting on the day's routine as he lay and watch you for a few seconds.

You also were not a bad sight, before your eyes connected he had thought your form was cute, even if you were just a roadblock in his way, though he had since chalked this up to his soul knowing you were fated to be before he knew it. Your hands were nothing amazing, had it not been for you two being fated he likely would not have gave them a second glace. Overall, Kira thought as he observed your cheeks start to darken with a blush at the eye contact and softening of his feature, it was as close to a perfect, quiet life he had ever experienced and he was certain that soon enough you would stop. You would give into what you soul craved, you would accept that you and him were fated to be together, fated to protect each other and take care of one another. You would, in time, complete the final step to his ideal quiet life, giving in to your urge to dote on him.  It was not simple wishful thinking on his part, nor was it delusion.  Soulmates would always end up warming up to each other if there was any animosity, there were a few books released by couples who experienced a hard time accepting each other at first before they realized there was no use in fighting fate.

"As if," you said, looking away from the man. You could feel your cheeks burn bright as his expression softening as he looked at you, the urge to stand up and peck his cheek and smile at him nearly winning you over. "You disgust me, Yoshikage Kira." Your eyes focused on a flower pot as you chewed at your bottom lip, you could feel him still staring at you and it made your cheeks burn even hotter as embarrassment flooded over you.  You were certain he loved toying with you more than he loved nearly anything else.  It would be a lie to say that hearing his full name grace your lips didn't start a fire in him, a mix of arousal and anger burying itself deep within him. Your whines for him, whimpers of his name, replayed in his head without a second thought.

You two have had sex before, of course you had. You were soulmates, after all, and in close proximity often enough that sometimes you had to satiate yourself. It would never take long for either of you to cum, your fingers lazily in his mouth as he pounded into you with a grip on your throat. You would clinch around him soon after he would slip in, your slick pooling in your panties before he so much as got near you and either of you even initiated sex. His orgasm would come soon after, suckling and licking at your digits in his mouth while your other hand lay against his cheek in a show of absolute affection, absolute adoration. After having sex you would cry, he would leave the room to take a shower as your sat on the bed in disbelief at yourself. Sometimes you would throw up, so disgusted with yourself that you would be late getting into bed. Kira didn't reprimand you on those nights for straying from routine, allowing you to have time to yourself to digest what you did, things you said, your soft touches against his skin as though you loved him as much as you would proclaim at the height of your orgasm. Sometimes he would fall asleep before you returned, other times he would lay awake and wait on you despite his best efforts to fall asleep. You would come to bed, shaky and exhausted, falling asleep soon after pulling your blankets tight around you as though you would disappear if you could squeeze them around you right enough. The sight was enough to make his chest clinch even before he had fully accepted your combined fate, his body demanding that he comfort your sleeping form in some way. He would sigh and throw an arm over you, pulling you closer to him and burying his nose against your hair.  The first time he did this, it felt as though his body was acting on its own accord as he thought your behavior was annoying, but after he felt you relax against him in your sleep he did not want to let go.  His body wanted to protect you from whatever it was that was causing you distress even when that thing was him.

You would think about they would think, what would they say. You could see their faces clearly, disgusted with you. You could practically head their exclamations of disgust, of hatred, of betrayal towards you. Not just for being so foolish as to allow Kira Yoshikage to be so close to you, not just for you being too pathetic to get help (not that you could, your entire being was dedicated to keeping him safe and his being was dedicated to keeping you safe.  You had, on multiple occasions, picked up the phone to call someone to beg them to help you but you could not make your fingers move to dial), but for saying that you love him. That you love the monster that took away so many lives before you, that continued to take away lives as you lived together, that took away Reimi's life. You would sit hunched over a trash can while Kira took a shower and throw up until your throat burnt. If he exited the shower before you were finished admonishing yourself for a sin you were fated to commit, you would hurry behind him into the bathroom, head down and eyes filled with tears that dropped to the floor below you. You would stare at yourself in the mirror until you could no longer recognize your reflection as a face and saw it as just a collection of mishpas, misdeeds, mistakes that lead you to having Yoshikage as a soulmate. You would apologize out loud to your friends, beg their forgiveness and plead with them. You knew they couldn't hear you, of course, you knew the only being that could hear you besides yourself was Yoshikage who was sitting on the bed, warm glass of milk in hand and stealing glances towards the bathroom. He wouldn't say anything, what could he say that you didn't already tell yourself.  Speaking up in this moment would likely result in you becoming even more broken as your inner battle to run to him, to accept his words and touches, would be even harder.  Despite his own distain for the situation intially, he had grown to enjoy it when it was running more smoothly.

"Is that so, my dear?" Kira spoke lowly, taking his place back at the table across from you. You couldn't bare to look at him, knowing that if he held the same soft expression so close to you that you might slip up, you might allow yourself to indulge in the smallest affection toward the man.

Truthfully, you hadn't found the man unattractive physically. He was conventionally attractive, his voice like honey in your ears when he first talk before the battle began which caused an automatic shiver to run up your spine (which was, thankfully, undetected by the frantic Koichi because you couldn't dare have him even slightly pick up on the slight waver that graced your stance before you turned to face Yoshikage). Had he been someone different you would have unabashedly ask him to talk about anything and everything, his voice swimming around you and bringing you comfort despite the venomous words he spouted towards your short friend.

The memory of your eyes meeting kept you up some nights, still feeling like some unending nightmare. You watched as Koichi was beat within a centimeter of his life, stand unable to effect the adult man as he pummeled your younger friend. The scent of blood barraged your nose as you cried out, begging Koichi to get up, begging Kira to stop, begging Jotaro to get up, begging for anything to change. When he directed his eyes towards you snarling at your whimpering and whining and crying, time felt as though it stood still. The world exploded with color and your mouth was slightly agape as your eyes widened. His face changed in a similar way, snarl disapating into a confused stare with eyes staying transfixed on yours. You shook your head no in absolute disbelief, this had to be a nightmare. You were frozen with fear as he came closer to you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and a sharp frown. Were you going to die? Have the shit beat out of you? Were you going to explode as Shigekiyo had? Could he even hurt you? You had heard that soulmates are supposed to protect each other, but as Killer Queen loomed over his shoulder- it's eyes boring holes into your own stand, you thought that maybe that was just some lie. You should have ran, should have ran and ran and ran away until you found Josuke and Okuyasu, telling them the grim reality of everything that just transpired. But you stayed, as still as a mouse that had gave up a chase. His hand gripped your arm forcefully, right enough for you to whimper and draw your eyes away from his, down to your arm. He jerked you up easily, your legs automatically straighting to catch yourself from stumbling. You didn't say anything and neither did he as you both seemed to consider your next move, to consider each other's next move. He moved with you roughly before you could pull away, dragging you from the sight with an angry sigh and slight glance down at you. "I can't hurt you," he said angerly, "so you have to come with me."

His words made your brain go into overdrive, suddenly all to aware of what he meant, of his grasp on you, of the fact you were fated to be together. You yanked away from him, breath shaky as you tried to fight back the urge to cry and scream and collapse into an anxiety attack. He had his blood, Koichi's, on him. A fact that made your actions even more feverish in an attempt to break away from his grasp. "No." You said, barely above a whisper. No to what exactly, you were not sure. No to the entire situation was what you decided on upon replaying the memory in your head. No to Jotaro seemingly dead, no to seeing your friend being beat and left in a heap on the ground, no to realizing how bad your soul wanted to grab onto Kira and wanted to never let go, no to realizing that you failed and that you could never win. Even if you had been separated, your body would know rest until you gave in. Even if Josuke and Okuyasu had got there before that you would have betrayed them without intending to.  Your stand would have made its life goal to protect your fated lover, acting without your input and acting purely on what your soul wanted.

His grasp didn't falter as he walked with you, eyes going between the road ahead and down at your form. Your head was down, tears threatening to spill over as your hand that wasn't connected to the arm he had a grasp on grabbed tightly onto your shirt. Your knuckles ached with how tight you grasped your fabric, but you couldnt let it go, knowing that if you did your hand would reach out and over to him. He led you to his house without too much of a fight on your end, your stand would disobey any command that you struggled out through quivering lips and your body so tired with today's events.  To say annoyance radiated off of his body would have been an understatement, he was furious at how today went.

You mind raced as you realized you wouldnt be going home, you wouldn’t be allowed the pleasure of gathering your belongings.  You couldn’t collect the many photograpghs that adorned your wall of your friends.  You had considered Rohan your unofficial soulmate, a title he sneered at but appreciated all the same, despite his demeanor towards you, you two connected on a level you hadn't done with anyone before. You never sent a title on what you were, if you were anything more than just friends or something more, but you enjoyed his company (and he would never admit but he felt the same). But the heat that rushed towards your face, butterflies that blew up in your stomach, and the urges you felt towards to serial killer of Morioh blew it out of the water as soon as your eyes met again as he led you into his house and sat at the table.  This was the first time throw up raced towards your throat, you felt like a lovesick puppy just in his presence and he viseably relaxed despite the thoughts racing through his head.

He hated to admit it and would never vocalize it out loud, even after he came to terms with his fated life partner, but in that moment he wanted to kiss you. His soul ached to cradle you as your blood shot eyes looked up at him, despite knowing that he himself was the cause for your distress. Finding your soulmate is supposed to be a joyous occasion, both sides experiencing intense euphoria and elation at the feeling but both of you were experiencing none of that. You looked younger than him, you had to be younger than him of course if you were so close to Koichi that you cried for him as though he was your own brother.  He would later ask how old you are, a question you answered while finishing dinner one night after he had a shift at work.  He didn’t understand why he would have you as a soulmate, but with the day he was having before your eyes met, he wasn’t shocked that one of the bratty sleuthers was his beloved.

Kira jars you out of your memories with a "hm?" as he reaches across the table to gently hold your hands. He holds them as they you are a porcelain doll and will shatter, rubbing his thumbs ever so softly across your knuckles. For a second your body relaxed, your soul at ease at your fated lover's affection, you nearly smiled before you pulled them away.  He held a small grin on his face, today had been the most you’ve let your facade drop and he figured it wouldn’t be long until you couldn’t muster it anymore.  You would greet him happily at the door instead of looking away, a genuine interest in how his day went (though nearly every day was the exact same, you would be excited to hear regardless), you would allow yourself to touch him, your soft hands caressing his face so lovingly.

"Yes." You say, arms now folded across your chest as you tried to stare him down. The action doesn't phase him and it doesn't work on your end, the eye contact making you feel a mix of emotions. He stands up and you rise from your seat as well following him as he goes to the door, an action you do of your own accord. You look up at him, breath getting stuck in your throat as you realize he's leaving and will be coming back with a pair of dismembered hands and he'll keep them until they start to stink. You tell yourself this is why you hate it when he leaves on nights like this and not that it's because you will miss his presence. He leans down, pressing a kiss against your lips and holds your shoulders as he looks at you. For a moment, your facade drops. Your hands hold his face so gently, so sweetly, so perfectly that has he not required a new girlfriend he would have leaned into greedily, taking advantage of your mask falling off. Your eyes soften and you press your own chaste kiss against his lips.  Your eyes widen just like they did the first time you made eye contact with him, shocked at your own movements as though they were controlled.

"I love you," he says, pulling away from your touch, "I'll be back before bedtime." And he opens the door and leaves before you could respond with anything. Your fingers gently touch your lips as you watch him leave.  You know you should go get a shower, but you cannot move.  His shadowy figure disappears as he goes on the prowl for a new victim leaving you fully alone with your thoughts.  You forced your legs to move to the bathroom, trying to focus on one thought at a time but it was impossible.  Your thought swarmed with him, with your kiss, with how placid his appearance looked as your thumb caressed his cheek despite what he intended to do after he left, with anger and disgust towards yourself and towards him.  

[mysticstarlightduck]

WRITEBLR BATTLE ROYALE - Ophelia vs. Julyan Full Fight!

Hi, there! I am taking part in @your-absent-father's amazingly fun event, Writeblr Battle Royale, where I and other cool writeblrs choose our most powerful OCs and make them fight in an interdimensional arena. It's chaotic, it's badass, and more importantly, it is FUN (:<

Important: These events are not canon to our stories! They're just something very cool we as writers have decided to subject our characters to, for the sake of writing practice and Fun tm, though it is completely unrelated to our projects and the characters' actual experiences in the books.

Check out the rules and other amazing fight scenes at @writeblrbattleroyale!

In this fight, my young Sunscryer Mageborn, Julyan Ashiren, fights against Ophelia, a magical girl and shapeshifter (character from @the-arigen) in the event's arena.

“Welcome to the battle my dear audience. Welcome to the bloodshed. I am M, your humble game master. In front of me are our contenders. Their weapons are in front of them. The enemy is on their opposite. Their only way out is either killing their opponent or dying. These two are a very interesting duo. I just can’t wait for the show.”

It was hardly the first time Ophelia had ended up somewhere she didn’t want to be, but the massive headache was new… especially because she hadn’t actually needed to have a head, these past six months. A quick inventory of the area showed no signs of attacks from the young man on the opposite side. He was fairly tall, human-looking, with all of the typical limbs, a standard skin color, and normal-looking strawberry-blond hair tied into a long ponytail. The overcoat was interesting, but the rest of it– ruffled sleeves, black pants, leather boots– she’d already practiced. The most distinguishing feature seemed to be something like tattoos on his hands, red-gold lines that she’d need to see closer up.

On the other side, Julyan blinked open his eyes, feeling a little nauseous. He wasn’t at home and he knew for sure he didn’t portal to wherever this was willingly - which was bad, very bad. He looked around, trying to figure out where he was. An arena, by the looks of it, though it didn’t look like anywhere he’d been before in Agrannor.

There was a young woman standing across from him.

Ophelia carefully managed her gaze so she was just watching him, rather than staring, as she went down the list of her own form. Two arms, two legs, a head. Some of her skin had melted in the transition, returning to the molten silvery substance that had become so natural to her, but it was mostly hidden underneath the parts of her shifted to look and feel like clothing, which were still correctly assigned. She felt a small glimmer of pride at the best teleport-recovery she’d managed in weeks, patching up her form even as she spoke.

“Hello? Is… well, does anyone have a good idea of what’s going on?”

Julyan didn’t know her, so he quickly did a discreet once over, checking for weapons, or any sign that she could be working for the Secret Court. When he found neither, Julyan immediately felt a wave of relief, only then taking in the other details.

She was average height, around as tall as his little sister, with dark skin and long hair, though her eyes struck him as strange, a glowing silver hue, almost the same color as her attire.

Is she a mage too? Who is she? He thought to himself, but didn’t voice.

Julyan noticed that she seemed to be watching him, uncertain. Gently, he tried to make his posture more friendly and non-threatening. It wouldn’t do to unnecessarily provoke the anger of the person who was trapped in this arena with him.

Julyan thought. No, he had no clue what had happened. One moment he was walking home, the other, he was here. He hadn’t even been using magic or anything of the sort. This was positively confusing to him, too. Of one thing, however, he was certain. He needed to find a way to go back home, his siblings needed him alive. So the quicker and smoother this situation came to an end, the better.

He cleared his throat, only a bit, as if to catch her attention.

“Um, hello,” Julyan called out. He found himself tempted to give a small wave, but ultimately decided against it. “To answer your question, I know as much as you do. I don’t really know what precisely is happening, nor do I know why.”

He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, looking around, then back at her. The young mage took a tentative step forward, not wanting to be too sudden.

“I believe we haven’t been properly introduced.” He began, trying to keep his voice at an even tone, even though he was about as anxious as he could get. “My name is Julyan Ashiren, so hi.” He does the small wave he’d held back earlier. “And, um, who might you be?”

She smiled in response. “You caught me in uniform, so you may call me Magical Girl Mirrorwoven or Ophelia.”

His confusion was interesting to her, both putting her worries about it being a planned assassination to rest and bringing a much wider conspiracy into play. That… she hesitated to think of the collection of shadows that was M as a person, but he definitely wasn’t a Nihilus… was almost certainly at fault, but his ability to teleport her here meant that a lot of other people were also at threat. The exact reasons were unclear, but the missing squad-sight in her vision meant that Casey and Elysia were probably not involved.

That’s good. I just wish I had some way… Ophelia thought, looking up towards M and then back at Julyan. “Do you have an escape method?”

Julyan hesitated. He hadn’t thought about that. Did he have an escape method? No. he did not, Julyan realized. He didn’t even know where he was, and he was starting to get the sneaking suspicion that he wasn’t even in Agrannor. Gods, he just wanted to go home.

But how?

Julyan looked up at the young woman - Ophelia, he reminded himself - and shook his head. “No, unfortunately, I don’t.” He followed her gaze, only now realizing that the person who’d announced this tournament was standing above them, watching, behind the parapets of the arena’s tallest wall. Julyan suppressed a shudder, but quickly turned his attention back to Ophelia.

“What do we do now?”

“According to him,” Ophelia said, trying to keep her voice steady for him, “we fight. Well, one of us dies, at least. Fighting is the usual way to achieve that, but hardly the only one.” His shudder at the announcer… is he a civilian?

That would make this much more complicated. She was supposed to save civilians, not kill them. But she also had no idea how long she’d be here, or whether the winner was going home at all. If they weren’t, and a civilian was put up against a Nihilus, her dying here would have achieved nothing. If she even could.

The thought occurred only at the end, and she almost winced. No fire in the arena, nor electricity or endless void nor ice nor acid… if he was a civilian, she’d need to ask whether he preferred to starve or for her to kill him.

Julyan winced. “Fight…?” He started, voice hesitant but not shaky, just slightly appalled. He’d heard the announcer quite well, but he was hoping there was another option.

“Is there not another way?” Julyan asked, half-hopeful, though he knew the answer. Not that he was afraid, though his opponent seemed like she could more than hold her own in a fight. Violence wasn’t something he wanted or liked, and he’d lived through his fair share already. He sighed, nervously wringing his hands together for a brief moment, before resigning himself to waiting for her inevitable response.

Ophelia grimaced in response. “If you had been placed here with someone else, perhaps we could wait until one of us starves. As it stands? I… can’t. An unfortunate consequence of this.” She waved her left arm through the air, momentarily loosening her control so the limb extended, losing its shape and color to the undifferentiated silver whip-shape before putting it back.

“I don’t have any particular way out, either. If I did, we would both be out of here as soon as I could manage.”

Starve… The word echoed through his mind like a bad omen. He was no stranger to the pain of hunger and starvation. When he heard the word, it sent a familiar jolt of terror down his spine.

Plus, he couldn’t die and leave his siblings alone - he promised he wouldn’t do that. He needed to come home, alive.

“I can’t do that.” He answered. “I won’t starve to death, I… I know how much hunger hurts, and I won’t do it again. Not if I can help it. I can’t let myself die in here. I have a family, my younger siblings. They need me. I can’t do this to them.”

Julyan took a step forward, a fatalistic look in his eyes, and shakily reached under his overcoat, hesitating for a moment as his slender fingers grasped the handle of his dagger, hidden by the worn-out clothes.

“You need to understand. I don’t have this choice.” He paused, looking her in the eye with genuine sorrow as he aimed the sharp weapon. “I’m so sorry.”

A dagger. He’s going to try to kill me with a dagger. Ophelia thought, sighing internally. He didn’t look like the type to believe her when she said it wasn’t going to be enough. He deserved something of a chance, but if he didn’t have any other weaponry it was going to be very awkward to explain.

“Neither of us does.” Ophelia said calmly, then ran towards him, keeping her human shape primarily but turning her arm into a blade almost as long as her body was tall, swinging down at him in a diagonal slash.

Julyan barely had time to block her blow, moving his dagger upwards to hold his guard up, and stumbling backwards. When she hit, it wasn’t that hard for him to stand his ground. This went on for a while, her longer reach not nearly enough to overcome his greater skill. Growing impatient, he weaved his way through her attacks with practiced ease, stepping sideways to parry a poorly-placed diagonal strike, before moving to slash at her side, opposite her guard. But there, instead of meeting blood and bone, his sword cut across a strange mixture underneath that looked like molten silver.

What is this? Taken aback, Julyan stared at it in confusion, forgetting to even step away from his opponent as he tried to figure out what the hell was happening. If my weapon doesn’t hit her or cause any harm, then I will have to figure out another plan. But how? Can I find a way out? No… His mind wandered on as he leveled his blade at her, urging her to keep her distance and not try anything, ready to continue fighting if she pressed an attack.

Ophelia stepped back with him, matching his distance. “Another consequence. You could stab me all you like, but it would hardly make a difference. To actually do any damage… I need to be denatured. Acid, radiation, molecular-level destruction. Fire. Without those? I can’t die.” She smiled at him, sadly. “Whether I would like to or not.”

Julyan took a hesitant step back, not lowering his sword as he listened to the harrowing information she’d just divulged. She couldn’t die from knife wounds, which made this even worse than it already was. Fire. The word echoed in his mind. She could be killed by fire. Julyan grimaced, managing to hold back the instinctive shake of his head. He had the power. There was fire - sunfire, to be precise - running through his very blood. It didn’t mean he liked to use it, or that he could guarantee his control over it. He hated using his fire to fight, the charred remains in the aftermath were always a sight he could never truly banish from his mind. Sunfire was an awful way to die.

But Julyan knew he didn’t really have a choice. Not if he wanted to win this, and get through alive. If this was what he had to do, so be it. He sighed, carefully sheathing the dagger. He hoped he wouldn’t accidentally melt it when the true fighting started. This dagger had been difficult to make.

“Fine. Godsdamn, fine.” He muttered, under his breath. Why is it always, every single damn time, the unpleasant route? Did I upset a random pantheon or something? No, no, that’s just my luck, isn’t it? At his side, the runic markings in his hands start to glow, bright and dangerous like molten gold. He took a deep breath, looking up to the sky as if willing himself to have patience, before fixing his stance. Julyan looks up at her. “Let’s just get this over with.”

His hands lighting up drew Ophelia’s attention for a second, and she made her decision. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve been holding back as much as you have.” Already away from melee as she was, she didn’t need to bother making distance… not that she would have had to, anyways. The human form was what required a constant effort to maintain.

So she just… let go.

Her entire body, head to toe and including the gown she was wearing, rippled in a wave of mirror-bright silver as she split in two, then again, then once more– each copy as large as the original had been, though hollow on the inside, and now a bright silver shadow more than a defined person. Then, they started running to surround Julyan, striking toward him in turns while he started back.

Julyan took a couple of stumbling steps backward, blinking rapidly as the person before him just… split. Into a dozen copies all around him. With a frown, he hesitantly regarded the silvery forms now moving toward him, disturbingly. He barely remembered that she was probably expecting an answer to what she’d just said.

“… I had hoped it wouldn’t um, come to this, because Gods I hate doing what I am about to do, so much”. Julyan stammered, a tired bored bitterness to his voice, trying to piece together a coherent answer after what he’d just witnessed. He winced internally. Oh, this is about to be one of those days that just hurt like hell. As the weirdly-formed weapons made of… whatever she was, shot closer, he closed his eyes for a moment and brought his arms protectively over his face as a wall of fire surrounded him, sweeping into a growing spiral of sunfire that boxed out the offending weaponry.

No longer bothering with the facade of normality, Ophelia’s duplicates distended their legs and bodies to take impossible steps, arms shifting mid-swing to strike from strange angles in-between the whirling fire. Not that it seemed to be helping much. Even the ones that got through, managing to make contact with his body, had their edges burned away by the heat rippling across his skin.

Julyan stood his ground as his opponent attacked, burning away any of the weapons she threw his way, careful to keep the perimeter of fire wide enough to defang the sharpest of them, but restricted just enough that he would not lose control. Still, some of her strangely-shaped weapons managed to get through the barrage of fire around him, and though they were, luckily, dull and blunt by the time they reached him, it still hurt. Like getting pelted with rocks.

Wincing, Julyan stepped away from the incoming attacks, though they were rather relentless and he found himself growing distracted with each hit, his control over the flames becoming slightly more fickle.

Screw this, He thought, after barely stepping away from another rather painful hit. Julyan focused on the copies of her that surrounded him insistently, annoyance growing as they continuously tried to get through to him.

Taking a deep breath, Julyan focused solely on the sunfire he was casting, strengthening his control. The spiral glows brighter, almost blinding, as he wills the flames to burn hotter, and the spiral to widen, engulfing the copies closest to him.

They’re going to keep coming at him, he knows. Careful not to lose any of the protective spirals around him, he starts shooting out more calculated, careful attacks - like long arrows of fire reaching out to the copies farther from him, finally doing a true attack of his own.

While his attacks had proved useful, it had taken Julyan a while until he was able to burn hot enough so that the copies couldn’t hit him at all, and at this point, everything was starting to ache a bit - though he didn’t know whether it was from overusing his powers, or from the weapons’ prior attacks. Likely both.

Sidestepping a lucky strike from one of the shadows, he shot a bolt of sunfire towards one of the larger copies’ head, which had been floating above, behind the others, observing more than participating. The head split in a moment, allowing it to sail through harmlessly.

Ophelia whistled, and the myriad duplicates of herself shot a part of themselves at their closest neighbors, bringing their thoughts, memories, and adaptation back into the whole. Not even a chance, that way, and he might notice. Collating the experiences of her other selves had her shift a much larger spear to shoot out from her stomach, aimed at the right side of his chest, then moved towards him again, modifying herself into a low cross between a cheetah-like lower four legs and a hollow, human upper body for the extra legs and maneuverability.

As Ophelia dodged his attack, Julyan watched as his opponent’s copies came together, morphing and twisting into one once again. Narrowing his eyes, his breath hitched as he saw it turn into a spear - which shot towards him at remarkable speed, aimed at the side of his chest.

With not much time to think, Julyan pulled at the flames in the spiral around him, quickly shifting them all towards his front, and blasting a large wall of fire between him and the incoming spear. It was insistent, and terribly strong, and Julyan could see that it would get through his fire sooner than later. He forced it to burn stronger, as hot as he could muster without losing control, as his mind raced to find a solution.

Come on! Okay, what was that spell, what was it - Oh, yes, right, holding runes. Now, if I remember this correctly…

Keeping one of his hands pushed forward, holding up the burning wall of fire in front of him, he freed his other hand to draw the runic signs in the air, the glowing red runes appearing and quickly, agonizingly rearranging in front of him. Remembering the correct words in ancient magespeak took a couple of tries, as his mind had started to get fuzzy, the intense heat he’d surrounded himself with beginning to take its toll in the form of confusion.

But he got it right, and the runes moved to surround the spear, which was insistently pushing though the wall of fire before him. They latched onto the silvery material, holding it in place right in the middle of the burning flames, and just a few centimeters away from him.

After a couple of seconds, the weapon started to burn away, disintegrating into nothing in the searing heat. The smell was vaguely sweet, and though it did not make him as nauseous as it might have otherwise, it wasn’t exactly pleasant.

Though it was a mere instant until it was completely burned away, Julyan could feel his fire twist toward strangeness, slipping away from his control like sand through an hourglass. When the last sliver of the weapon dissipated into the air, he took a stumbling step forward, trying to steady himself.

A sudden surge of his own sunfire washed over him, and Julyan winced, closing his hands into fists, closer to him, tightly gritting his teeth as he willed himself to control it. Across from him, on the other side of the arena, Julyan saw his opponent changing form once again, turning into a vague centaur-like shape, with long slender legs, though it still looked more like a shadow than anything else. There was something off about it that Julyan couldn’t help but feel unsettled about.

She charged toward him, just as fast as any of her prior attacks. Shaking away the fire-induced haze from his head, Julyan braced himself for what was to come.

“You’re really quite good at this,” Ophelia said, forming the words with part of her even as she searched for a way through the fire. In a lot of ways, the fight was already decided. She didn’t have much of anything that could get through without sacrificing a part of herself to do it, and anything that did would need to be the sort of brutal that she hadn’t used against anything but the toughest Nihilus, let alone a person. A quick strike down the center was almost immediately followed from his left side as she dropped the moving form, surrounding him in a ring.

As his opponent’s ever-shifting form surrounded him, Julyan was careful enough not to let his fire waver, nor cool down, as she began actively striking him from multiple directions, though he kept the flames smaller, and therefore more manageable. He tilts his head slightly at her compliment.

“Well, I have to be.” He answered, dodging another one of her piercing strikes. None were quite strong enough to get through his fiery defense, but he wasn’t about to take any chances, even if the fire was becoming a bit too much to handle.

“There are weaknesses, of course, but so difficult for me to exploit.” She stabbed out from three different places, two that he would be able to see and one at the small of his back.

His vision swam a little as he spun around, but he saw the two different spear-like shapes breaking away from the ring to shoot towards his chest. Pushing forward a smaller wall of fire to hold them both away simultaneously, he failed to notice the third one coming up behind him until a sharp pain scraped the small of his back. He cried out, briefly.

Shit! I shouldn’t have dropped the spiral, shouldn’t have. A surge of sunfire promptly surrounded him from all sides, burning away the weapon that had managed to strike him. He felt warm blood trickle down his back before it too sizzled to a stain, but thankfully the wound felt like it was on the smaller side. He had just gotten very lucky.

I’m going to die here, Ophelia realized. Well. Hardly the first time.

The fire, now surrounding him from all sides, was pushing the point where it would be impossible to maintain his control over it, and the heat was starting to become far too much to handle, at least while conscious. Knowing he was running out of time, Julyan decided to put an end to this fight. He sighed, looking at the ring around him, hoping that she could understand him.

“Are you not…” Julyan paused, as if reconsidering his question, before continuing, voice hesitant. “… afraid to die? Do you not feel pain?”

Ophelia felt the question more intensely than any of the burns had managed. It wasn’t that they hadn’t hurt, but that was the sort of pain she was accustomed to. She pulled all of her material– now noticeably diminished by the flames, though not yet at the point where she couldn’t mimic colors effectively– back into the facsimile of humanity she tried to maintain.

“Pain? All of it. Every time, from each and every one of the copies as they become part of me again.” It was true enough, though somewhat ignoring the actual reality that each and every one of those copies was her, experiencing the pain for the first time when they were burned and again when they recombined with her main body. She stopped for a moment, taking a breath she didn’t need to steady herself.

“But fear? Fear is an old flame. We don’t speak much anymore, and always of old times.” She stared at Julyan for a moment. “We all know how this is going to go.”

Julyan watched, eyes narrowed, as Ophelia once again morphed back into a human form, standing right in front of him once again and calmly answered his question.

For a moment, he found himself wishing she hadn’t turned back to her human shape. Knowing what he would have to do only made it that much more difficult to accept. But he knew it was, probably, for the best.

As Ophelia explained that she did feel pain, though fear was a distant reality, he frowned slightly. Julyan could not imagine what that must be like - to not be afraid anymore, be it of death and oh, so much worse. It sounded like both a blessing and a curse wrapped into one. He really didn’t know how to feel about it, especially in the scenario they found themselves in.

With the heat of his own fire starting to make him feel rather feverish and borderline drowsy, Julyan just wanted it over with. The less he had to think about what he was going to - what he had to do - the quicker this would be finished. Still, nothing about this felt right.

At all.

Ophelia struck, throwing all of her remaining mass into two real attacks and half a dozen hollow fragments meant only to draw his attention, and Julyan let go. All his fire now flowed freely in every direction, dancing around him taller than any of the flames he’d purposefully cast before, as the waves of fire washed over the arena and engulfed his opponent completely. Julyan closed his eyes, growing dizzy as the world around him became a muffled roar of impossible glare.

He wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed when he blinked his eyes open again. It stung to open his now-dry eyes, and it took some time for his sight to painstakingly adjust to the lack of heat. His ears were ringing, and his skin was so hot he may as well have rolled on a lava field. He didn’t like that at all.

Puffs of smoke rose from his shoulders, and though his fire-resistant clothes were still intact, Julyan could smell the singed fabric, which had worn out at the edges and ripped at some small seams.

Overall, the attire still fared better than most of his clothes back home.

For a moment, he dreaded the sight he thought would greet him once he looked up at the arena, but his opponent was nowhere in sight. It was just him, standing in an empty concrete arena whose stone walls had been charred black.

Completely alone.

I won. I really won… Julyan thought. He felt a wave of relief wash over him, but at the same time, there was a terrified feeling building up in his chest. He was one step closer to going home, to keeping his promise to stay alive. But he’d also just killed someone.

Not knowing what to think, or what to do, plus feeling like he was dunked into boiling water for an hour, Julyan just sat down on the floor of the arena, trying to take up as little space as possible.

And waited. He wasn’t sure he was ready for whatever came next, but he knew that at least his powers were - for better or for worse. That was something the world never seemed to let him forget.

[philosophicalparadox]

Cough, it’s me again

Our dear demon bastard stated what type of women he likes. What do you think would be the type of woman (and maybe even man) he dislikes the most?

He is living in my head rent free

This one is much easier and less complex to answer 🙏 (I promise your other ask is in the works 😚 its just taking its dear sweet time to manifest in coherent thoughts)

My picture of a person Mephisto absolutely would not like conveniently exists in canon: Michael Gedouin. And no, I'm not just saying that because I hate the bastard.

Gedouin is everything Samael loves to despise. He's clingy, desperate, arrogant, short sighted, pushy and rude. He's got delusions of grandeur and crippling insecurities. Mephisto would eat him alive out of spite - possibly literally if he weren't so fat as to give the malnourished demon clogged arteries for the effort.

I personally think that when Samael expressly dislikes or loathes someone he goes out of his way to be an absolute menace to them. Because he's petty like that.

Canon kind of backs me up on this, and offers a compelling series of reasons why. Everyone he dislikes in canon, he dislikes because they're too intrusive or rude (Lewin) too cocksure and ignorant (Arthur) too needy and pushy (Yukio to a degree) or too self absorbed and narcissistic (Lucifer).

What do all these people have in common?

They're all liars.

They all lie to themselves and to others constantly. Lewin lies to others because he has to in order to appear normal; Arthur lies to himself so that he feels normal-ish despite blatantly knowing he isn't; Yukio lies to both himself and others for the sake of status quo and because he has crippling insecurities he would rather pretend didn't exist; and Lucifer lies to everyone including himself because his mind and ego can't handle the truth or reality, so he twists the narratives to suit himself, and to hell with the rest.

Samael, Father of Lies, absolutely despises liars.

He despises liars, and he despises those who turn away from a hard truth they'd rather not face. In his mind, these people are cowards, possibly, and I don't imagine he is fond of cowardice either. Part of why he is so hard on Yukio is because Yukio refuses to see or acknowledge the present, focusing -- and hiding in - the past or sometimes the future. He is similarly stern with Rin at times because Rin was running away from the past, but with no sense of direction for the present or future; he was lost, though, not deliberately hiding. Yukio hides; he uses the past or possible future to justify the present while acknowledging neither, and that makes him both annoying and dangerous; vascillating between the past and future without thinking about the present is how you end up circling a drain with no outlet. Yes, Yukio is depressed and stressed and has some serious trauma issues, and that is why he acts that way - no doubt Mephisto is well aware of that - but he also was stubborn and foolish and refused to accept help in any way except very marginally for his way, and his way was not what he needed. And I just don't see Samael having the greatest patience with people who wallow in their misery and refuse to help themselves, or if they are, like with Yukio, then they won't listen to reason if they're wrong.

Samael does not like people who deny the truth. Who insist they know better than he does, who won't budge an inch no matter what he tells them. He has not the patience, and after a lifetime of dealing with Mr. Narc Himself I honestly can't blame him for that.

At the same time, he finds great delight in tormenting people he despises. He ribs Arthur all the time and makes a mockery of him, he belittles Yukio and infantalizes him in some respects; He openly says he doesn't like Lewin and finds him creepy due to his persistent, invasive intrigue regarding himself, and doesn't bother him much I feel because anything Samael did do to bugger him would only entice him more; and he can do nary a thing about Lucifer, except quietly chide him in the back of his mind and hope his brother comes to his senses eventually. A hope I think he has lost all faith in.

Now, I feel a need to bring up an odd little relationship regarding these things - Amaimon.

Does Samael dislike Amaimon? Yes, i think he does, in a way. But he dislikes him because he is rude and lazy and doesn't like to think for himself or make hard decisions and acts like a total child about it when he does. Amaimon doesn't pick sides because he doesn't want to think about the ramifications of either choice, so he just doesn't make one. (until he has to). Amaimon doesn't like actual hard work, so to entice him to do anything one must invite him to "play" or offer a reward - and sometimes punishment - worth motivating him. Amaimon does not give a single flying fuck if anyone really likes him or not, which I do think Samael finds admirable about him actually, but it comes with the caveat that he can't trust Amaimon to blend in very well or follow a set of rules he sees no point in following, like "Dont punch people, because they die, and we dont want them to die". To explain anything to Amaimon, one must explain it in his terms, on his terms, which makes him difficult and annoying to deal with at times because if there's no relevance to himself going on, he has no reason to care. He is the quintessential "not my problem" guy.

(I confess after writing this I am a lot like him in many regards)

Samael doesn't appreciate people who make his life more difficult, I would say for the above case. He prefers things to go a certain way, and people who propose to mess this up by being stubborn and difficult to control are thorns in his side; but he is willing to put up with them for the greater good of his work.

Rin is another thorny case for Samael at times, though its more that Rin has the utmost potential to be a problem than that he presently is one; Rin is strong willed, though not exactly stubborn - he can be plied fairly easily with the right kind of persuasion, and as recent chapters have so kindly delivered onto us, Rin is the faith-having sort of person; he believes in Mephisto's power and abilities, and has faith that Samael would be able to put the world to rights if Satan wasn't being such a stubborn Git about it all.

That being said, I could easily see the tables turning if Rin decided to get in Samael's way and provoke him with his stubbornness, especially since Rin isn't always keen on listening to reason, so I hesitate to say Samael likes or dislikes Rin outright - I think he's an edge case and that Samael cautiously likes him, but would absolutely kill or maim him if it came to that. And I personally am of the mind that Rin is very much aware of this.

So, to recap -

Samael does not like Liars, Truth Deniers, and People Who Make Life Harder.

I also am of the mind he has a particularly vengeful distaste for thieves, based on the possessiveness of his personality and penchant for collecting things, but only insofar as they have stolen from him. After all I doubt he got all of his own belongings by moral means, given Loki and Dionysus' penchant for being thieves themselves. So steal away - just don't steal things from the Devil, maybe. Unless he wants you to. (Ahem, Impure King arc). But even then, probably not the wisest idea.

[theentropists-official]

☀️⚫

Greetings, Rotomblr. Our League-ordered therapist says would do us some good to get out there and socialize with people other than ourselves so we figured this place was as good a place as any to get our names out there. This is the shared personal blog of The Entropists, a musical and artistic duo currently living  in ancient Hammerlocke in the Galar region, an excellent place to observe the lights in the sky and a place we are, in turn, observable... Our work channels our studies of, experiences with, and beliefs regarding the paranormal, the occult, Pokemon, and the end of all things. 

We're entirely self-published and self-marketed, the entertainment industry isn't...ready for people like us, but we're not doing it for fame. We're doing it because we want to open eyes. Open them to the tenuous and ephemeral nature of existence, the teeming invisible threads of power that influence all of us, how we fail those beings that trust us most, and that one CAN come to terms with the slow bleed of heat from your every atom. 

We are, in addition, both Pokemon Trainers, having once made accomplished runs into both the Sinnoh and Unovan leagues. That part of our lives is over now, though. These days we merely battle one another and the various volunteers in the Wild Area to ensure our teams' continuing health and wellness. 

There are two of us you will be hearing from, here our our names, signatures, and brief introductions. Neither of us are terribly choosy about pronouns, refer to us how you will. 

☀️Talyn Noe: Hey 👍. I'm a multi-instrumentalist from Ecruteak city, but spent most of my childhood with my parents on a "mission" in Sunyshore. One day Kit and I ran into each other by the waterfront when we were both at a pretty damn low point, talked each other into giving Pokemon training a serious try as a way to get out of the hole and we've been making music and questionable memories together since. She's showed me a side of the world I'd never have gotten to see otherwise. I mostly keep Fire and Electric types but I'm also the keeper of a rescued ex-pit Noivern named Atrox. 

⚫ Kit Lyra: Of our little project I am the vocalist, keyboardist and largely responsible for final mixing. I am from an...old bloodline, one not many are aware of. I possess minor clarivoyance, I have been trained to commune with and aid Psychic-types in battle since I was very young. I often suspect I understand them more than my fellow man, excepting dear Talyn. Being the trainer of a Gothitelle since the age of seven has marked me in many ways, particularly the beautiful moment I was first shown the Vision, shown the world as the briefest candle flame flickering in the void that it is. Ever since then I've tried to offer those I feel can handle it a portion of this vast perspective. 

Submit inquiries, or not, you'll be hearing from us soon anyway. :) 

(IMAGE DESCRIPTION: A large mural of a female Luxray sitting regally, head facing the camera. Detailed black wings erupt from her back and a black halo frames her head like a martyred saint. In front of it, a shiny male Luxray lounges sleeping, belly up.) 

//Anyone is welcome to interact regardless of canon. Mun and characters are both adults. Pelipper Mail, Pelipper Malice, Musharna Mail, and Musharna Malice are ON. Magic Anons are OFF. 

//important info and boundaries under the cut: 

1. Feel free to get dark with it if the urge strikes you, no topics are truly off limits but please also treat certain topics with the seriousness they deserve if you wanna Go There. Don't just be an edgelord about it. Also, if you ever need something trigger tagged please don't hesitate to let me know. 

2. Don't expect consistent activity or much in the way of a storyline, I've found that if I try to stick to a schedule or seriously collaborate with someone things rapidly become overwhelming for me. You can certainly ASK if you want to do a story with me just know the answer's probably gonna be no. For similar reasons I'd much rather handle any in-person RP on here than Discord. Also, this blog will occasionally fall inactive depending on my spoon levels. 

3. This blog is, once again, going to potentially contain dark themes and heavy unreality even by Rotomblr standards. Neither of these muses are particularly mentally stable or reliable people. This is, however, not intended to be a villain blog. They're just oddballs with Lore (tm). 

4. There will not be actual art and music, only descriptions, properly credited piece and songs by others that I feel match the vibe. Alas, I am not capable of doing these things on a high enough level.

[lovelyfoolish]

Hello! A question for your wonderful detectives Bella and Mina: would they choose to be turned? Why (not)?

No pressure to answer this! Wishing you a lovely weekend 💖

this is such a fascinating question!

i wish my answer was less boring, but neither of my detectives would want to be turned. whether they'd choose to is based on the circumstances!

it’s funny, i’ve never mentioned extinction event before these asks but i have to mention it again.

i started outlining it at a time when i was thinking a lot about immortality and disability because i’d just played a game that touched on the intersection of those conditions for the first time and it took me aback. (the ending of that arc was disappointing as hell lol but it was glorious while it lasted.)

i’d never processed how (primarily physical) disability is excluded and ignored in immortality narratives despite it posing such vital questions — disabled people are not better off dead, obviously, but a lot of us have comfortable relationships with death. knowing there will be an end to your life (and an end to your pain, physical and/or mental) can bring you a lot of peace. i don’t know many disabled people who would choose immortality. i wouldn't.

what i loved about that game was that it touched on this in a way i truly could not remember having ever seen before — a disabled character was left in extreme emotional pain because their extended lifespan meant more exposure to ableism, and they believed a form of death (it's complicated, lol) would be their relief. they were willing to lose everything to be free of their condition, to not be less than those around them.

people love to talk about the emotional and angsty parts of immortality, like losing everyone you’ll ever love over and over again, but the prospect of living eternally with a condition that causes you pain (physically and mentally) doesn’t come up very frequently despite having the same potential.

(i can think of one case off the top of my head, and i think the character’s condition doesn’t register as a disability for most players. but i love when people describe his condition as chronic pain despite its supernatural origins, it's the reason his charm is on my doctor visit bag ;~;) 

perhaps it’s because a lot of immortality stories “heal” the person before turning them immortal, because disability is too messy to account for in immortality narratives, you don't want an idyllic eternity soiled by unhealed injuries.

like, in wayhaven, we know n's tranformation is exceptionally painful, but they come out of it with extreme healing abilities, and i don't think we've ever heard about them having lasting physical pain in canon. (please correct me if i'm wrong, though, i would love to claim them even more than i already have lol.)

quite plainly, physical disability isn’t valued as a characteristic. it’s pretty glaring when you're disabled and nearly every story about hot immortals you read wants to (albeit unintentionally) erase you. it's why unit bravo, or edward cullen if we want to touch on a classic example, are strong and fast and conventionally attractive (read: not fat) and have healing powers. 

vampires are superhumans, right, and simply put disabled people do not have extraordinary abilities. we have lesser abilities. no one wants to transform into something lesser. (despite our understanding of hypersenses originating with people who have lost other senses.)

i do appreciate that unit bravo grapple with mental health conditions/neurodivergence (especially n and m!), but physical disability is a very different thing and honestly mental disabilities like theirs aren’t really coded as unattractive or unsightly the way physical disabilities are. 

this isn’t like. a value judgement. (especially not of you, dear sparkly heart ♡) it’s just a reflection of our society. darwin kicks all our asses.

so. i think about what would happen if bella was turned. her heart would be fixed, probably. and i simply do not want that. if her heart was fixed she wouldn’t be herself. a bella that is not disabled and who doesn’t navigate the world in a disabled body is not bella.  

if for some reason her heart wasn’t fixed when she was turned, she would live with her disease forever. as things are now she has to have surgery every six or seven years, and she’d probably have to do that for decades before technology could maybe extend her wait a little. (ironically, though, my wait is getting shorter instead of longer with technology changes, lol. i got 9 years last time and i’m at 6-7 for my new one.) 

being sick for eternity, navigating both the effects of your illness and of people’s reactions to it, is hell on earth to me.

bella would never turn willingly. she’s probably contemplated it if it means healing her heart but her coming to accept her illness and accept that it is incurable and part of her is so important to me because that is a journey i am still on myself. 

mina is practical. she would not want to resign herself to a life of endless grief, and i think she would reject the prospect of being with her own thoughts until the heat death of the universe. 

she has ptsd, so again it’s a question of disability, and i think n in particular shows that immortality can exacerbate ptsd. she’d observe the two people she loves grappling with their immortality and the pain it causes them and she’d never want to turn.

it’s definitely a paradox because her dying would cause them pain, of course, but i think they’d want her to choose for herself and would agree with that choice. 

i feel like this sounds so harsh and mean but i promise i’m just trying to share some thoughts on disability and vampires because it means a lot to me ;~; 

i’m trying to be more confident about talking about inclusivity and not feel like the mean disabled bitch raining on a parade that’s not that deep but it’s like. i think immortality narratives are richer when they’re inclusive of disability? 

like actually i think n has chronic pain and is occasionally bed-bound because of it and m gets ocular migraines and i think that adds to their characters more than them healing their way out of their pain could. i can imagine an f who has seizures because their body can’t keep up with the mortal world sometimes. an a with limb difference since you simply can’t heal a missing hand. 

i don't think wayhaven love interests will ever represent physical disability in a meaningful way. (i will be truly surprised if that changes, but i will welcome it whole-heartedly! and maybe i've missed something about one of the characters anyway, it's been a long time since i played.)

my thoughts on the vampires will only ever be thoughts.

but i can make disabled love stories with my disabled detectives and i will make one with extinction event, and that starts with acknowledging the flaws in our conceptions of immortality.

thank you for thinking of me and asking this! 

[aragarna]

Zorro or Good Omens

For the ask game my dear!

Hello there, my dear old Valley! :)

Sorry it's taken me so long to answer. I *will* answer with a gifset as the "make me choose" game is supposed to be, but that might take even more time because aaaah life. Anyway. So here is why it took me so long:

I actually had to think about that one super hard. It's such a difficult choice to make LOL probably because both shows have characters that resonate quite deeply with me, but regarding different parts of me.

Zorro: I really like the character of Diego, who dedicates his life to help others, is always very considerate and caring and is passionate about trying to make the world a better place. The definition of a Good Guy. I *wish* I had a tenth of his courage and he reminds me to look after others, when it's so easy to get caught up in our own life. So he's someone I understand and look up to.

I guess there's also the struggle to live up to the society's expectations, to his family's expectations, the inability to tell people who he really is. Not that I have a secret identity, but we all, to some degree, wear a mask, hide our true nature and try to live up to people's expectations.

Also the fencing. ;-)

Good Omens: For neither of them you specified which version, but for GO I'll specifically pick the TV show, as I think it resonates a bit more with me. Mostly because it expands Aziraphale and Crowley's characters, and their relationship. As a romantic asexual, I don't often feel represented in fictions. I do get love, I do understand love stories, but I don't get the sex part. Attraction, to me, doesn't translate in wanting to sleep with someone. And given that almost 100% of romances in fiction end in sex, well, there's always a part of those stories that remain foreing. But Aziraphale and Crowley, it's not like that. And I know lots of people do like to add a sex component to the story, but that bit of canon that angels and demons don't have sexual organs (unless they make an effort) is actually important to me. The way I read and feel Aziraphale and Crowley's attraction, it's not physical. They just enjoy each other company. They enjoy that feeling of being together, discussing together, seeing the world different through the other's eyes. They like the world better with the other in it. But they don't sleep together. It's been clearly said that after S1 they carved their own bit of a existence for themselves. They have their phone calls and dates, and Crowley comes to the bookshop, etc... So they *are* in a relationship. It's just not sexual (and I really hope Neil will keep it that way, cause it's important to me)

Also, there's the whole Good vs. Evil, more theological discussion that the show handles really well. I love how it's making fun of all the contradictions of the Bible and the Christian religion. But also how being Good in a complicated world is *hard*. Being Good sometimes requests courage and questioning one's own believes. And standing up to your boss.

And it's hilarious, when it's not heartbreaking. It's silly, in a very absurd British way.

So, there, this is what went all through my head. because of the difference in popularity, I feel like Zorro is more personal. Everyone loves GO. It's all over the internet. There's like a new fic every 20 min or something (actual stats I've seen floating around). So for some reason, it makes me feel depossessed of it. While the Zorro fandom is me and 5 people, 3 of which prefer the 1990 show. But on the other hand, Zorro is an old thing (1919!), and it says a rather "classic" story (he's the spiritual father of all the superheroes, after all), while GO is much more unique and modern. It's an important piece of fiction.