#but it was a rousing success so that's all that matters

[revehae]

monster

pairing ↠ johnny x you (ft. yuta)

genre .. warnings ↠ smut, noncon, choking, use of a gun

summary ↠ with news of a series of local deadly burglaries going around, you’re terrified of being the latest victim, but it’s the fault of your own disobedient nature that subjects you to a more potent kind of danger.

wc ↠ 3.0k

a/n ↠ this is a repost!

don’t like it, don’t read.

breaking: following a series of home invasions in the area, police recommend locals lock their doors.

for the past couple of weeks, the local news channel had mimicked a similar kind of warning. during the span of those weeks, nine burglaries had occurred; two involving death.

you were hoping you wouldn’t be the third. 

authorities reported that the culprit only entered homes with the intention of theft, and only when the occupants became an obstacle were they murdered. as if that was supposed to be relieving. you were no more in favor of being robbed than you were being killed, but you knew which one would be worse.

to make matters worse, that criminal was a damn good one. nine successful home invasions - some even in the same neighborhood - and all the police had on him was a poor quality CCTV footage image of the man in a mask. either he was an excellent thief, or the police were terrible.

lock your doors, they said. as if those innocent people hadn’t kept their doors locked. what use was it when the burglar knew how to pick locks and avoid homes with security? you might as well have left your doors and windows wide open, offered to him your belongings - and your lives - on a silver platter. 

“don’t be silly, babe,” said your friend yuta over the phone. he was assuring you that nothing would happen to you, or at least trying to. “everything’s gonna be fine. you should stay at taeyong’s tonight though just to be safe - you know he’s got good security.”

you bit your lip. it was a great idea. you had to give credit where credit was due; the thief, whoever he was, was meticulous, steering clear of houses where security was present. with multiple of the invasions taking place in the same neighborhoods it was almost like a taunt to the police. “i’ll talk to him,” you said. and much like some of your other neighbors, you made a note to yourself to invest in a home security system.

“don’t be a disobedient soul,” he drawled teasingly. given your tendency to rebel, the nickname was bestowed upon you by your group of friends. 

you rolled your eyes. “i’ll talk to him!”

“good. call me, okay?” yuta told you, and you nodded as if he could see you, a habit you had yet to break. 

“you just nodded, didn’t you?”

“shut up,” you said lightheartedly, giggling bashfully. 

yuta laughed, but positively didn’t stay around to tease you. “talk to you later.”

“buh-bye.”

the call cut and your phone hit the coffee table. you never winded up calling taeyong. you didn’t intend to lie to yuta, but you had already spent the night at taeyong’s - and some of your other friend’s and family with better security than you - too many times before and you didn’t like the feeling it gave you to depend on them so constantly. of course, it was better to be safe than sorry, but one night on your own wouldn’t hurt. 

besides, if someone broke in, you doubted they’d head for your bedroom. you’d just pretend to be asleep and pray it was all over soon.

spoiler alert: that was not what happened.

in the middle of the night you roused from your slumber in pursuit of one thing; water. but upon glancing over to your nightstand, you noticed your glass was empty. 

you almost didn’t move, almost forced yourself to fall right back asleep and not dare move a muscle. but awake, your mouth became dry at the possibilities of what could happen to you and anyone that knew you.

i’ll only be a second, you assured yourself, rushing into the kitchen. nothing’ll happen. everything will be fine.

it all happened so fast. 

a brimming glass of water in your hand, you twisted your body towards the direction of your bedroom yet only made it one step before you heard a noise. never had you paused dead in your tracks so quickly. the noise became clear to you - the sound of your front doorknob. 

you wanted to believe that you were simply so paranoid to the extent of making up sounds in your head, and frankly you had before, but this was different; this was real.

like a bolt of lightning, you struck behind the counter, accidentally spilling water onto the floor, but that was the least of your concerns. you ducked behind the island, pressing your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. regret plagued your heart as now, more than ever, you wished that you would have listened to yuta. you forgot to even call him back, and now there was no telling if you ever would.

the noise didn’t last very long, merely seconds before it turned into that of the front door being opened and shut, followed by footsteps. part of you wanted to peek, though aside from it being awfully risky, you were too stunned to move. your heartbeat throbbed in your ears and you could feel it hammering in your chest against your knees.

so much for locking your doors. you were going to hold your middle finger to the police in a big ‘fuck you’ after this was over - if you made it out alive, that was.

those heavy, unnerving footsteps were the sole noise to cut through the ear-splitting silence. they headed somewhere down the hall and you heaved a big sigh of relief, then drew another in as if that was all the oxygen that the world had left to spare. somehow you were breathing so fast yet not at all. 

in your brief, short-lived fit of relief, your body went slack, and your knee ultimately knocked over the glass that you had forgotten was there. instantly your muscles tensed again, and your fit of relief turned into an outbreak of fear. 

“fuck,” you whispered to yourself and bit your lip. the footsteps returned merely seconds later and you immediately tried to regulate your breath in an effort to remain silent as possible. you prayed to the above that your life wasn’t over.

louder, the footsteps got. quicker. and louder, and quicker, and quicker, and louder. tears began to well from your eyes as terror and your regrets overcame you. you should’ve did this, you should’ve did that. and now that you hadn’t, the price was yours to pay.

all of a sudden, the footsteps paused, and somehow that was more unnerving than the sound of constant moving. you were tucked into yourself, doing your best to be still yet not fully conscious of the fact you were shivering with fear. please, the tiny voice in your head begged for mercy. 

and then, the footsteps continued again. and your heart sank when you saw a shadow from around the island close in on you, until another, masked figure crouched down before you. 

it was when you saw the gun tucked to his side that you lost all hope. it was over.

“found you,” said the masked man through a semi-muffled voice, his tone lighthearted. the vast majority of his face was concealed, though if it weren’t, you would have noticed the smile creep across his face as he saw every ounce of faith in your body instantly die.

found you, he had said in a teasing tone, as if this were hide and seek. maybe that’s all this was to him; a really big, really unfair game.

you said nothing. you were too shocked and far too scared to move a muscle, including your tongue.

“this little hiding spot of yours would have been wonderful,” the stranger began.  “if it weren’t for the mess you’ve made in here.”

the water you spilled earlier. and the pieces of glass that had fallen before you. you hadn’t even noticed that it shattered.

“you should’ve listened to yuta, sweetheart. he told me that you were staying at taeyong’s tonight. i had my suspicions when i saw your car parked outside, but you really are a disobedient soul, aren’t you?”

your heart stilled. only your friends knew about that nickname. and that didn’t explain how he knew yuta, much less what you discussed on a personal phone call. a jarring question emerged in your head. 

with fear heavy in your heart, you whispered, “how did you…?”

the stranger removed his mask; and suddenly he wasn’t such a stranger anymore.

you almost fainted in shock. “johnny?”

johnny flashed you a grin. “that’s my name; don’t wear it out.”

too many emotions plagued your chest and you never would’ve imagined that it would be possible to feel so many things at once. the fear, the dread. the anguish, the betrayal. it was overwhelming.

johnny and you had never been particularly close, though he was in a very specific circle of friends. you met him through yuta, much like everyone else in your friend group did, and whoever yuta trusted, so did you. you were thick as thieves. 

or so you thought. it seemed that in reality, he and johnny were (quite literally) thick as thieves. you couldn’t fathom why yuta would betray you after all you’d been through together.

you shook your head in denial, balking. maybe this was just a nightmare, just a really, really bad dream that you had yet to wake up from.

“you gotta go now,” johnny crooned. then he clawed at you with his large, heavy hands, and begin to drag you out of the kitchen. 

you tried to resist, but he was too strong. it was like fighting with a brick wall. he dragged you into your living room, and when you fell against the floor, you half-expected him to pull out his gun and finish you there, but he didn’t - instead he wrapped his hands around your throat. they were cold against your neck, like a corpse. out of natural instinct, your fingers tried to pry at his hands in an effort to pull him away, but to no avail. it was pointless to try and fight against him, he was larger and stronger and everything in between. you were simply no match for a man like johnny.

and he merely watched. he hovered above you, hands firm around your throat, and watched your trembling hands fall to your side, watched you struggle to speak coherently as you fought for breath, all while his eyes stared into yours and watched the life drain from them. and you were certain that you were on the verge of meeting your end.

but, when you were at the very brink of unconsciousness, he let go.

your chest heaved in pursuit of sucking in as much air as possible, trying to recover from near unconsciousness. he didn’t kill you - at least, not yet. you wanted to be relieved, but you were only confused.

“on second thought,” he whispered, leaning in ever so slightly. “i think i’m gonna keep you. i like the look in your eyes.”

not just the look of fear, but the look of hope and life bleeding from your irises. he liked the power your fear gave him; how he was in control of whether you lived or died, releasing you from his chokehold at the very verge of unconsciousness.

he would be lying dead to your face if he said that it hadn’t gotten him off, if he told you that he hadn’t been tempted to make you his for a while. in return, you had a slight crush on johnny, but it didn’t go anywhere and it sure as hell wouldn’t now that you had been exposed to who he really was.

you were even more confused when johnny slung you over his broad shoulders like you weighed nothing and began to carry you in the direction of your bedroom. your cries of protest went through one ear and out the other, rendering you completely powerless. 

he plopped you down unceremoniously against your sheets and leapt at you hungrily. your pulse sped with alarm when you felt him tug at the band of your underwear, and in spite of your prior futile attempts, you tried to pry him away from you, begging him to stop. 

up until now, johnny’s tone had been lighthearted and taunting, but he switched on a dime when he pulled out his gun and you felt cool metal flush against your temple. “say another word. i fucking dare you,” johnny warned. 

you gulped back every word, effectively silenced. once johnny was certain that you were startled into compliance, he put the gun away and resumed his actions. warm, regretful tears stung your eyes as you lied there helplessly. you closed your eyes, refusing to watch him in fear of the memory being perpetually etched behind your eyelids. 

impatiently, he ripped the fabric off your thighs, venting your bare flesh to the cool air. you shivered, autumn making your skin crawl. the gleam in johnny’s eyes was not lost on you, heavy with lust and nothing but. he had wanted nothing but to destroy you, and ultimately nothing would come in his way. not even yuta. 

“this is all your fault, y’know,” johnny said, smiling at you sinisterly. his teeth clamped into your thigh out of no where, and instead of your eyes wincing shut, they shot open in surprise. johnny snickered and shredded both of you of what remained of your clothes. “all you had to do was listen, baby girl. look where being a little brat gets you.” 

you said and did nothing. you had practically tuned him out, more or less out of preservation for yourself. otherwise, you might have gone insane. but there was no haven for you - no safe place. inward or outward. outside of your body, johnny had full control, but inside, there were plenty of other monsters roaming around in your brain, occupying it with terrifying thoughts. there was nowhere for you to hide. 

johnny was hard - most likely from watching you trembling in fear alone - and used his saliva as a lubricant. you still hissed when he began to thrust inside you, not at all considerably. rivulets of tears bundled together on your cheeks and you clamped your nails into his biceps, trying to anchor yourself on something. your fingernails drew long, irritably red lines on his arms, but he didn’t mind the sting. to johnny, there was no pleasure without pain. 

when your cunt had swallowed him completely, you whimpered, “it’s too big.” 

johnny wiped at the tears on your cheeks and whispered, “you poor thing.” he didn’t do much else. in his mind, you deserved this. you never listened to anyone but yourself, and this was an apt punishment. 

“should we give yuta a call?” johnny asked, noticing your phone lying at your nightstand. if he was being honest, you were a little airheaded. at very least, it would have been smart to bring your phone with you when you ventured out into the kitchen, but of course you didn’t. it was almost like you wanted him to find you, completely defenseless. “i’m sure he would love to hear about this.”

you blinked when he mentioned yuta. you hadn’t called him back earlier, like you were supposed to, but now you weren’t sure if you ever wanted to speak to him again. not after you had learned that he was more or less an accomplice in this mess, no matter how much he tried to protect you. you felt so betrayed and broken. 

though you shook your head, it seemed like you were getting a taste of how it felt to not be listened to, because johnny picked up your phone and forced you to unlock it, then scrolled to yuta’s contact himself and put the phone on speaker. 

yuta picked up after a couple of rings, and skipped the greetings to say, “y/n, what the hell? are you okay?” 

“she’s perfectly fine,” johnny answered for you, though one look at you could obviously show that you were anything but. 

yuta heard his partner’s voice and instantly knew you were in trouble. he exclaimed, “johnny, what the fuck did you do?”

“nothing you wouldn’t want to do yourself,” johnny sang without a care in the world. you watched him silently, face tensing. the emotion that plagued your chest and the thoughts to your mind wouldn’t allow you to speak. “you should feel her yourself. she’s so goddamn tight. it’ll take both of us to loosen her up.”

“i thought i told you to leave her alone,” yuta growled. much to your surprise. maybe he was innocent, but he wasn’t that innocent. he knew half of what johnny was up to all along - he could have done more to protect you from someone he was full aware was dangerous. 

johnny countered, “and i thought i told you no promises.” then, he leaned lower, clamping his teeth into your shoulder to stifle a moan. consequently, you let out a whimper. “don’t act like a saint, my friend. you know you want this just as bad.”

you blinked through your tears. that was news to you. yuta was heavily flirtatious, as were you, but it never went anywhere and you figured it meant nothing. your ears were attentive, waiting to find something in his response to redeem him before he was beyond reclaim. as unforgivable as everything else he had done was, you didn’t want to consider that it was possible for yuta to even want to do anything similar to you.

you heard rushing and fumbling in the background and yuta’s voice said, “y/n, can you hear me? i’m so fucking sorry. i’m on the way.”

johnny simply rammed his hips into you harder, making you squeal from the impact. you closed your eyes and leveled your breath. it was too late for you. johnny was already having as much fun with you as he wanted. 

“yuta’s not gonna save you, baby,” johnny sang to you directly. he did what he pleased, not caring what anyone had to say about it. that was the johnny you knew and had always known. “nobody can.”

[pickinglilahs]

Blackeclipse for the soul

Soulmate au

No idea how long this is

Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4; Part 5; Part 6; Part 6.5; Part 8

Remus/James/Regulus (Reggie isn't mentioned till Part 2)

I would make this a longer, more in-depth fic...but then I'd never finish it

Most people have their Soul Marks on their hands or arms. They are the lucky ones. You can usually see it appear as you shake their hand or whatever.

Even people who have them higher up on their biceps or chest from running into each other can usually see who they ran into, can feel the Mark rise to the surface.

Very few who have a Mark don't know who their Soulmate is. The people who were jostled in a crowd and didn't feel it forming. Those who met so many people at a time that it was impossible to identify the correct one.

Remus Lupin had never been lucky.

It was in his third year at Hogwarts that Madam Pomfrey brought up the Mark on his shoulder. She had asked him why he wasn't using their soul bond to help with the pain and recovery.

At his confusion, she had produced a mirror. Sure enough, on the back of his right shoulder, there was a moon inside of a sun. It looked as big as his palm and was very clearly a Soul Mark.

Poppy was surprised he didn't know it was there. Apparently, she had seen it the first Full he had spent in the castle and assumed he knew. It was rare that someone didn't know, so she hadn't thought to ask.

In a matter of seconds, Remus had resigned himself to the knowledge that he would never know his Soulmate.

There was no way to track your Soulmate until the bond was complete. So, short of posting a picture of his mark around the castle, there really wasn't anything he could do. And that was, of course, assuming they even went to Hogwarts.

It wasn't until two years later, almost to the day, that his luck changed.

~~~

He was roused by someone gently running their fingers through his hair. He was lying on his side and definitely in the Shrieking Shack.

"Hey, Moons." It was James. Remus didn't even need to open his eyes to see the tired smile on his friend's face. "Poppy will be here soon. We have to go, but we'll meet you in the hospital wing, okay?"

Remus nodded, or, at least, he tried to. He wasn't sure how successful he was considering his head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton, then used as a bludger.

Still, James must have gotten the message because he heard the other boy stand and move away. There was a soft chorus of 'bye's and 'see you in a bit's as his friends left.

It had been a success, then. The Wolf hadn't attacked his friends while they held their animagi forms. Despite his best efforts, Remus felt tears rolling sideways down to his ear.

He couldn't remember last night, but the knowledge that he hadn't been alone was enough. And, as he slowly came further into consciousness, he realized that he wasn't torn and bloody.

He didn't know if this was because his friends had already healed him, or if they had stopped him from hurting himself in the first place.

Before he could start worrying about if he had hurt his friends instead, he heard Poppy coming up from the tunnel. Remus pushed himself upright and looked over his shoulder in time to see her step through the doorway.

She helped him dress, stand, and make his way back through the tunnel. By the time they reached the castle, he almost felt better. Poppy clearly noticed the change, but she kept her comments—and suspicions—to herself.

He hadn't been settled into the hospital wing for more than five minutes when James came in with a plate of food. At this, an alarm bell went off in Remus' brain, and it took him a moment to realize why.

James was alone.

And he looked nervous.

Panic gripped Remus' heart and it must have shown on his face because James ran the last few steps to his bed.

He set the food aside and took Remus' face in both hands. "Hey, hey. Everyone's fine. No one's hurt. It was a success! We're all okay! I promise!" James' words were hushed but adamant.

Remus searched his face for any sign of a lie. Upon finding none, he slowly let out a breath. "But- Then...Why..." Remus wasn't sure how to phrase his question. He wasn't used to being at a loss for words, but his heart was still thumping painfully in his chest.

James, sitting on his bed now, stoked his thumbs over Remus' cheekbones. He smiled shyly at Remus for a moment before, "Because... I have something to tell you." At the renewed fear in Remus' eyes and the way he brought his own hands up to hold James' forearms, he hurried on. "It's not bad! It's nothing bad, just... Strange? No, not strange. Um... Unexpected?"

Remus' fear almost completely dissolved into confusion as James struggled. "James, if it's not bad, why are you nervous? And why did you have to come alone to tell me?" His voice was rough and weak, but he really couldn't take much more suspense.

James paused, took a deep breath—hands still on Remus' face—looked him in the eyes, and blurted, "We'reSoulmatesandIdidn'tknowhowtotellyoubecauseyouneversaidanythingandIdidn'tknowhowyou'dreact"

Remus froze.

He stopped breathing.

His brain short-circuited.

His heart stopped beating.

Well, that may be an exaggeration, but everything after 'We're Soulmates' was lost on him.

They were roommates. They had been roommates for YEARS now! How did they not know? How had none of them ever noticed? How did James know now? What changed? Had James really never seen his Mark before?

An eternity passed before James quietly whispered, "Remus?"

He startled, eyes focusing back on James. "Where?"

He didn't need to elaborate; James was already moving. He stood and unbuttoned his trousers. Out of habit, Remus looked away.

And then it hit him. Of course! Remus looked back and, sure enough, there was the matching Mark. James was holding his pants in such a way that the Mark was visible, but his crotch wasn't. Because there it was. On James' right hip bone, low enough to be covered by his pants and close enough to his crotch that Remus had always averted his eyes.

He had heard James and Sirius talking about it in first year, but Remus didn't know he had one then. And by the time Poppy had brought up his Mark, he had all but forgotten about James'. His immediate resignation to never finding his soulmate had kept him from telling his friends at all. He also assumed, like Poppy had with him, that they already knew it was there.

They both jumped when Remus' fingers brushed the Mark. He hadn't meant to reach out, but he was a moth to a flame. His fingers tingled as they brushed James' skin; the Mark turning silver under his touch.

Poppy cleared her throat and they both jumped again. James quickly pulled his trousers back up and Remus firmly set his hands in his lap. But she was smiling at them.

Well, she was frowning, but the arch of her eyebrow and the look in her eye showed clear amusement. "Please keep your trousers on Mr. Potter. This is not the lavatory."

James nodded quickly, but both boys smiled at her as she came over. She had James join Remus on the bed so she could show them how to use their bond to heal each other.

Because their marks were in such odd places, she had them put their hands over each other's Marks; on top of their clothes. So really, James just put his arm around him, and Remus laid on his side, hand on James' hip.

By the time they were settled and Poppy was done explaining, Remus was fast asleep.

[incandescentlysomething]

Lady of the Ashes: Chapter 8

House of the Dragon Season 1

Aemond x TargaryenOC

Chapter Word Count: 5506

She was his everything… For her…he would do anything.

From the moment of her birth, Aemond Targaryen swore himself to the protection of his niece Aelinor Velaryon. As the two grew up inseparable, they find themselves entangled in the Dance of Dragons, battling to stay together even as their families try to pull them apart.

A/N: Sorry for the delay! Accidentally posted this one to the wrong blog haha Thanks for reading! Cross posted on A03

Let me know what you think!

Masterlist A03

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 P.1 P.2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Aelinor was awake even before the sun had appeared through her window. She had not slept well, and was still exhausted from her late night, but she knew that this morning would not be one for leisure.

She wanted nothing more than to remain curled up under her blankets, but she could already hear people moving about in the parlor. Ser Vaemond would make his petition before the king at ten bells, and she had no doubt that courtiers would be flooding the throne room from the early hours, determined to get the best spot.

When she arrived in the parlor her mother was pacing back and forth, one hand on her swollen belly and the other twisting nervously at her side.

“You must rest, Mother,” Aelinor cautioned. “These nerves cannot be good for the baby.”

Rhaenyra held out a hand as her daughter stepped closer, and Aelinor took it in both of her own. “I trust you slept well.”

“As well as can be expected,” Aelinor sighed. “But come, you must sit.”

Rhaenyra shook her head. “I find myself restless. It is best that I stay on my feet.”

Aelinor gave a little smile. “I trust this isn’t a sign of my sibling to come. I could not handle another little boy with Joff’s energy.”

“It could be a girl, you know.” Rhaenyra said. “You could have a sister.”

Aelinor pursed her lips. “I suppose it could. But I shall rejoice all the same. As it is, Baela and Rhaena are all the sisters I need.” She caught her mother’s eye, letting her know just how much she meant that.

Rhaenyra sighed. “Aelinor, if you wish to speak about your father we could—”

“My father,” Aelinor said quickly. “Was Ser Laenor Velaryon. No other.”

“But we could—”

“Today is about Luc, Mother,” Aelinor said. “About his succession. We share a father, and I will stand with him as he claims the seat to which our father’s blood entitles him. As Velaryons.”

Rhaenyra squeezed her hand. “He would be a good father to you, Aelinor. I know it.”

How many times throughout the years had Aelinor wondered the same thing. This was as close as her mother had ever come to just flat out admitting the truth. Daemon Targaryen was her father. She knew it, he knew it, Baela and Rhaena almost certainly knew it. She did not think Jace and Luc were aware, and she wanted to keep it that way. It had not been Daemon Targaryen who had bandaged her bruised knees, who had taken her for her first dragonflight atop Seasmoke. No, that was her true father, a man now nine years in his grave.

But she knew her mother longed for them all to be a family. And she would not jeopardize that for anything. No matter what she suspected, family was the most important thing in the world to her, and she knew Daemon would kill for her mother, possibly even for her and her brothers.

“So long as he is good to you, Mother.” She smiled. “Now, should I begin getting ready?”

Rhaenyra looked as if she wanted to say more, but nodded. “Yes, we should all get ready. I’ll rouse the boys, and I’ll have a maid bring your dress to you.”

“No options for today?” Aelinor asked, recalling the dresses she had tried on for the ball the day before.

Rhaenyra shook her head, giving her daughter’s hand one extra tight squeeze. “It brings me heart, Daughter, to hear you speak of standing together.”

“Of course, Mother.” Aelinor nodded, dropping her mother’s hand. “I am with you, always. Now, you can rouse Luc. Because I love you so, I shall attempt to awaken the beast that is Jace.”

Rhaenyra laughed. “Then I wish you luck. I don’t think he returned to his chambers until well past midnight.”

“I think it was practically morning.” Aelinor forced a laugh. “But I’ll get him. And we shall all make ourselves presentable for you.”

Aelinor waited until her mother was gone before hurrying to Jace’s door, not even knocking before pushing her way inside. 

“Jace?” She hissed. “Are you awake?”

The shape on the bed groaned, so she moved to the window and threw open the curtains. “Let me see. We need to be presentable and I need to see how bad it is.”

Jace protested loudly at the light, pushing himself into a sitting position. Aelinor sat on the edge of his mattress, watching as he stretched both of his arms. He was shirtless, his pale skin unmarred except for a ring of dark bruises around the base of his neck. Bruises that Aemond had put there.

Aelinor clucked her tongue, reaching out to touch the edge of a bruise. “Does it hurt terribly? should I fetch something?”

“It’s fine,” Jace sighed. “My tunic should cover it.”

“And your arm?” She asked worriedly. “I could call a maester.”

“No, I…” Jace blinked sleep from his eyes and studied her. “Gods, Aelinor, why are you fretting so much?”

She punched his leg through the blanket. “Because you’re my brother and you’re hurt, you idiot. Am I not allowed to be worried? Besides, it’s my—”

“Don’t you dare say it’s your fault.” Jace interrupted her.

“You said that last night?”

“Did I?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. I’d had a bit to drink. I should never have made you think that this was your fault. This was only Aemond’s doing. No one else’s. Which means you don’t need to be such a mother hen.”

Aelinor sighed. “I just…there has to be more to it, Jace. If I just talked to him.”

“He’s dangerous,” Jace protested. “Do you not see these bruises? This probably would have broken your neck.”

She rolled her eyes. “You aren’t that strong, and I’m not made of glass. Besides, Aemond would never hurt me.”

“Aelinor.”

“Jacaerys.” She crossed her arms. 

They stared at each other for a long moment, before he threw himself back into his pillows. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“I’m right,” She stood, grabbing the covers and dragging them off of him. “This entire thing is supposed to be about bringing the family together. I’m not just going to stop talking to my best friend.”

“Your best friend?” Jace clawed the covers back. “Does he know that that’s what he is? Your friend?”

Aelinor groaned. “Obviously it’s more than that, Jace. Either way, I shall speak with him and find out what reason he had for attacking you. I’m sure it was all a misunderstanding.”

“And I’m sure that the only reason I’m alive is because I’m your brother,” Jace said. “If anyone else had insulted you, he probably would’ve fed them to Vhagar.”

Aelinor faked a gasp. “Are you saying you wouldn’t feed someone to Vermax to defend my honor?”

“Obviously I would,” Jace managed to wrestle the blankets out of her grip. “I would just be more diplomatic about it.”

“So you say,” She laughed. “Just leave it to me, Jace. I’ll sort out this mess. Now, get ready before Mother’s nerves give out.”

She stepped out into the hallway, nearly running into the maid coming from her room. “Your gown is inside, Princess. Will you require assistance dressing?”

Aelinor shook her head. “I’ll shout if I need help with the laces.”

“Certainly, Princess.”

She was just about to step into her room when the door next to hers opened. “Aelinor?”

“What is it, Luc?” She stopped in the doorway.

Her younger brother stepped out of his room, already dressed in his tunic, though he wore mismatched boots. “Which ones should I wear? These ones make me look taller, but these—”

“You don’t need to get any taller, Luc.” She laughed. “I already have to look up at you.”

“That’s because you forgot to grow,” He responded with an old joke, one she used to make all the time before he caught up to her in height. “But alright. Are you not ready?”

“I will get dressed now,” She stepped over to ruffle his hair. “Don’t worry, Little Tidemaster. Everything will go well.”

He batted her hand away, and she was chuckling when she closed her bedroom door behind her.

She would be lying if she said that she was truly confident about this hearing. Since she had been at court, little more than two days, she had heard nothing but rumors of Lucerys’ parentage, which she knew had likely been spread by the Queen. There was every possibility that this trial was simply a chance for Queen Alicent to weaken Rhaenyra’s claim on the throne through her children. 

But, it was a settled succession, and even with the Sea Snake’s injury there could be no good reason to challenge it that did not constitute treason. She just had to pray that everyone stuck to their own honor, and all would be well.

Her mother’s vision for a united family became clear when she saw the gown laid out on her bed. She changed quickly, slipping into the fitted black gown and managing to adjust the laces on her own. The dress was made of a thick material with embroidered dragon scales dotting the shoulders. It clung tightly to her hips before spilling out into a wider skirt, and the neckline fell wide on her collar bones. The sleeves were a deep Targaryen red, hanging nearly to her knees. At least she would not have to wear gloves with this gown, and her mother had not provided her with any.

She was running a brush through her hair when there was a knock on her door.

“Come in, Luc!” She called. “I’m nearly done!”

The door opened, but it wasn’t Luc who stepped inside.

“Prince Daemon,” She turned quickly, dropping the brush on her bed. “Is something the matter?”

The Prince was already dressed, Dark Sister hanging at his side, and he had both hands resting on the pommel as he stepped into her room, closing the door behind him. In nine years, Aelinor could not recall ever being alone with him like this. With her father.

He studied her for a long moment, a glimmer of approval in his eyes. “You’re ready, then?”

“I am.” She clasped her hands in front of her, noting how his gaze caught on her injured hand, She resisted the urge to hide it in her sleeve. “May I help you with something?”

He walked slowly around the room, examining the few meager possessions that she had unpacked. “Today is a very important day for your mother and brother.”

“I know that.” She said, turning as he moved. “And I shall do whatever necessary to help them assert their claims.”

“Will you?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “I spoke to your mother this morning. She told me of your…conversation.”

Aelinor crossed her arms. “Give me some credit, Prince Daemon. Whatever point you are trying to make, make it.”

He stopped, his fingers tapping against the pommel of his sword. “You do not call me Father.”

“No, I do not.”

“Why?”

“Do you want me to?” She scoffed, unable to believe that he was the sentimental type.

He tilted his head, considering it. “It would make your mother happy.”

“And I place my mother’s happiness above all else, except in this.” Aelinor said. “Or are we to pretend you were thinking of my happiness, or Luc or Jace’s, when you murdered the man who had raised us.”

Daemon’s lips curled upwards. “There it is. I knew my daughter was in there somewhere.”

“You have two other daughters, Prince Daemon .” Aelinor glared at him. “I think I have made it exceedingly clear how I feel about you. Now, I ask again. What do you want?”

She did not like how he studied her. Her father — because denying that he was her blood was fruitless — often reminded her of a dragon about to seize its prey. He was still, deathly so, and yet his eyes took everything in with frightening speed. And now that focus was trained on her. It should have been terrifying, but some part of her recognized herself in his gaze, and so she stood her ground.

Finally, he reached into the pocket of his tunic. “I have something for you.”

She blinked. “For me?”

“Did you not understand me the first time?” He held out a hand. “Here.”

Against her better judgement, Aelinor held out her hand, letting him drop a small metal object into her palm. It was surprisingly heavy, but when she held it close to her face, she found it to be nothing more than a hair bauble.

“A hairpin?” She said incredulously. Prince Daemon did not seem the type to give frivolous gifts, and yet that was what this was. She lifted it between two fingers. The metal was a steely silver, with the circle of the pin cast with small dragon scales, and the pin itself sharp as a dagger on one end, and shaped as a dragon’s head on the other, with a deep red gem inset as the eye. It was finely made, that was true, but it was still a hairpin.

“Why have you given me this?” She knew it was rude not to thank him, but she found the entire thing so out of character that it was unsettling.

He was quiet again, considering his words before he spoke. “It’s Valyrian steel. That particular piece came over with the Conqueror. If the rumors are to be believed, it was worn by Queen Rhaenys herself.”

“Truly?” Aelinor gasped, holding it up the light. “It is extraordinary.” Lowering it slightly, she looked at her father. “Why?”

There were a thousand questions wrapped up in that one. Why now? Why this? Have you suddenly decided to try and be a father to me? 

“It belonged to my mother.” Daemon said finally. “And it should belong to my eldest daughter.”

Her lips parted, something like warmth flooding through her. Princess Alyssa was spoken of like a god in their household, the beloved mother of King Viserys and Prince Daemon who had reportedly been a figure of light and love. To be gifted something of hers…Aelinor was without words.

“I…thank you.” She said quietly. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything,” Daemon said, gripping his sword with one hand. “Wear it. Today. Let everyone see that ours is the line of Old Valyria. Wear it for your mother.”

Aelinor nodded. “I shall.”

Prince Daemon gave a curt nod, and then left without a word.

Aelinor closed her palm of the pin, feeling the metal bite into her skin as she pressed. The pin was sharp enough to puncture flesh. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine this same metal in the hands of Princess Alyssa, or even Queen Rhaenys at the time of the Conquest. She wanted to feel some part of her ancestry sing into her blood through the cold steel.

But at the end, she felt only empty metal, and the only meaning it carried was that of the man who had given it to her. Complicated. Unyielding.

Moving to the large mirror in her chamber, Aelinor swept half of her hair up and away from her face, securing it at the back of her head with the pin. When she turned, the ruby eye glinted through her silver hair. 

She searched for her mother’s face in her reflection, for some hint of familiarity. But the more she looked, the more she settled on just how much she looked like her father. What use was it denying that which was so obvious?

“Aelinor?” Her bedroom door crept open. “Are you ready?”

She sighed, turning to Luc with a smile. “Well, heir to Driftmark? Will I do?”

“Aelinor, you…” He stepped inside, taking her hand in his and giving it a squeeze. “You look like a princess.”

“Don’t I always?” She teased. 

“Of course you do,” He bumped her to the side as they started to walk out of the room. “I just meant…”

“I know what you meant. “She sighed. “Now, let’s get this over with.”

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

As if the entire ordeal weren’t enough of an insult, Princess Rhaenyra and her family were expected to wait in the corridor outside the throne room until it was time for them to be heard. They were forced to stand outside, watching as throngs of nobles made their way into the room ahead of them. Already Aelinor felt a sense of dread building. Whether they achieved the desired result or not, this would be a spectacle. Her family would become a spectacle.

It was enough to have her picking loose threads out of her gown in nervousness.

“You’re going to ruin your beautiful gown, cousin.” Rhaena said.

Aelinor sighed, looking up at her two cousins. “Sorry. I suppose my nerves are getting the better of me.”

Baela reached out to give her arm a squeeze. “With the news of the engagement, surely things must go our way. You should not be so worried.”

“I would not trust that the Hand or the Queen will take your betrothals as enough.” Aelinor said. “They’ve been waiting for this day a long time.”

They all looked to where their parents stood, Rhaenyra pacing back and forth and Daemon tracking her with his eyes, his expression unreadable. She sometimes wondered if Baela and Rhaena knew the truth of her parentage, that her existence meant that their father had been unfaithful to their mother. Sometimes she thought Baela might know, often making a comment about their sisterhood in such a way as to make Aelinor think she knew the truth, but she had not spent enough time with Rhaena to glean whether she knew as well. She did not think either of them would hold it against her, but she also did not want to throw their peculiar family even more out of sorts.

“Speaking of the betrothals,” She said quietly. “My congratulations to you both. I did not have a chance to speak with you last evening.”

“Thank you, Cousin.” Rhaena smiled, but Baela gave Aelinor a look of regret, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

“I am sorry, Aelinor, that it happened that way.” She apologized. “I did not—”

Aelinor shook her head. “I’ve heard enough apologies from my mother, and I know no one wanted me to be surprised in that way. Jace and I were not suited, and I can bear a little court gossip if it guarantees you your happiness.”

She meant it. She loved her cousins, and she loved her brothers, and she truly thought that they were all well matched. If that announcement had come in the form of a breakfast declaration or an intimate family gathering, she likely would have been the first to rejoice. It was only the unfamiliar setting of the ball, and the strangers surrounding her that had dulled her enthusiasm. After having slept on it, she truly was brimming with happiness for her family. 

“Think,” Baela grinned. “Now we shall all be sisters.”

They shared a knowing grin, before schooling their faces into something more dignified as more nobles flooded past.

“I’m going to go wait over there,” Aelinor pointed around the corner, where she would be out of view of her family. 

“Why?” Rhaena asked. “Hiding from us?”

“Hardly,” Aelinor laughed. “I’m just…waiting for someone.”

The girls let her go, and she stepped around the corner and took a deep breath. She did not want to enter this trial without speaking to Aemond, without getting to the truth of what had happened the night before. Despite what Jace said, she knew that there had to be more to it than a simple insult. There had to be.

Her prayers were answered when Aemond strode around the corner, alone and unaccompanied. His eye settled on her and he nearly skipped a step, before catching himself. She could not read the expression on his face, his lips pressed tightly together and his jaw clenched.

“Aemond,” She said quietly, aware that her family would be able to hear if she spoke any louder. “You’re early.”

“Yes, well.” He clasped both hands behind his back. “What of it?”

Ignoring his curt tone, Aelinor gave him a little smile. He had come early to speak with her, she knew it. 

“Is everything alright?” She asked. “Jace came back last night and said—”

“What did he say?” Aemond asked quickly, his eyes meeting hers like a clash of swords.

Aelinor swallowed. “He said that you attacked him. That it had something to do with my honor. But I know that cannot be true.”

Aemond didn’t respond.

“And now he thinks you’re dangerous,” She said. “But you must tell me the truth, so that I can fix this. Had you had too much to drink? Or perhaps—”

“Perhaps what?” Aemond lifted his chin. “Tell me, Lina, what excuse would justify my beating your brother in the dark of the night.”

Aelinor flinched back at his tone, and something in his face softened. “I just…I just want to know, Aemond.”

“And what…” Aemond’s voice was tight, as if he were speaking without breathing. “What if it was for your honor? What if I decided that he had insulted you enough for one evening, and that I would not stand for it? What then?”

She shook her head. “What do you mean, Aemond? I felt no insult.”

“No?” He stepped closer, and she moved away, her back pressing against the cold stone. “You are too generous, then. I am afraid that I am not so willing as to forgive a slight against you.”

“How was I slighted, Aemond?” She demanded. “The announcement was a shock, but it’s not as if Jace stood in front of the court and declared me defective! I am happy for my family. Truly, I am. I was simply unsettled from the crowd and there being so many unfamiliar faces.”

She reached out her hand and touched his upper arm. “I swear, Aemond.”

His jaw ticked. “I don’t believe you. You spoke of returning to Dragonstone. Of fleeing. Because of what they did! You’ve only just returned, how was I to—”

“So Jace was right then?” She asked. “You truly attacked him over me? You hurt my brother?”

“I let him walk away because he was your brother.” Aemond said. “But what of it, Aelinor? Now that you know what I would do for your honor, are you done? Shall you listen to him? Am I too dangerous? Am I a monster?”

Aelinor was shaking her head, trying to understand where this was coming from. “No. No! Aemond. Of course you aren’t a monster! Whoever said that you were?”

He did not answer. 

“Aemond, please,” She leaned forward and whispered. “I shall never, ever turn my back on you. You know this. We…we understand each other, don’t we?” She recalled his words the night before, when he had shown her his eye, shouting that he understood her. How could he not tell that it was the same for her?

“Just…let me in.” She begged. “Something has made you unhappy, and I—”

“Brother!” Aegon’s voice carried down the hall, and Aemond jerked out of her grasp. Without looking back, Aemond walked toward his family.

She wanted to go after him, wanted to chase him and demand that he confide in her like he used to. She still did not believe that she had the full story, and she needed to know who had ever told him that he was a monster. That was…that was too cruel to even imagine.

But a hand grabbed her elbow, and then Rhaena was at her side. “Come, Cousin. It is time.”

So with one last longing look over her shoulder, Aelinor went to stand before the Iron Throne.

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

Aemond wouldn’t look at her.

It felt like she was nine years old again, standing across from him at Laena Velaryon’s funeral, with him refusing to meet her eyes and her forced to just stand there in dignified silence. Except instead of a funeral on Driftmark, this was a petition before the Iron Throne. And Aelinor wasn’t a child anymore. She understood what the stakes were, and she was determined not to fail Lucerys and her mother.

Keeping her back ramrod straight, she stood at Luc’s side as Ser Vaemond made his petition. Across the way, Alicent stood with her children, all of them looking as if they’d been forced to attend. Aegon was openly yawning and Helaena, who had once been as close to her as a sister, was huddled at his side, as timid as a mouse. Aemond had kept one shoulder angled her way throughout the entire ordeal, as close to turning his back on her as he could come.

All things considered, Ser Vaemond’s case was surprisingly restrained. There were no flying accusations, only a general plea for the preservation of the Velaryon name. Aelinor had imagined hurled insults, perhaps some thinly veiled threats. But it seemed that they were not entirely doomed.

“Princess Rhaenyra, you may now make your case for your son, Lucerys Velaryon.” Otto Hightower spoke down at them from the throne. 

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her face composed. Only Aelinor saw the way her hands shook, the only evidence of just how frightened her mother was.

“If I must grace this farce with an answer, I will begin by—”

The doors at the back of the hall opened. Two hundred heads turned toward it, to the two guards swinging apart the massive doors, and to the small man who stood there.

A strangled sound escaped Aelinor’s mouth.

“The King!” One of the guards shouted.

It was her grandfather. Frail, feeble, shuffling forward as if every step pained him, it was King Viserys. A gold mask covered half of his face — the half that she had seen bandaged the night before — and his golden crown rested on his head.

She turned, watching Otto Hightower stumble down from the throne. The Queen’s face was pale as a ghost, one hand held to her chest.

Aelinor let her eyes drift to the side, where she caught Aemond’s gaze. He must have seen something in her eyes, something that moved him, for her gave her a small nod, his mouth tightening in what might have been a smile. But then his gaze was back on the King, following the sea of people as they bowed in his wake.

Sometimes she forgot that Viserys was Aemond’s father too. He had so rarely spoken of him, being raised much more closely by Queen Alicent, learning the types of things only boys could teach from Ser Criston Cole or his older brother. But she wondered if he too felt this shuttering in his heart, seeing the head of their family rise again.

Aelinor dropped before her grandfather reached her, her curtsy taking her down to the floor. The charcoal skirts pooked around her, her chin dipping low as she felt her family follow in her wake. Only when the edges of his cloak had moved past did she rise, watching as her grandfather reached the foot of his throne.

He turned and said something to Otto Hightower, something that had the Hand nodding shakily, and then he started to climb.

Aelinor wanted to run forward, wanted to take his arm and help him as he struggled, but she knew it was not her place. Instead she knotted her sleeves in her firsts, swallowing her cry as he stumbled and his crown clattered to the floor.

But then someone else was there. Prince Daemon. Her father. The King’s brother. And with surprising tenderness, Prince Daemon helped his brother to his seat, before kneeling and setting the crown back atop his head. As he descended the steps, she shared a look with her father, dipping her chin slightly

Silence hung in the air for a long moment, broken only by the King’s labored breathing. 

“I must admit…my confusion.” The King said suddenly. “I had thought this matter settled. But surely the only person who can shed some light on the wishes of Lord Corlys…is the Princess Rhaenys.”

The Princess Rhaenys stepped forward, bowing to the King. “My husband has never wavered in his desire to be succeeded by our grandson, Prince Lucerys, and I have ever supported him. Additionally, Princess Rhaenyra and I have just announced the betrothal of her sons, Lucerys and Jacaerys, to my granddaughters, Baela and Rheana, an agreement which we have heartily accepted.” 

Aelinor saw the Queen look at the ground, and resisted the urge to grin. 

“Well, then the matter is settled, again.” The King spoke slowly. “I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys Velaryon as heir to Driftmark and the Driftwood Throne.”

Aelinor turned to Luc, offering him a smile. They had done it, it was settled. She saw his expression melt in relief.

“You break law, and centuries of tradition, to install your daughter as heir,” Vaemond stepped forward, outrage on his face. “But you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon? No. I will not allow it.”

Aelinor tensed, feeling the room collectively hold his breath. What was he doing? Had the fool gone mad?

“Allow it?” The King hissed. “Do not not forget yourself, Vaemond.”

Let that be it . Aelinor prayed. Please, please let this be it .

But alas, Vaemond did not listen to her prayers.

“That!” He shouted, whirling to point at Luc. “Is no true Velaryon!”

Aelinor stepped forward, pushing Luc behind her. He did not have to stand here and take this abuse, and she was better equipped to handle the fury rolling off their uncle. Over Vaemond’s shoulder, she saw Aemond jerk forward.

“And certainly no nephew of mine.” Vaemond continued.

“Go to your chambers, you have said enough.” Rhaenyra muttered.

But Vaemond remained, his gaze leveled on Aelinor, at the boy who was too tall to hide behind her. Luc’s hand gripped her wrist, and she thought he might be preparing to pull her behind him. What a funny pair they were, an older sister with her big little brother, both of them fighting to protect the other.

Vaemond was still talking. Still ranting, lost completely to madness.

“And gods be damned, I will not see it ended on account of this—” He caught himself.

Aelinor lifted her chin at the same moment she heard her father whisper ‘Say it.”

Vaemond cast his gaze over all of them, presumably deciding whether these were to be his final words. Aelinor saw the exact moment that he chose to accept his fate.

“Her children….” He began. “Are Bastards!”

Everyone gasped.

“And she…and her daughter…are whores.” Vaemond turned to the King, his challenge clear.

Viserys struggled to his feet, drawing a catspaw dagger. “I will have your tongue for that.”

Aelinor was not sure where it came from. One moment she was staring up at her grandfather, waiting for him to declare Vaemond’s life forfeit, and the next there was an unfamiliar whistle through the air, and Daemon’s sword cleaved Vaemond’s head clear in half.

Aelinor jerked back, finding Luc’s arms around her as he pulled her away. She saw Helaena cover her ears, everyone flinching away as the blood sprayed across the marble. Aemond’s hand was on his waist, to where his own sword hung, and she saw the question in his searching look. Are you alright?

She nodded quickly, shrugging out of Luc’s arms, yet staying pressed to his side.

“He can keep his tongue.” Daemon declared, satisfied.

“Seize him!” Otto Hightower cried.

“There is no need.” Daemon sheathed his sword, stepping away from the body. 

Alicent stepped forward, her nose wrinkling as she dodged the top of Vaemond’s skull. “There is every need. To bring this kind of…this kind of savagery into this hall. How dare—”

“Enough!” The King shouted, the power in his voice shocking everyone into silence. “This stops now. This ends today.”

“Father?” Rhaenyra said quietly.

“My King?” Alicent turned, both of them standing at the foot of his throne, staring up at him.

Aelinor looked up too, her mouth parting when she found her grandfather’s gaze trained on her. Confusion crinkled her brow, and she did not find her answer before he looked away and addressed the room.

“I have one last announcement,” He declared. “One which shall benefit our House, and the Seven Kingdoms, in blood and in name.” His breathing was quickening, every word a struggle.

“Your Grace?” Alicent was climbing the steps now, concern coloring her voice.

“I announce the betrothal of my granddaughter, Princess Aelinor Velaryon!” The King shouted.

Her mouth dropped open, and she met Aemond’s gaze, seeing horror flooding his face. This could not be happening. Who could she possibly marry? Her grandfather was sick, his mind addled with pain, and yet he would betroth her to…to…

“To my son, Prince Aemond Targaryen.”

The hall descended into chaos.

QUESTION: Do you think Aelinor chooses Team Green or Team Black? I'd love to hear your guesses.

[doot-boi]

"But Finrod walks with Finarfin his father beneath the trees in Eldamar"

I think it's no surprise to my followers who pay attention to my silm posting that I love Finrod Felagund's character, but this is the line that sticks with me heavily. Within the Quenta Silmarillion, it is told that all of those Ñoldor caught within the Doom of Mandos and of the Silmarils will "yearn for [their] bodies, and find little pity", which is often taken to mean that none of those who left Valinor would be granted the possibility of returning to physical form, to live in the bliss of Aman (though arguments can clearly be made that only those who participated in the kinslaying were under such a doom, but I choose to ignore that). That's what makes this line so much more impactful to me, along with a more important facet; it's placement in the chapter.

Just 2 pages earlier, at his death, Finrod says it will be long before he is seen again amongst his people, perhaps believing he will not be granted a bodily form until such a time as the rest of the Ñoldor would be. He dies in the darkness of his corrupted tower, and is mourned at length by Beren until Lúthien his love arrives and rouses him, and together their hope is kindled again as the sun rises (a very common theme in Tolkien's works). They honour and bury Finrod atop the island, a tomb to be unchanged until the War of Wrath caused upheaval in all of Beleriand

It's here that this line comes in. His tomb is inviolate until all the land is, but he himself walks with his father, the only of Finwë's sons to remain in Valinor, and that says so many things.

He is one of few, or perhaps the only, Ñoldorin exile to be gifted bodily rebirth. He surpassed the Doom of Mandos (see my 2nd link in paragraph 1)

His father welcomes him home and forgives his leaving

No matter the state of his grave, Felagund is himself unmarred

No timeline is given for Finrod's bodily resurrection, but I choose to believe it is before the end of the First Age (and the fandom wiki agrees, tolkien gateway being more vague), for no other reason than Eärendil. It is because of Finrod, his assistance of and sacrifice for Beren, that the man of Bëor lives long enough to be united with Lúthien in the Quest, and they, along with Huan, are able to retrieve the Silmaril that Eärendil brings to Aman. I consider that Finrod is likely unaware of the success of the Quest, given it seems the rest of Valinor was (or at least they waited for a plea from Middle-Earth before acting on anything). Imagine his wonder, his pride, and his joy, at seeing that not only was the quest successful, but here, 80 years after he died, he sees Beren and Lúthien's grandson-in-law bearing the jewel. I wonder what he would have said to Amarië his love, if he would have remarked in joyous tears that the horrors and the death that led him back into Aman were not faced in vain. I wonder if, taking up his weapon to participate in the War of Wrath, he either sat a moment in sorrow, or in hope, or in some other emotion, considering what lay ahead of him, and as he came home afterwards with many of his kinsfolk, what he felt as he came to the bliss that would last until the changing of the world.

No matter his feelings on the Wars, what his experiences are and what he goes through after his resurrection, we know this:

Finrod walks with Finarfin his father beneath the trees of Eldamar

[fedorah-the-explorah]

Prompt or inspo for writing! 👇

"please just breath......"

It was a dirty trick, and stupidly, Graham hadn't thought to expect it.

It was a real shitty night. Rain fell in sheets, and powerful gusts of wind were hitting up to 80MPH. Most sane people sat safely in their boarded up homes, sheltering from the hurricane force winds; but Graham Calloway worked for an organization that quite literally had the words "villainous" and "evil" right there in its name, so. Personal safety was not something they'd call a "concern."

It was an archeological site; much like the one from the ill-fated Casa Blanca heist a couple years ago. And Graham, to his credit, was on a roll.

He'd planned the entire thing down to every last detail. El Topo and Le Chèvre had been placed on perimeter with strict instructions to let Carmen win without making it too obvious. Sheena was placed within the site itself and made for the perfect decoy while Graham pulled off the rest.

Artifact secured, he now lurked in the shadows, watching as the women fought from above. He smirked, pleased with himself for his rousing success. The mission was over, and Carmen had remained totally oblivious to his presence. Now it was time to gloat.

He stepped out into the moonlight and shielded his eyes against the slowing rain as he whistled up to Tigress.

"Oi!" He cried, "Job's done, you can give it a rest!"

The women stopped, turning in sync to look at him. Tigress grinned and cocked a hip. She flicked her hair and raindrops went flying. Next to her, Carmen stood rigid as she leered down at him. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle, and he could see from there the hurt flashing in her eyes.

A small part of him faltered. She had left him, but...

Well.

He had tried to rip out and kill the piece of him that still cared for her, and he had failed. The heart kept score, and it was not so quick to forget. It had been years, but still, he occasionally found himself pulling a punch or two.

If she sometimes did the same, they never talked about it. And why would they? They barely spoke at all. Carmen might've been quick-witted with the others, but she iced him out with silence. Since that night on the train a year ago, the two had barely exchanged more than three words.

He blinked and shook his head free of any love lorn angsting. They made their choices.

Suddenly, Tigress lunged.

The battle had already been won, but what did that matter? When an enemy leaves herself open to attack, why the hell shouldn't you?

Carmen was quick, but she had the disadvantage of distraction. She turned to meet Tigress a second too late and instead caught a blow that sent her staggering over the edge.

She fell fourteen feet, and Graham watched.

Maybe he could have done something. Maybe he couldn't have.

It didn't matter, he watched.

She twisted before hitting the ground and prevented a landing that would have killed her. Still, she didn't quite stick it.

Her body thudded against the floor, and her left arm, which she had used with her right to break her fall, lay broken at an awkward angle.

Tigress cackled from above and called out, "That'll keep her down for a while!"

Graham glanced from Carmen to Tigress and did nothing because he was useless.

"I'll meet you at the hotel," She said, flicking her pretty blonde hair.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and watched her stalk off. He thought about following, and he thought about helping. Both options were as appealing as they were not.

He didn't want to care about her anymore. It was tedious, and painful, and more trouble than it was worth. They made their choices.

He turned his back to her and started after Tigress. There was no need for guilt; she would do the same.

He stopped suddenly, staring at his feet. She would do the same. In a way, she already had. Granted, the straits had not been so dire...

She groaned softly, and though it was almost inaudible, it cut straight to his heart. It occurred to him then that it didn't matter what she would do.

He closed his eyes and felt a headache forming.

"Ah, fuck." He said, kicking up dirt.

He turned back around and trudged over to her. He crouched down and poked her.

"Hey. You good?"

She let out this sort of displeased, animalistic groan that did a really cool job of showcasing both her displeasure and pain. She attempted to sit up, and her left arm spasmed. She cried out and collapsed, breathing raggedly. She squeezed her eyes shut tight.

"...Fuck...You..." She wheezed.

He rolled his eyes. "Alright," He said, taking hold of her, "Heeere we go."

"Wait--" She gasped, but he didn't listen. He pulled her up, and the motion forced a hoarse scream. He startled, yanking his hands away.

"Woah, hey--"

Letting her go in this state was not his brightest idea, and this became evident when she keeled over approximately two seconds later. He caught her, held her, and questioned his sanity-- all in that order.

She trembled against him, her breath hitching in soft, pained gasps. His hands hovered awkwardly over her back.

"C'mon, Lamb, it's just a broken bone...?"

She shook her head.

"No?"

"Hurts..." She wheezed, "...breathing."

"Oh."

"Oh." She mocked.

His eyebrows creased, and he scowled. "Are you kidding me?" He grabbed her and laid her gently on her right side, "Don't mock me if you're having breathing problems."

"Kill... y'self... I...dowhatiwant..." She winced and screwed her eyes shut, curling in on herself. "Ow."

"Uh huh. And how's that working out for you?"

She coughed once and brought up blood.

He inhaled sharply and his eyes blew wide.

"Shit!" He swore, "Carmen!"

"Nnnnngh."

"How could you let her do that to you? You're better than this!"

"What?! This 's--"

He backpeddled. "No, no, don't speak. I shouldn't have said that. We all have the occasional miss. Just focus on breathing, okay? Is your team around?"

She nodded. "on their way..."

She wheezed and wrapped her right arm around her midsection. She curled further in on herself as her brow creased with pain. "...this's humiliating..."

"Carmen."

"...once fell... off... moving truck."

"I'd heard."

"...was 'pletely fine..."

"Yep. Mhm. You're very impressive, I mean it. Now please, just breathe. You're only hurting yourself."

She attempted to smirk, but it presented more as a grimace. "Just thought you should..."

"...Know who I'm dealing with. Yep, I get it. Now shhh."

She glared at him. He frowned at her.

"Just take it easy, okay?"

She grunted. "wha'ver"

He sighed and sat cross-legged, settling in to wait for her team. He warily eyed their surroundings and decided to call it luck that this of all nights, they were hit with a tropical storm. It was unlikely anyone else would be out in this weather, and that helped their odds.

He turned back to Carmen and watched her. Her left arm was held close to her chest, and every so often, she would twitch her fingers or rotate her wrist as if to confirm they still worked. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths, and with every short inhale, he heard what could have been mistaken for whimpering catching in her throat.

He worried on his bottom lip as something he tried to keep buried stirred within him.

For the sake of the heist, he had planned things so Carmen wouldn't see him until the last minute, but it was more than just the mission.

He's never regretted doing VILEs bidding. From the day he graduated, he knew what he was signing up for, and that didn't bother him. The maiming and the cheating and the stealing? Call him a bad person because he was, but he didn't regret any of that stuff.

That night on the train, however...

He had almost crossed a line that night. When he set his crackle rod to kill and pointed it at the woman he--

He...

He couldn't bear to see her hurt.

Consumed with self-pity and remorse, Graham did not immediately notice when Carmen's already quick, shallow breathing turned harsh and rapid. He only snapped out of it when she reached for him with her trembling right hand and weakly grabbed his knee.

"Carmen?"

Her eyes were wide with fear, and her skin had lost a bit of its pallor as she struggled to breathe. She brought her hand to her throat, mimicking the choking gesture.

"Can't..." She croaked, "...get 'nough air."

He wasn't sure what possessed him, but before thinking better of it, he reached over and cupped the side of her face.

"You're hyperventilating, love. Try taking deep breaths."

Her eyes welled with tears, and her bottom lip quivered. Her breathing was still erratic.

"Shh. Deep breaths, hon. You're okay."

She nodded and closed her eyes. She drew in a shuddering breath but stopped suddenly as she sobbed. Tears slipped past her eyes, and he wiped them away.

"Keep going."

She whimpered, and he could only guess how painful this must've been for her. He'd cracked a rib or two in the past, and the pain of that had made him consider the merit of simply ceasing to respirate. Based on her everything, Graham would venture a guess that she suffered much more than a cracked rib or two. If he were in her place, he might have also chosen asphyxiation.

He brushed the hair from her face and rubbed her temple. "Help is coming, Carmen. Just keep breathing, okay? You're doing so well."

"...don' patronize me."

He snorted and retracted his hand. She was so...

She opened her eyes to leer at him. "...didn't tell you t'stop..."

He stared at her incredulously. "You're really something else, you know that?" He returned his hand, "And didn't I tell you to stop talking? Doesn't it hurt?"

"...not bad... as.. breathing."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well. Unfortunately for you, breathing is something of a necessity, so."

"Hmm." She leaned into his touch and said nothing.

He gulped, and his heart did this weird skippy thing. Her weird moment of panic had passed, but she was still acting so... strange.

They'd gone an entire year of saying nothing to one another whenever they crossed paths, and now he was cradling her face while comforting her. And she was letting him.

As much as it should be, hate was not the word he'd use to describe his feelings towards her.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before her red-headed lackeys came shouting her name, but by the time that they did, the rain had settled, and the wind died down a little. The storm was passing on.

"Carm!"

Graham turned his head and saw the girl lackey racing down the makeshift stair case two steps at a time.

"Carmen, I am so sorry," Ivy said, crouching down on her other side, "The storm made getting around absolutely suck. Are you okay? Sorry, that's a stupid question. Get your hands off her!"

He yanked away from her and held his hands up, feeling oddly intimidated.

"She needs a hospital," said Graham.

"Yeah, no shit." Said Ivy.

"No hospitals!"

"Hush!" Said Graham and Ivy.

Carmen grumbled, finding it within her to pout. "'m gonna need... the three of you... t'stop yelling a' me."

"Three?"

"She's delirious," Ivy explained, "She's forgotten how to count."

Graham narrowed his eyes and pretended he didn't notice the way her eyes flickered to Carmen's earring. "...Okay."

"Alright, Carm. Let's get you out of here."

Carmen yelped as she picked her up, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Graham scowled.

"Careful with her!" He snapped.

Ivy's gaze turned icy, the type of cold that killed. "Excuse me?"

"Uh..." Graham rubbed the back of his neck, averting eye contact. "You jostled her, 's all... I--"

"--Don't fucking talk to me about how to help my friend, Crackle. You have no right."

"Look--"

"--If you actually cared about her, we wouldn't be here. So I'd thank you to shut your mouth and walk the fuck away."

"I just want to make sure she's okay!"

"Well, she's not!"

Graham winced.

Carmen groaned, shifting in her arms. "...Ivy..."

"Hush, Carm. This guy is pathetic." She leveled a glare at him, "I don't know what you ever saw in him."

She continued to glare at him, waiting. As if expecting an explanation.

He had none to give.

They made their choices.

[robininthelabyrinth]

The Other Mountain - ao3 - Chapter 18

Pairing: Lan Qiren/Wen Ruohan

Warning Tags on Ao3

———————————————————————-

Wen Ruohan wanted to destroy something, or kill someone, or both.

This by itself was not uncommon, for him. Violence had long been the answer to virtually all of his problems, even the ones where it had initially not seemed a likely solution – it was perfectly reasonable for violence to solve the problem of the Wen sect’s contested succession, for instance, but it had come as somewhat of a surprise to find that pain and torment seemed to be the only things still capable of rousing him from his ever-increasing apathy.

Not the only things.

Wen Ruohan was not thinking about that.

He had other issues to concern himself with, and not least among them was the fact that there wasn’t anyone he could kill in his immediate vicinity, or at least not reasonably. He was surrounded by his own sect’s disciples, the army he had painstakingly trained into a force to be reckoned with, and while he supposed he could kill one or two of them to sate his bloodlust, it would be both a waste of resources and an indication that he had completely lost his mind. Which he hadn’t. Yet.

What you just did –

Wen Ruohan was not thinking about that.

He had come out here to join his army on an impulse, or at least he had thought it was merely an impulse at the time. It had been a matter of venting his rage. He had needed an outlet, and he’d wanted to go away, and he hadn’t been thinking, and someone had suggested night-hunting and the army had been night-hunting and Wen Ruohan hadn’t been thinking –

He wanted to destroy something, or kill someone, or both.

Normally, when he was in such a mood and there was nothing in his immediate vicinity that he could exercise the feeling upon, he would return to his Nightless City and pick out a likely target from his Fire Palace, but he couldn’t do that now. The Fire Palace –

He’s there, you sent him there –

Wen Ruohan was not thinking about that.

Unfortunately, leaving was not currently an option. His arrival had been badly timed, even for him, and it had not taken long to realize that he had been lured into coming here intentionally. It was an excellent plan, in fact: a well-designed and elegant masterpiece of backstabbing and betrayal.

Wen Ruohan was almost inclined to commend Qingheng-jun for having played his hand so beautifully.

When he had first heard that the sects in the area that Qingheng-jun planned to attack were starting to take up arms, Wen Ruohan had thought only that Qingheng-jun was unfortunate. He had assumed, quite reasonably, that Qingheng-jun would need to delay his war for fear of causing an escalation, the conversion of a small border skirmish into a massive war between a multitude of sects. He had thought, in what later turned out to be an erroneous assumption, that Qingheng-jun would want to avoid this outcome, since such a war would draw down the condemnation of the cultivation world and cause a great deal of death and misery besides.

It had not occurred to him that Qingheng-jun might have tried to stir the sects up deliberately.

Why would it have? Wen Ruohan was the veteran of any number of wars of conquest, and he knew, as everyone who was about that sort of business knew, that the key to achieving your goals of conquest while escaping any serious censure from the rest of the cultivation world was to keep the situation small and contained – something that other sects could call deplorable while feeling morally superior, but which did not affect their personal interests enough to actually stir them to action. No one whose goal was to enhance the power of their sect through expansion would ever risk setting off a spark that would light a wildfire, a war that would spread like contagion until no one could escape joining in.

Not even Wen Ruohan would dare. The sect that started such a war would invariably become the target of the entire cultivation world, all the rest of them immediately putting aside their usual disputes in order to stand together to cast down the enemy, and even he, in his great arrogance, did not believe his sect had the strength to stand alone against them all.

Not yet, anyway.

Qingheng-jun would have to be a fool to attack in such a moment, and Wen Ruohan had known that Qingheng-jun was not a fool. He was quite clever.

Unfortunately, he’d underestimated exactly how clever.

War was, after all, quite confusing. Facts could get distorted, the truth cast aside, and scurrilous rumor would rule the day, turning supposition into reality if only enough people believed in it. And in the end it didn’t really matter if you were the sect that had actually started the war, as long as it was another sect that took the blame for starting it. And between the Lan sect, whose reputation for cautious conservatism and unimpeachable virtue had reached its apex under Lan Qiren, and Wen Ruohan, whose taste for conquest and desire to become the master of the whole cultivation world was well known…well, it was pretty obvious which one everyone was going to blame.

It was all very clever, in fact. Wen Ruohan’s army had arrived to deal with a large-scaled haunting, which turned out to never have existed, and the nothing no-name sect that had issued the invitation for his Wen sect to night-hunt in the area, Yuexi Xu, was now frantically denying they’d ever done anything of the sort. His generals had just been in the middle of trying to figure out what had happened and extract themselves from the situation when Wen Ruohan himself had arrived, and that had destroyed all hope of claiming that their presence there was simply due to a misunderstanding.

After all, why would Wen Ruohan, with all his power and all his bloodlust and all his apathy, stir himself to join a mere night-hunt, and in another sect’s territory, no less…? With his personality, when would he ever lower himself to do such a thing? Was it not far more likely that this was all a devious plot of the sort that Wen Ruohan was famous for, a dodge designed to conceal the arrival of his forces until the last possible moment, and from there to be perfectly positioned to start a war…?

He'd been framed, of course.

But it was a very good framing. Wen Ruohan was a known liar, willing to say or do anything as long as it advanced his goals. This sort of thing was exactly in line with the sorts of things he had done in the past, and therefore seemed completely in line with the sorts of things he might be willing to do in the future. With everything so perfectly set up to appear as though it was part of one of his plans, he wouldn’t be able to wash himself clean even if he jumped into the Yellow River. No one would ever believe in his innocence…

That’s a lie.

Do not tell lies.

Wen Ruohan flinched involuntarily. The chair that he’d been slowly ripping to shreds using his cultivation – he’d been holding it in the air through force of will alone and unfurling it into its component parts, coiled up thread and wood peeling off like the skin of an apple, picking at it the way a lesser man might at his fingernails or an irritating scab – abruptly exploded into a shower of splinters. Irritated, he waved his hand, summoning flame to burn all the splinters into ash before any of them damaged the tent he was sitting in, waiting for news updates from his scouts.

He hadn’t meant to lose control of his power like that. He hated losing control like that, hated losing control generally. He’d already decided not to think about it –

You know it’s true, though. Lan Qiren would have believed you. He did believe you, back at the discussion conference, and that was even likelier to be you than this.

Wen Ruohan wasn’t thinking about it!

He believed you without you even needing to say a word, his mind continued on, heedless of his will, marching forward as brutally and ruthlessly as Wen Ruohan had ever done anything. Without proof, without explanation, and although he claimed he had used logic, there wasn’t enough time for that; that was obviously a backwards justification. It wasn’t that he found a reason to trust you – he trusted you first, and then found a reason to justify his faith.

And you just threw him into the Fire Palace over a mistake.

And that was the difficulty, wasn’t it? Wen Ruohan did not make mistakes. He was great and terrible, an ancient monster whose power dwarfed everyone around him and whose cunning struck fear into the hearts of the entire cultivation world. He was vain and arrogant, yet in so many cases his arrogance was completely justified: he was, in fact, better than so many of the others around him. Better, smarter, more powerful…Wen Ruohan was not a man who was easily played for a fool, and even when he was, he rarely admitted it, choosing instead to use his power to make himself retrospectively right. He was not a man who cared what wrongs he did as long as it got him what he wanted.

He did not make mistakes.

He did not make mistakes, he did not apologize, he did not –

Lan Qiren had trusted him. Lan Qiren had not feared him. Lan Qiren had been loyal to him from the very first moment they had taken their vows together, though he hadn’t needed to be, though Wen Ruohan hadn’t really expected him to be, all talk aside. Lan Qiren had allowed Wen Ruohan to reshape him, growing less rigid and more arrogant, more reckless, more free; more than that, Lan Qiren had reshaped himself,going out of his way to find things that would please Wen Ruohan and doing them for no purpose other than that.

Lan Qiren might even, one day, have been amenable to – to loving him, with a heart that contained both the implacable constancy of the Lan and the insatiable appetite of the Wen.

And Wen Ruohan…

Wen Ruohan had thrown him into the Fire Palace.

Wen Ruohan had made a mistake.

Wen Ruohan had been tricked, and not by Lan Qiren. It was Wang Liu that was the real traitor, with Qingheng-jun as his backing, and their betrayal had been meticulous. It was Qingheng-jun, not Lan Qiren, who had had the time to make inroads into other sects, using the months of Lan Qiren’s seclusion to set people up to spread rumors – with Wang Liu feeding him information as to who Wen Ruohan’s spies were, it would have been easy enough to do. Just as it would have been easy enough to get Sect Leader Chang, who resented being conquered, to cooperate with his kinsman to spread the false rumor of seeing Lan Qiren and his brother together, and to share the letter with one of the more ambitious-but-thoughtless of Wen Ruohan’s subordinates, one of the ones so eager to get credit for having done a good job that they didn’t think to check if they were being fooled.

The rumors had done their work, priming Wen Ruohan to begin to doubt, and from there…well, as everyone said, three men make a tiger; anything confirmed by enough separate sources seemed like the truth. Setting Lu Qupei off would hardly have been difficult, and luring Lan Qiren away likely not much more so. Wang Liu had then used his access to Wen Ruohan’s quarters to get Lan Qiren’s letters in order to take advantage of that doubt, putting his life on the line to play the trick, risking everything on the chance for success. And the gamble had paid off. It had worked splendidly: Wen Ruohan, who was famously paranoid, had fallen for their incitement, and lashed out irrationally, allowing himself to be led into an even more grievous error.

Anything could have served as the inciting incident – but they had chosen Lan Qiren.

That had probably pleased Qingheng-jun to no end.

The rest had followed from there. While Wen Ruohan was hurt and raging, Wang Liu had given him the push he’d needed. Not only to cast Lan Qiren aside, but to convince Wen Ruohan to go to see his army, and in doing so had set him up to bear the blame for a senseless war before the entire cultivation world.

The entire cultivation world.

For instance, he’d just received word from one of his scouts that Jin Guangshan was on the move with those mercenaries he’d just purchased. Wen Ruohan had initially thought that was a mistake as well, had thought that that was Qingheng-jun somehow slipping up and revealing his plans too early, but now he realized that it had been deliberate. The Lan sect didn’t use spies, which meant that Wang Liu was probably one of Lanling Jin’s, just the way Wang Liu had claimed his predecessor Qing Yu had been; Qingheng-jun had probably bought the spy off of Jin Guangshan in exchange for giving Lanling Jin the perfect excuse to gather the whole world together to attack Wen Ruohan in a moment when he appeared to do something unquestionably wrong. Jin Guangshan wouldn’t have been able to resist the idea of tearing some strips off of Qishan Wen’s greatness for his very own.

Clever. Clever, clever, clever…

Wen Ruohan was already receiving message after message from those of his people he’d sent out to get information, each one with worse news than the last: Gusu Lan had already moved their forces into Quanjiao, but they were claiming that the move had been made from necessity, that they were only there to defend the area from Wen Ruohan’s purported rampage. With Lanling Jin backing them up, the local sects had overlooked the implausibility of Gusu Lan being there so soon and had gone into a frenzy, each one certain that they were his real target…

The rest of the cultivation world wouldn’t be far behind. Yunmeng Jiang would be alarmed by the notion of a war just off their northern border, even if they hadn’t already worrying about the consequences of the agreement between Qishan Wen and Gusu Lan; they would have no choice but to start mobilizing, and the only question was how long it would take them, whether they would act with speed suggestive of Yu Ziyuan’s decisive command or sluggishness suggestive of Jiang Fengmian’s inclination towards peace at all costs. And then there would be three Great Sects all moving together, against his one – and there remained the open question of what Qinghe Nie, with its abnormally powerful and warlike disciples, would choose to do.

Wen Ruohan didn’t think the odds were very good there.

It really was a very good plan. Wen Ruohan would have liked it a great deal if he wasn’t its target.

Even the involvement of a no-name sect like Yuexi Xu was a brilliant move. It hadn’t occurred to Wen Ruohan back in the Nightless City, but the frantic digging of his disciples had revealed they had been the sect that had provided Sect Leader Wang, of Yingchuan Wang, with his much-beleaguered first wife. That meant that Qingheng-jun had used them twice over in his trickery, first as one of the quasi-subsidiary sects with ties to the Lan sect that had caused Wen Ruohan to doubt Lan Qiren and second to set the bait for this trap, presumably by making all sorts of promises – it was the sort of thing Lan Qiren would have figured out at once, with his brilliant recall of how all the small sects were connected to each other. He would have spotted the trap if Wen Ruohan had only had the chance to talk to him about it.

If Wen Ruohan had only managed to control himself long enough to talk to him.

And that, of course, was at least part of the reason Qingheng-jun had had to ensure that the two of them were divided. Only part, since the greater part of the reason was undoubtedly Qingheng-jun’s blinding hatred of Lan Qiren, the way he so obviously longed to see his own little brother hurt or in pain or even dead –

You threw him into the Fire Palace! You did that. You, you and no other!

Wen Ruohan’s fists clenched, his nails digging into his flesh, drawing blood.

Surely his disciples were smart enough to realize that he hadn’t – that he hadn’t meant it, that he would regret it later – or failing that, maybe they would be smart enough to think that he might want to see Lan Qiren’s agony himself, surely, the way he sometimes did when there was someone worthy of his attention in the Fire Palace. Surely they wouldn’t have dared to kill him, not even dared to have hurt him…or at least not hurt him too much…surely…maybe…

He couldn’t even convince himself.

Who was he trying to fool? Wen Ruohan knew better than most what type of monsters he’d filled his Fire Palace with, an even split between the desperate who had nowhere else to go and the bloodthirsty who genuinely wanted to be there. There were enough of the latter that they wouldn’t be able to resist the opportunity to hurt whoever had come into their grasp, and it was all the more likely because Lan Qiren was someone important, someone for whom the fall would hurt more. And that meant that they were hurting Lan Qiren right now, hurting him in Wen Ruohan’s name, with the machines he’d obtained for that purpose being used in ways he did not want.

Lan Qiren was probably cursing his name this very instant, just like Wen Ruoyu had all those years ago, was probably screaming, and Wen Ruohan couldn’t do a single thing to stop it because if he left Jiujiang at this moment in time, when everything was blowing up politically, he risked losing his entire sect.

They’re hurting him. They’re hurting him for you, because of you, because you told them to. It’s your fault, and he is never going to trust you again.

He’s never going to love you.

Wen Ruohan wanted to destroy something, or kill someone, or both. And right at this exact moment, the only person who seemed like a worthwhile target was himself.

He wanted to claw his own skin off. He wanted to summon his strongest power and lay waste to the entire landscape around him until it was unrecognizable and barren, needing a generation or more to recover. He wanted to disregard everything to fly back to the Fire Palace and beg Lan Qiren for forgiveness. He wanted to tear the Fire Palace itself apart brick-by-brick. He wanted to cut out his own tongue so that he’d never give such an order ever again. He wanted to destroy the whole world so that no one would ever need to know that he had erred, and erred badly, and more than likely lost out on the treasure of a lifetime as a result.

“Sect Leader, bad news!” Another scout rushed in, with the general that normally led the army right at his heels, grim expressions on both their faces. “It’s Qinghe Nie! They’ve started to move. They’re against us!”

Wen Ruohan closed his eyes briefly, forcing down his power before it could rip out of him and lash out blindly. Power, or a scream, or both…it didn’t matter. “I see. What is their stated reason?”

“Lanling Jin and Gusu Lan are both saying that you’ve gone mad, Sect Leader,” the scout reported, stone-faced. “With your personal presence here, they are saying that it indicates that this is not merely a skirmish but the first step in a war against the entire cultivation world.”

Wen Ruohan’s plan to dominate the cultivation world would eventually require such a war, and everyone knew it, including him. But his Wen sect was at least ten and probably twenty years away from being ready for a move like that – for him to start the war now would truly be a sign that he had succumbed to madness.

And Qinghe Nie…well, Qinghe Nie was more prone than most to believe in madness, what with their history of sect leaders succumbing to qi deviations. Lao Nie probably thought that he was doing Wen Ruohan a favor by taking arms against him, and if Wen Ruohan really had lost his mind, he probably would have been. Only the victors determined the spoils, after all, and Lao Nie, at least, would seek to ensure that Wen Xu inherited what was left of the Wen sect after Wen Ruohan died, minus the pieces here and there that would be peeled off to assuage the other sects’ anger and ensure they didn’t question the arrangement.

It barely even counted as a betrayal, really. Lao Nie had never actually trusted Wen Ruohan.

(Wen Ruohan had always said to himself that Lao Nie was right not to, telling himself that he would have betrayed the other man in a heartbeat if he could have grabbed some of his mighty sect for his own. But upon reflection, there had been dozens of instances when he could have done more to undermine Qinghe Nie than he had, little squabbles that meant nothing individually but could have meant something collectively, and in each case he’d thought to himself that it simply wasn’t worth the bother, wasn’t worth the inevitable argument, wasn’t worth risking Lao Nie’s rage and the potential loss of his already inconstant affections…which meant that perhaps Wen Ruohan was not so inured to betrayal as he had once thought. Not even his own.)

“Sect Leader, what do we do?” his general asked, his expression ugly. He was one of Wen Ruohan’s more trusted subordinates, of long standing; he had been the one Wen Ruohan had entrusted with the education of Wen Xu.

They’d already sent Wen Xu away, of course. They had made smuggling him out the very first priority. Even though everyone would know that that was what they were doing, Wen Ruohan hadn’t wanted to risk anyone capturing his son to try to use him against him. He’d sent him out with a few Wen disciples from his close kin, ones he knew Lu Qipei had used considerable efforts to win over, ones whose self-interests were wholly aligned with his own and which could therefore be trusted as much as anyone could be – he’d known that they had had only one shot at getting him out, at getting anything out, before the attention of the cultivation world had locked into place, and they had taken it. But it had worked: they’d gotten word back only a little while earlier that Wen Xu was successfully back within Qishan’s area of influence, safely heading to ground with his maternal Lu family.

“Sect Leader, we need to act,” his general urged. “Many of the small sects in the area have already activated their defenses. If we want to make a move, we will need to do it soon.”

Wen Ruohan was aware of that. Now was the time for decisive action, not to be worrying about the wellbeing of a man he couldn’t help – a man you hurt, a mistake you made – and as sect leader, the duty to make the decision fell to him.

With the Great Sects on the move, his options were limited. His sect could either attack or defend, and with only a single battalion of his army having come here for what they thought was a low-stakes night-hunt, they didn’t have much in the way of major armaments or cultivation treasures to support them, much less the sort of infrastructure that was preferable to have when playing defense. The only real weapon they had to hand was Wen Ruohan himself, with his incredible power and knowledge of all sorts of arrays – for most situations that would have been more than enough, but a full-scale war might be pushing it. Realistically, the best option would be for him to strike at the small sects around him now, absorb as many as he could in the short amount of time he had, then use their own defenses as the foundation to protect his army from the other Great Sects when they arrived.

But that would be playing into Qingheng-jun’s plan, taking on the role of the villain that had been set aside for him, and Wen Ruohan didn’t really want to do that.

Lan Qiren wouldn’t have wanted him to do that.

But what was the alternative?

If Wen Ruohan wasn’t here, he could order his sect to start loudly claiming that it had all been a misunderstanding (which had the unusual virtue of being true). The resulting confusion would buy him a little extra time, maybe another day or two, just enough for him to gather the rest of his army and come demanding some sort of peace on equal terms. But Wen Ruohan was too powerful, his own presence equal to three battalions or maybe more – with him here, no one would dare give him the benefit of the doubt. Yet neither could he plausibly sneak away, the way he’d sent Wen Xu away: there were too many eyes watching, no available paths he could take, and his own overweening vanity would not permit him to be seen running away with his tail between his legs. And that was assuming that anyone would believe his retreat was genuinely meant to avoid a war rather than a strategic retreat to set up a further attack, which they wouldn’t…

“Motherfucker, I’m telling you, your precious Sect Leader is going to want to see me! Yes, right now!” a sharp female voice shouted from right outside his door. “Don’t let my colors mislead you, I’m working for him!”

Wen Ruohan blinked, and rose to his feet.

“That’s Cangse Sanren,” he said, mentally mapping out the local surroundings – yes, it made sense, or at least it wasn’t wholly implausible for her to be here. She’d said that she was heading to Xixiang with the children, and that wasn’t too far from where his army was. “Send her in.”

Cangse Sanren didn’t so much get shown in as she did elbow her way in. She managed to get his general right in the gut, too, hard enough that he choked and staggered. Wen Ruohan decided not to question it – it was probably vengeance for how hard it had been for her to get through his sentries.

“Hi there!” she chirped, ire fading into cheerfulness the moment she laid eyes on Wen Ruohan himself. “I hear you’ve got yourself a problem.”

Wen Ruohan raised his eyebrows. He’d only had the one short conversation with Cangse Sanren back at the Lotus Pier, but he thought he’d gotten a decent enough sense of her character at the time.

“From your tone of voice, I suspect you’re here to offer a solution,” he drawled, scarcely daring to hope that she really did have one. “Would you care to share?”

“You’re exactly like Lan Qiren, you know?” she said carelessly, and Wen Ruohan somehow managed not to wince. “Neither of you are any fun at all – you could at least have let me be the one to say it. Anyway: there’s an old mine in Xixiang.”

“I recall. You said there was a suspected haunting there, I believe…?”

“Mm, let’s move that from ‘suspected’ to ‘confirmed,’ but also it’s completely abandoned and has tunnels that lead for hundreds if not thousands of li in every direction.”

Wen Ruohan’s eyebrows somehow managed to go further up than they were already. “Thousands of li of tunnels? What in the world were they mining?”

“Spiritual iron, I think. You know how you need to chase the energy before it slips away to make sure you get the best stuff.”

That made sense. Spiritual iron also meant that the people doing the mining had to be cultivators, making the whole process a lot faster – they were stronger, faster, less in need of sleep, capable of using talismans and arrays and treasures that could eat through dirt like a mole. It was certainly an efficient type of work, if humiliating.

“One of the entrances is near here?” Wen Ruohan asked, though he’d already put the rest of it together: an abandoned tunnel from an abandoned mine would be the perfect way for him to sneak out without being spotted. And once he wasn’t here, his army could play for time while he returned to the Nightless City, just as he’d already thought. Once he returned with the rest of his army and the claim that he’d been unjustly slandered, he’d have a fairer playing field and a better hand to play. “You’re welcome to answer that question, if you like.”

“Now it just feels like you’re being condescending. Are you coming?”

“Naturally.”

Other people might have used the opportunity to say something about owing Cangse Sanren a favor, but Wen Ruohan was above such things. If she wanted something from him, she could ask, and when she did he would remember this moment, but his Wen sect did not owe anyone anything, and Wen Ruohan himself least of all.

He took a moment to give his general and the highest-ranking local disciples their orders, as well as to draw out a few extremely powerful talismans for them to use – to maximize confusion, there had to be a plausible reason for both the Lan and Jin sects to believe that Wen Ruohan had been there in person, believable enough to create doubt in the eyewitness accounts of his arrival – and then he headed out, following behind Cangse Sanren’s sure-footed stride.

It wasn’t until Wen Ruohan was already outside the borders of his army’s encampment that it occurred to him that this, too, could be a betrayal.

At her encouragement, he had left his army behind. That could very easily be the opening move of a trap – he did not know Cangse Sanren, after all, and he certainly didn’t trust her. Her arrival had been suspiciously timely and her solution suspiciously convenient, like much-needed coal in a winter blizzard. Was it not entirely possible that this was another very clever ploy, this time to isolate and murder him? Why in the world had Wen Ruohan believed her? Much less believed her enough to follow her all on his own, without even a single guard to defend him?

It had been instinctive on his part. The trust was less his own than it was Lan Qiren’s, Wen Ruohan having automatically reasoned that surely anyone who Lan Qiren would entrust with his nephews would not be the sort of person to turn around and stab him in the back. But could he really trust that? Was he willing to trust in Lan Qiren like that?

It seemed that he was, without ever having made the decision to do so. And yet – and yet –

“Here we are!” Cangse Sanren announced just as Wen Ruohan was on the verge of succumbing to his paranoia and turning back. “See, there’s the entrance to the tunnel, right over there. I have to admit now that I omitted some critical information: you’re going to have to crawl through the first bit. Very undignified, which is why I didn’t tell you until now. Sorry-not-sorry!”

Wen Ruohan sighed.

Of course Lan Qiren wouldn’t trust someone unworthy. Irritating, yes, but not unworthy.

Probably for the best he hadn’t brought any guards, though.

There was a very brief interlude of considerable indignity – Cangse Sanren went first, which meant that Wen Ruohan’s embarrassment was at a minimum not witnessed by anyone – and then the tunnel got larger and more spacious, allowing them both to stand and walk, and then later to ride their swords if they kept them low enough to the ground.

“Why did you come help me?” Wen Ruohan asked as they flew, his voice deliberately mild. He wished in retrospect that he’d taken Lan Qiren up on the offer to learn the arrays that kept the Lan sect clothing so clean, so as to be able to erase the evidence of dirt on his knees. At the time, he’d thought it beneath him, but that was before he’d learned how low he had yet to go. “You are aware that it was a war zone, correct?”

“And that’s why I didn’t bring the children with me,” Cangse Sanren replied. “I’m not stupid, you know.”

“I didn't mean to suggest that you were. It is only that your intervention was rather timely, shall we say – particularly given that Yunmeng Jiang had already started to move against me.”

“And that’s why I didn’t bring Changze, either. He was raised a servant at the Lotus Pier, so no matter what, he’d feel guilty about doing something that would be seen as undermining them. Not a problem for me! My master doesn’t have any ties in the current cultivation world, so I don’t care.”

Wen Ruohan knew that, too.

Irritated, he decided to be blunt: “If you don’t care, why take action at all? You could have done nothing, which would have been considerably easier, and not to mention less risky.”

“Well, I didn’t have a choice, did I? I promised my little monkey that he could see the Nightless City in all its glory. He’d be terribly disappointed if something happened to diminish that glory before he even had the chance to get there…”

“Are you ever serious?” Wen Ruohan snapped.

Cangse Sanren laughed, which suggested that the answer was no. “Stop glaring, you big bully. Isn’t it obvious? Obviously I didn’t come to stick my nose in this mess for your sake. I did it for Lan Qiren.”

“That still seems like a great deal of effort to go to for a man that I was under the impression you hadn’t seen since you were sixteen,” Wen Ruohan said, since the alternative would have been to say something stupid like Why do you think helping me would help Lan Qiren.

Or, worse, If you knew what I just did to him, you wouldn’t be helping me any longer, you’d leave me in the lurch and say that he’s better off without me…

Wen Ruohan would be forced to murder her if she said that. She might be right, but that was irrelevant. Betrayal or no, even if all hope of something better was gone, he’d still kill anyone who suggested Lan Qiren shouldn’t belong to him.

“Besides, Lan Qiren would do quite well if I died,” he added bitterly. “Xu-er is only fifteen. Lan Qiren would have the right to manage the Nightless City in his stead as my widow.”

“Are you always this prone to dramatics?” Cangse Sanren asked, sounding amused. “I wish I’d known sooner. I would have come to the Nightless City much earlier if I’d known you were funny.”

Wen Ruohan scowled. “That is still not an answer.”

He wasn’t expecting Cangse Sanren to suddenly turn on her sword, cutting off his path and making him have to come to a hasty stop to avoid crashing into her.

“Fine,” she said, hands on her hips. “Fine, you want an answer? Lan Qiren was the first person in the whole cultivation world that didn’t want anything from me when I came down from the mountain, and the only one who took the time to explain to me what human morality meant in a way I could actually understand. He drew me diagrams! Hundreds of them, laying out all sorts of different situations, explaining what the right and wrong response to each one would be.”

Wen Ruohan stared at her.

“It took him months. And you know what? I don’t think he even remembers doing it. Because it wasn’t anything special for him, just another day, just another month, just another year, just the sort of thing he thinks anyone should do or would do. Because that is what Lan Qiren is to me, and what he always will be – forget fifteen years, it would be the same even if we haven’t seen each other in a hundred! And as for you…”

Cangse Sanren shook her head.

“When I saw Lan Qiren again for the first time in years, in years, he was in a terrible state, like I’ve never seen him before,” she said, her voice as practical as ever, though very far from devoid of emotion. “His qi was rioting and he was bleeding internally and he was a lot closer to a qi deviation than either of us wants to admit. You were there, you know as well as I do that if he didn’t have as good a foundation as he does, he would’ve been in serious trouble. And you know what the first thing he said to me was? The very first thing? He asked me to help him hide it because he didn’t want to worry you.”

Wen Ruohan reared back as if Cangse Sanren had just slapped him.

He might have preferred it if she’d slapped him.

“You see, he was concerned that you’d be angry enough to do something irrational if he didn’t have time to explain first – ”

Forget slapping. Stabbing would have been preferable.

“– and, you see, he didn’t want to cause you trouble. And just when I was starting to worry that he was afraid of you, he got distracted and asked me what a wife’s duties were.” She snorted. “He was deeply relieved that you let him be the husband, you know. Personally, I think he’s just got a rich boy’s mortal fear of household chores.”

Wen Ruohan had the distinct feeling of not knowing whether laughter or rage was more appropriate. “He does know that a wife in a large sect wouldn’t do those things themselves, does he not?”

“Oh, sure. But you know how Lan Qiren is – he hates change, especially once he’s finally gotten comfortable with something.”

And now they were back to the feeling of stabbing, because Wen Ruohan did know.

Lan Qiren was a creature of habit, as rigid in his personal life as he was in his perspective on virtue; he preferred things to be predictable, or at least occurring within an expected range. He had spent a great deal of time in the months he’d spent in the Nightless City building up a routine that suited him, and he had been so pleased the first time he had managed to go through an entire week without any surprises…

That was probably ruined, now. Was Lan Qiren supposed to continue taking his daily morning exercises in a courtyard from which one could faintly view the outline of the Fire Palace? Could they really continue to take the stroll through the Nightless City that they had started taking after dinner, the one that according to Lan Qiren both aided in digestion and helped establish a boundary to keep work from seeping too much into the realm of the personal, while from Wen Ruohan’s perspective serving as good time to get in all the conversation they didn’t have over dinner, given that Lan Qiren still practiced the Lan sect rule against speaking while eating? Sending Lan Qiren a note to get him to come meet somewhere or another for what Lan Qiren had snidely taken to calling “the usual reason” was one of Wen Ruohan’s more enjoyable pastimes, whether or not Lan Qiren agreed to actually do it, but if that was the way he’d been lured away this time, would he ever respond to another?

Even if Wen Ruohan pulled Lan Qiren out of the Fire Palace now, would Lan Qiren be willing to continue any of those routines that had previously given him such joy? Or would they become simply yet another torment, a miserable farce that he would need to force himself to endure in order to appease the man who could with a single word have him taken back there…?

“So, obviously, I had to come help out if I could,” Cangse Sanren said, turning herself back and starting to fly forward once more. A moment later, Wen Ruohan forced himself to start moving forward again as well, catching up easily and sliding smoothly into place beside her. “I mean, really, if he’s already put all that work into getting used to you, it seems rude to get in his way and cause him distress – ”

“Stop,” Wen Ruohan said, unable to endure any longer. “No more.”

Cangse Sanren glanced over at him, gaze sharp for a moment. But only for a moment – an instant later, she grinned.

“Oooh,” she said in a tone of outrageous delight that seemed rather inappropriate. “Did you fuck up? Are you going to have to grovel?”

“I don’t grovel!”

“Not yet you don’t, you mean.” She sniggered. “Welcome to married life. Real married life, not whatever you were doing with those wives of yours… Hey, listen, if it makes you feel better, just remember that you’re the most powerful man in the entire cultivation world. You have the capacity to make the biggest please-forgive-me gesture of all time!”

Oddly enough, that did make Wen Ruohan feel better.

It was a bit like his announcement that he’d be taking the role of wife to Lan Qiren’s husband. He knew perfectly well that most people would find it a humiliation, just the way they would see playing the receiving role in sex as a dishonor. They might think it meant something about their dignity as men, might think that it would make them a target for mockery. But Wen Ruohan was so powerful that he did not need to concern himself with what others thought: he knew that they would just see it as further evidence of his instability, another sign of his terrifying unpredictability, his capacity to do anything. What was shameful to other people was only self-indulgent eccentricity to those like him whose actions could not safely be questioned. No matter what he did, it would just mean that the rest of the world would worry about him all the more, would think about him all the more.

Wen Ruohan liked being thought about. He liked being talked about, whether for good or for evil.

“I assume that when we get to the other side of this tunnel, you’re going to go straight to the Nightless City, right?”

“Of course,” Wen Ruohan said, shaking off his reverie – and his trepidation as to what he might find waiting for him there. He had to get there as soon as possible to order Lan Qiren’s release, no matter what. “The rest of my army is there, and all of my sect’s treasures as well.”

Lan Qiren is there. And he is far from the least of my Wen sect’s treasures…

“I don’t actually care about your little war problem,” Cangse Sanren reminded him. “I only wanted to make sure you didn’t get yourself killed… Anyway, I’m coming with you, I want to talk to Lan Qiren anyway. And with two Lan, two Jiang, and one little monkey surnamed Wei, we have too many kids for Changze and I to carry on our swords, especially for any sort of long distance. Have you ever held a child before?”

“I have two sons.”

He’d had more, before. But he didn’t like to think about his first family.

“Yeah, I know. The question still stands. You wouldn’t believe how many men would be completely lost.”

Wen Ruohan rolled his eyes. “I know how to hold children.”

Though admittedly it had been a while since he’d practiced such a skill. He’d mostly given up on bothering with children after his first ones had turned against him at their mother’s instigation, back before she’d turned against them in turn, taking their lives in her increasing madness… The deaths of his first family were old wounds, long since scarred over, but they would pain him for the rest of his life. He hadn’t had reason to think of them in a long while.

“You can carry the Lan boys, then,” Cangse Sanren said practically. “Maybe you can ask them for tips on how to get their shufu to forgive you.”

That sounded reasonable enough.

Unfortunately, reality was not to live up to Wen Ruohan’s expectations.

“When Shufu is angry at me, I write him an essay explaining what I did wrong and why I won’t ever do it again,” Lan Xichen said. He was completely in earnest, so it was impossible to even be annoyed at him. “Sometimes, if it was really serious, I propose a punishment for me to fulfill. Discipline is important!”

That was a little more promising an avenue, Wen Ruohan supposed, though he was dubious. No one in the Fire Palace would dare lay their hands on their own sect leader, not even if he ordered them to do it, so it wasn’t as if he could offer to take Lan Qiren’s place for a time. Nor was there anything he could do to change the balance of power between them. They lived in his Qishan Wen: he was always going to be the sect leader, and even if he said that he’d never send Lan Qiren to the Fire Palace again, there was nothing keeping him from changing his mind later.

Frustrating.

“What about you?” he asked Lan Wangji, who was scowling. Or possibly pouting. It was hard to tell. “What do you do? Much the same, I assume?”

Lan Wangji shook his head.

“Oh? Something different, then?”

Lan Xichen cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. Nearly as embarrassed as he’d looked when Wen Ruohan had first hoisted him up in one arm, ignoring his offers to try to stand on the sword himself, though he’d dropped his complaints quickly enough when they were in the air, kicking his legs with badly concealed glee as they flew. “Uh, Wangji hasn’t – he hasn’t really mastered the whole ‘admitting he was wrong’ thing yet – ”

Wen Ruohan snorted. “Then we have that in common,” he informed Lan Wangji, who he was holding in his other arm. “I am also never wrong.”

With one exception.

Wen Ruohan was not thinking about that. Now was not the time, and anyway, he was already doing everything he could by heading back to the Nightless City with Lan Qiren’s precious nephews in tow. There was no point in thinking any further than that.

Lan Wangji looked thoughtful. After a few moments, he said, “You could write him a song.”

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen gasped, sounding almost scandalized. “You can’t just tell people to compose a song for someone!”

Wen Ruohan’s eyebrows went up a little at that.

“They are married,” Lan Wangji reminded his brother. “It is appropriate.”

“Not to interrupt this fascinating interrogation of Gusu Lan courting techniques – ” Wen Ruohan was now incredibly curious about why Lan Qiren had felt it appropriate to ask to compose a song for him, but he had the feeling that pursuing that line of inquiry with the children would only incite Lan Qiren’s ire, which was exactly what he was trying to avoid at the moment. “– but I have little talent for musical composition.”

Both Lan boys scowled at him as if he had just admitted to some serious moral failing.

“Fine,” Lan Wangji said after a little pause, though it didn’t actually sound as though he actually thought it was fine. Were musical cultivators just born like this? Or did Gusu Lan teach musical snobbery from birth? “Can you paint?”

Wen Ruohan nearly stopped flying in surprise. “Paint?”

“Sometimes, when I want Shufu to feel better, I draw him a picture,” Lan Wangji explained, his little voice very serious. “He always says that it makes him happy.”

In his youth, Wen Ruohan had been widely considered to be one of the finest painters of his generation, and naturally he had considered himself the finest. It was through that skill that he had made his name, in fact, that long-forgotten title by which much of the world had referred to him before he’d won the seat of the Wen sect leader and taken on that title as his own instead.

He hadn’t painted in…years. Decades. Longer than Lan Qiren had been alive, most likely.

He still remembered the moment he’d stopped. It had been like the aftermath of breaking a bone in battle, when adrenaline had carried you as far as it could and finally could no more, and all the pain came upon you all at once – he’d started on a great big painting, as ambitious in art as he was in all things, and when he had begun it he’d had a wife that he liked well enough, children he was proud of, a younger brother he adored, and a heart full of ambition and hope for the future, his eyes fixed firmly on the position of sect leader. He’d stopped painting in order to settle the matter of the succession, not realizing at the time that it would take quite so long to do.

When he’d come back to the painting, he had become sect leader, but he’d lost all the rest.

Holding the brush, he couldn’t even remember who the person who’d started the painting had been.

The pain had come, then, the broken bone, all his nerves at once alight with agony. He’d snapped all his brushes and set every painting of his that he could see on fire, and he’d never picked up a brush for the foolish, idle purpose of art ever again.

Of course, he didn’t think there was anything he could do that would make Lan Qiren happy with him again, either – he certainly wouldn’t be able to stomach such a betrayal – and yet that was what he was trying to do now. So maybe it wasn’t as ridiculous a suggestion as all that.

“…I’ll keep that idea in mind,” Wen Ruohan said, with some difficulty. “Perhaps. At any rate, I don’t think it’d really have the same impact coming from me as it would from one of you.”

Lan Xichen reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said encouragingly, having apparently completely misinterpreted Wen Ruohan’s refusal. “You’re his wife! I’m sure he’d like it very much even if it wasn’t very good.”

“It would be excellent,” Wen Ruohan informed him testily. He disliked having his abilities questioned, even by children. “I am an accomplished painter, I have the ability. I just don’t.”

“Uh-huh. Is that in the same way that I can eat spicy food, it just makes me get all teary and have to drink lots and lots of milk to make the burning stop?”

Lan Qiren would probably be angry at him if he dropped his nephews from a height, Wen Ruohan reflected. Angrier than he already was. Maybe that had been Cangse Sanren’s clever plan all along – he might not have been able to resist the temptation if it had been the Jiang children he’d been holding.

He gave up on the boys as a lost cause and instead maneuvered his sword over to where Cangse Sanren was wrangling her wiggling son, who had by now lost interest in the novelty of traveling by sword and was instead complaining about having temporarily left their family’s donkey behind in Xixiang.

Really, Wen Ruohan was doing her a favor by bringing her some adult conversation.

“What was going on with the arrays laid down in the mine?” he asked, flying close enough that little Wei Ying forgot what he was saying and clambered over to Cangse Sanren’s left side, reaching out to hold hands with Lan Wangji, who Wen Ruohan was holding in his right arm. Lan Wangji accepted the hand with an air of someone accepting their rightful due.

Charming child.

“You noticed that, huh?” Cangse Sanren shook her head. “Whoever was laying them down never heard of overkill, did they? How many suppression arrays could one place possibly need?”

“The ghosts were still not dispelled despite all the arrays present, so presumably they in fact needed more than they put down,” Wen Ruohan said dryly. “But also that was not what I meant. The top-most layer of arrays were not suppression arrays at all.”

“Huh? They weren’t? They looked like they were…”

“That was likely intentional. They were enhancement arrays. There are a wide range of options that fulfill that purpose, and I suspect whoever laid down the new set picked one that was similar to the existing ones in order to disguise their presence – ”

“Wait, wait,” Wei Changze said from his other side, flying up from beneath. He had Jiang Cheng on his shoulders and Jiang Yanli standing by his side with her arms around his waist for stability, and to Wen Ruohan’s ongoing amusement he’d been very valiantly ignoring the way the girl’s cheeks were red from more than just the cold wind. Being crushed on by a nine-year-old girl, how embarrassing. “What’s this about a new set of arrays? I thought they were all from ten years ago?”

“There is a more recent set of arrays laid upon the rest, no older than a few months, if that. Their addition is likely what disturbed the older set enough to let a few spirits leak through, enough to create rumors of a haunting – what type of creatures did you say were there? Just ghosts?”

“Yeah, a few ghosts, that’s all.”

“You said there were jiangshi,” Jiang Cheng piped up, looking cross. He had his hands firmly wedged into Wei Changze’s hair and seemed to be occasionally tugging at him, as if trying to direct him the way one would a horse. “Well, first you said there were just specters, back before we went, and then you said there were hopping corpses, and that was after we’d already gotten there!”

Wen Ruohan smirked when Cangse Sanren winced, clearly having not intended to be called out.

“I see the next generation of the Jiang sect will be a fearsome one once more,” he remarked, amused. For some reason, the innocuous statement made the Jiang boy twist his head to gape at him. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time we need to negotiate one of our longer lasting treaties.”

“Jiang Cheng is very fierce,” Wei Ying said, sounding quite fierce himself. “He’s going to be a great sect leader.”

The Jiang boy’s expression of shock immediately twisted into annoyance. “That’s not what it means! It’s a Great Sect, not a sect that’s great!”

“I’m sure A-Ying meant that you would be an excellent Yunmeng Jiang sect leader,” Wei Changze put in. “Which I have no doubt you will be. Trust me, I was raised there.”

“Forget him, trust me. I’ve suffered through three generations of Yunmeng Jiang, I’m practically an expert,” Wen Ruohan said, voice dry as dust. “Can we get back to the subject of the arrays? Ghosts and jiangshi are an interesting combination.”

“I thought so, too,” Cangse Sanren said. “Aren’t jiangshi usually warriors that died far from home?”

“Not always.”

“Well, no, but still, often enough. If you have warriors, why would you also have – uh, short ghosts?”

Wen Ruohan gave her a strange look. Short ghosts?

Cangse Sanren meaningfully flicked her eyes at her son, and then at Lan Wangji and Lan Xichen…oh, child ghosts. That made – actually, no, she was right, that made no sense. A mine of spiritual iron called for cultivators, so the presence of some warriors could be easily understood, martial cultivators being recruited to do the work and then dying there. But why would there be children there? Especially given that it was likely that all the spirits in the mine were the victims of a massacre, based on the signs in the mine, what were the circumstances that gave rise to such an event…?

“What do enhancement arrays do?” Lan Xichen asked, looking at Cangse Sanren, who shrugged, and then Wei Changze, who shook his head. “Sect Leader Wen?”

“You should be calling him Shumu! He’s your father’s younger brother’s wife, isn’t he?” Cangse Sanren said at once. Wen Ruohan glared at her and she grinned at him, unrepentant. “Either way, you’re definitely asking the right person. Sect Leader Wen is the cultivation world’s foremost expert on arrays.”

“He is? Wow!” Lan Xichen looked impressed. All the children did, actually.

“There is no need for flattery,” Wen Ruohan informed Cangse Sanren, but decided to be gracious and answer the question anyway. “Enhancement arrays are exactly what they sound like: they enhance the effects of an original ‘core’ array. It’s a method of extending the effect of a single array over a broader area. You’d be most familiar with the version of it that forms the basis of the gate arrays used by every sect, such that external defenses can be raised from a single initiation point deep within the sect.”

“So the enhancement arrays here were just strengthening the suppression?” Wei Changze asked.

“No, these ones weren’t tied to the suppression arrays, just layered on top of them.” Wen Ruohan shrugged. “I did not see the core array at any point that we passed, but it seems clear enough that the intention behind those enhancement arrays is completely different from the original goal of suppression. They almost looked like redirection arrays, the sort you use when trying to dam up a river, but there’s no point in putting that sort of thing in a mine. Perhaps if I’d had a little more time to look at them…”

He trailed off, his sharp sight landing on the distant horizon where the Nightless City waited.

“Oh, hey, kids, look ahead! Guess what that is – yes, Jiang Cheng, you’re right, it’s the Nightless City – ” Cangse Sanren was talking, but Wen Ruohan had stopped listening. With his cultivation, he could see far better than most, especially if he tried, and his vision had been drawn almost against his will to the dark hulking mass of the Fire Palace.

Right in front of it, there was the smallest speck of white shining against the darkness, a barely visible silhouette of someone standing in front of the entryway.

Not someone.

Lan Qiren.

Wen Ruohan would know him anywhere.

He instinctively picked up speed, his sword suddenly rushing forward at a speed Cangse Sanren and Wei Changze couldn’t match – he left them all behind, heedless of anything but reaching his destination.

He didn’t even know what he’d do when he got there. He just – he had to be there. He had to see him, he had to talk to him –

“That was so much fun,” Lan Xichen said in his ear as Wen Ruohan brought his sword to a stop only a few steps in front of where Lan Qiren was standing. “Can we do it again sometime?”

Wen Ruohan could barely hear him, his whole attention focused on Lan Qiren.

Lan Qiren, who looked…tired.

Tired, his face pale – his hair was arranged properly and his clothing was fresh, but he somehow gave off the air of having been run ragged regardless. And there were – there were bloody fingerprints on his forehead ribbon –

“Welcome home,” Lan Qiren said, for once ignoring the presence of his nephews. His voice was completely neutral, void of any emotion. “We need to talk.”

[cellphishthekaiju]

Crackpot Headcanon: Vlaakith's 'Grand Design' for Lae'zel (and the Githyanki)

Back again on my raving bullshit for Baldur's Gate 3 (D&D and Forgotten Realms by relation), this time we're looking at the Lich Queen Tyrant, Vlaakith CLVII... cause I have lunatic thoughts of this bitch that fuel the fanfiction I write.

As with all my lunatic fandom ravings, spoilers abound for Baldur's Gate 3, associated materials, and course, take this all with COPIOUS amounts of salt. I get most, if not all, of my 'canon' info from the Forgotten Realms wiki and try to doublecheck the sources but I don't always have the time or means to.

So what is known of Vlaakith is actually very little. The one in Baldur's Gate 3 is, presumably, the 157th githyanki to hold this title and has reigned for a thousand years (mostly as a lich). She has no known heirs and aspires to ascend to godhood (primarily through spam-casting Wish). D&D Lore is very sparse on the githyanki and even more so when it comes to nuances with the githyanki. They have existed since the days of AD&D (Advanced Dungeons & Dragons) but we didn't have much about them, canonically, for a long time.

So, lunatics like myself, let the brain worms fill in the blanks.

We know that Gith, for which the people get their namesake, was the figurehead and Leader of the rebellion that led to the toppling and near extinction of the Illithid Empire unknown millenia before. At her side, I believe both Vlaakith and Zerthimon assisted her (as advisors in different capacities... and to some unknown extent, her only 'confirmed' blood relative, her son Orpheus). As to their exact roles, it is unknown how Vlaakith advised Gith in the matters of her rebellion but given she is referred to as the first of a long series of Lich-Queens that rule the githyanki, her capacity likely involved her skill and knowledge in the arcane/Weave.

After the rebellion, it is believed Gith and Zerthimon fell to infighting, as Gith presumably was so consumed with righteous fury, she single-mindedly wanted to continue hunting down the remaining illithids while Zerthimon, seeing they had won, wished to carve a new life for the 'gith' now that they were free.

In my deranged mind, I suspect/believe that the Proclamation of Two Skies (how the gith refer to their civil war that led to the creation of the -yanki and the -zerai) was stoked and brought to fruition by Vlaakith I. She was always manipulative and concerned, primarily, with her own ambitions. Having witnessed how Gith roused and united the gith, how they called her 'mother' may have stoked jealousy in Vlaakith and so she conspired to take that power and reverence for herself, especially under the suspicion I have that Gith and Zerthimon were lovers/mates (I wrote a theory pointing at Orpheus may be their son).

Vlaakith conspired to turn Gith and Zerthimon upon each other but her plan had an unintended consequence; the division of the gith people into the Githyanki and the Githzerai (and with time, further fracturing in the form of Pirates of Gith, Sha'sal Khou and the Githvyrik (dunno how canon this is anymore because only occurs in one novel)). However, Vlaakith saw an opportunity in this fracture; Gith to be the sacrificial lamb on the altar of her ambitions.

It's believed Vlaakith I's first attempt at bargaining with Baator (The Nine Hells) was seeking a pact with Dispater. However, Vlaakith's attempt(s) failed for one reason or another... likely because Dispater is far more paranoid than Vlaakith is and saw no merit in a deal with such a conniving creature.

Having failed in bargaining with the Lord of Dis, Second Layer of Baator, Vlaakith found herself bargaining with Tiamat. It is, still, unknown the terms of their pact (or how she even got to bargaining with the Chromatic Dragon Queen to begin with) but the bargain was successful and Gith ended up being part of the price.

After the githyanki retreated into the Astral Plane, since the civil war left them weakened (and the githzerai went to Limbo), Vlaakith convinces Gith to travel to Avernus (First Layer of Baator), likely with promises that fed into Gith's violent ego and giving no indication that Gith was not going to make it back. With the bargain paid, Tiamat imprisoned Gith among her hoard (presumably) while Vlaakith returned to the githyanki on the back of Ephelomon, Tiamat's Chromatic Red consort. Together, the two convinced the githyanki that Gith had martyred herself in the bargain and commanded that Vlaakith guide and rule their people in her absence.

This is where the canon gets messy, as there appears to be a discrepancy in the order of events. In the 5e Monster Manual, it suggests Vlaakith sealed the bargain with Tiamat before the Proclamation of Two Skies happened. Texts like Mordenkaine's Tome of Foes suggests the bargain with Tiamat was struck after the split. I'm more inclined to agree it happened after, since the Githzerai and other non-yanki Gith do not benefit from the terms of the pact (mainly the access to Red Dragons)

So, what's this all got to do with the current Vlaakith?

Vlaakith CVII is more than I (want to) believe Larian has told/shown us.

Like her namesake, Vlaakith CVII is a lich that has, supposedly been in power for, roughly, a thousand years by the time the events of Baldur's Gate 3 happen. She upholds the teachings, protocols, and ambitions of her originator and predecessors yet has no known heirs (blood relative or otherwise).

My crazy idea is that Vlaakith CVII is actually Vlaakith I... and all other holders of the 'title' before her have just been Vlaakith. Vlaakith is too vain and ambitious to let something like death get in her way and likely sought every means possible to buy herself the time she needed to achieve her ultimate ambition; Godhood.

Vlaakith's insanity is well in line with the 'canon' behavior of liches, especially 'long-lived' ones. Now, she is just a creature driven by the all-consuming desire to ascend and achieve the ultimate power by any means necessary.

Ascending to divinity/godhood in D&D is... not very clear. The primary factor is faith, as a god needs followers to thrive and derive power from. By controlling the githyanki in all aspects of life, establishing castes like the Inquisitors to hunt down and silence dissenters, sealing Prince Orpheus within the Astral Prism (and infernal chains), using Gith's name and 'sacrifice' as a catylst to keep the people's devotion on herself... but this is a slow process so Vlaakith also encouraged and regulates the militaristic structure of githyanki society to produce powerful warriors that she can, later, consume and sacrifice in her spam-casting of the Wish spell and whatever other means she uses those poor souls for (aside from the husks she keeps)

So, how and why does Lae'zel factor into all of this?

Literally, this is all because of one dialogue line Vlaakith gives in Act 3 of Baldur's Gate 3: Promising to make Lae'zel Baht Vlaakith, the Commander of Dragons; her Chosen (despite having no true divine power). She offers Lae'zel's greatest ambition; to be Kith'rak, to ascend beyond even the standards of her people and serve at Vlaakith's feet.

Weird thing to say to someone you can just Thanos-snap from existence, which Vlaakith does if your party refuses to comply with her at Creche Y'llek. (Seriously, this woman will waste a Wish on you just to remove the entire party from existence for 'waving hello' at her)

Vlaakith has determined Lae'zel as her 'heir' and needs her to return so that she may possess/control her (either through the use of spells like Domination or something more sinister, like excising her soul and possessing her body; no clue if liches can do this). I believe some githyanki that held the title of 'Vlaakith' were simply thralls to Vlaakith I, enhancing her duplicity to make it seem like the title passes on between individuals (despite having NO information on how this is determined within githyanki society).

The only other 'brain worm' I have about why Vlaakith attempts to bargain with Lae'zel one more time about killing Orpheus instead of, I dunno, simply Wish-murder the party, is there is something important about Lae'zel that not even the githyanki herself is aware of. Not to the degree of a psionic null zone but perhaps something Vlaakith has been nurturing through controlled breeding to accelerate her consumption of power... or as an offering to Tiamat.

Hells, if you talk to Withers in the Epilogue about the fate of a Vlaakith aligned Lae'zel... he says she's just gone. Her soul no longer exists.

A fate worse than death and Lae'zel went to it, oblivious.

Yep, there it is... more cracked brainworm thoughts for Baldur's Gate 3.

I'm also not a fan of Vlaakith but hey, I feel like there needs to be way more depth and analyzing some of this stuff my brain just does on its own.. and it fuels my fan-fic writing (which you should totally check out)

I hope folks are enjoying my insane ramblings.

[luveline]

JADE HAPPY NEW YEAR ILY ILY ILY!!! ♡♡♡ can i pretty please request some new years eve hurt/comfort with fred weasley from the a special friend universe? maybe r is struggling a lot so they just spend new years eve bundled up in blankets on the couch (up to you if george and angelina make an appearance)

Happy New Year! ILY, thank you for your request! Fred and his poor ghost girl :( fem!reader ♥︎ 

Fred's already awake when you rouse. If he could have, he would've let you sleep where you'd been all day, your face buried in the space between his arm and his chest and your hand held over his ribs, but he'd had to help Bill with their rogue niffler situation again. 

He turns to smile at your tired face, setting his mug of tea down on the kitchen table. 

"Hey," he says. "You okay?" 

He's an expert in you, or so he'd like to think, and your expression is worrying. You look as you had when you'd first met, face clouded with despondency, eyebrows pinched up just a touch. 

"Just tired," you murmur. Your voice is quiet and scratchy and worn, like you've been talking for a hundred years, all by yourself. 

He gestures for you to come into the kitchen. 

When you're standing close enough to touch, he tilts his head up and gives you his warmest, slowest smile. He hopes it says, You're alright, and if you aren't there's no need to worry. 

"Do you want to sit on my lap?" he asks quietly. 

"'M heavy," you mumble. 

He loves how, despite your grumbling, he only needs to sit back for you to take him up on his offer. You move very carefully and you refuse to put all of your weight on him, but Fred doesn't mind at all as your thighs press into his, and you work your arm behind his back for security. 

"There's tea," he says. 

His body reacts to you without intention, cheek dipping to your temple and arms curling around you. You take a little sip of his tea though you don't like it the way he does. 

"What's the matter, my love?" he says, again, so quiet. 

"Not sure," you say, your pitch creeping upward, a first sign of internal distress. 

He lifts his head and pulls you in closer. Your side is soft against his stomach, your face hot as it slips into the crook of his neck. Hopefully you know by now that it's okay, but still he wants to tell you, making sure with absolute surety that you understand how much he doesn't mind. 

"That's okay…" His hand closes over your arm, squeezing and massaging the dough at the crease of your elbow. "You'll tell me when you figure it out?" 

You exhale into his skin. "Yeah." 

While he doesn't care, you aren't light, and the kitchen chair is uncomfortable. His leg aches in the odd position it's held at. He doesn't tell you because while he loves you no matter what weight you are, he knows you'll internalise it, and that isn't something you need today. 

"Lie on the settee with me," he says. 

You nod like you're sleepwalking and climb out of his lap. He gets you on the settee, film on, quilt over your legs. You watch him. You aren't hostile in any way, but he does think there's something unhappy about the way you're looking at him. 

"You aren't mad at me, are you, doll?" he asks. 

"Do I look mad?" 

There's his girl. Depressed, unhappy, panicked, you're still reaching out. He pulls the quilt up to slip in beside you, hand reaching not quite gently for your face. He pushes the corner of your lips up into a half smile. 

"No," he says, grinning. 

You're infected with a smile of your own. 

It doesn't last. You sink into his side and watch the film in near silence, the only sound your sluggish breathing. He plays with your fingers for an hour, but eventually he starts to feel rather upset too. He doesn't show it, ever, that your sadness gets to him. He knows he should — honesty is important to him between the two of you, is conducive to your continued success as the best, warmest couple he knows. But he doesn't. It's one of those sacrifices of love, and it doesn't feel like a sacrifice at all. Your unhappiness makes him unhappy, and neither of you can help it. 

He steals his hand back, arm over your shoulder, behind your neck, and waves his fingers behind your ear, encouraging your neck to be bared to him. He kisses you very, very softly until he gets to your jaw, where he bestows a fiercer kiss. 

"I love you," he says, rubbing a short line into your cheek with his nose. 

"I love you too, Freddie." You clear your throat. "You mean everything to me." 

He grins like a fool. "Everything…" 

He can't get as sticky as he wants to, dissuaded by the sharp cracking sound of an disapparation near the front door. 

"Guys?" George calls. 

Fred puts some space between the two of you but not much, hand falling back to your collar, face turned to the doorway. 

George appears smartly dressed. 

"Hey," he says, more to you than Fred, as they've already seen each other today, "we missed you at breakfast. How are you feeling?" 

"I'm fine. Just tired."

"Well, you look snug. I'll take it you aren't coming tonight?" 

Somebody is throwing a New Year's Eve party. Fred and George have been invited, popular still despite years tormenting their fellow classmates, and so you're invited by extension as the love of Fred's life. He hadn't thought about it since you came out this morning. 

"No, we're coming," you say, sounding like you'd secretly rather die. 

"We definitely aren't," Fred says, twisting so he can lay in your lap. You receive him without complaint, though your lips have parted in surprise. "I'm knackered from all the strenuous activity this morning." 

"Ew," George says. 

"The niffler!" Fred shouts with a laugh. "How dare you. And while my girl's here." 

"Christ," George mutters. "Has he been like this all day?" 

You dip your face down to Fred's and look him in the eye, your gentle hands framing either side of his face. The heat of your palms seeps into his skin. "George, I love you, but this is never going to work. I'm on Fred's team," you say, fingertips threading into the start of his hairline and raking it away. "Always am," you say, lips barely parted. 

"Disgusting," George says. "Alright, well. Happy New Years for tonight. Love you both, anything gross should occur in your room and not on the shared sofa." 

Fred lifts his head and thankfully you lower your own for a kiss. He holds your face in one hand. 

"Wait until I've gone, at least! Merlin." 

Fred sits up properly and turns, a pretzel, trying to kiss you more while you're up for it. "Love you," he says again, lips pressed to yours, the words half-lost in the action. 

You pull apart.

You spend a quiet night together like that. You're not better, kisses don't ever magically fix anything, but you hold his hand and stroke his fingernails with the pad of your index finger, and you fall asleep before the countdown for the new year's begun. 

Fireworks crack over the sky outside, colours bursting in through the thin curtains. 

You shift in your sleep. 

"Happy New Year, sweetheart," he whispers, and kisses the corner of your lips. He lingers there for a moment, both your hands in his. 

As long as he's got you, he reckons it's going to be a good year. 

[tiannasfanfic]

Hit Points

Eddie Munson x Reader (Fluff)

[Masterlist] [Crossposted to AO3]

Summary: Eddie Munson loves it that you play in his campaigns. Even after playing in many of them, you can still really surprise him sometimes.

Rating: General Audiences

Author Note: Gender neutral reader, they/them pronouns. I took a break from smut writing to write something fluffy. ALL of my WIPS are up to scenes of heavy smut and gaaaaah.

CW: Nothing that I can think of. There's talk of D&D characters dying, but no details.

Word Count: 1,252

It was the end of a particularly brutal campaign.

Brutal for the players, that is. This one had been specially designed to be extra nightmarish.

Eddie Munson had been feeling kinda froggy while planning it. He had been feeling that way ever since the group had accused him of taking it easy on them last campaign. Which, admittedly, he had. It wasn’t on purpose though. He was only partially ashamed to admit that he half assed that one. He wasn’t fully ashamed because he had also been busy planning an anniversary weekend at the same time as he was planning the campaign. He’d never been with someone for a year before and had put a majority of his attention into that.

The anniversary weekend camping in the woods with you in his van was a rousing success.

The campaign, on the other hand, was not.

Rather than just admit it was his own fault, Eddie decided instead to crank the next one up to an eleven to teach you all a very important lesson.

Never gripe to the DM about his campaigns.

It was a suitable time to teach this lesson since these were new characters, they were low level, and this was a short campaign anyway.

The whole dungeon had been extremely difficult, making you all burn through most of your supplies, but it all came down to the final monster; a flying Eldritch monstrosity that your characters could barely touch. The table was filled with expressions of dismay and horror as the die rolled beautifully for Eddie, but no one else. Blows were dodged, spells were botched, and it didn’t take long before you all were on your last legs. It was going to take two rounds before the party was wiped and the game was over.

It was the top of the round and your turn. You sat there starting at the game mat with a thoughtful expression. You were silent, chewing on your bottom lip, and thinking carefully over your next move.

“Well, Princess?” Eddie finally asked after a few minutes, then tapped his wrist cuff like it was a watch. “Clock’s ticking.”

Eddie had met you not long after the incident in the Upside Down. While the town was still treating him like a pariah even after getting his name cleared, he never really expected that to change. At least he wasn’t wanted for murder, so he was just back to his regular old status of freak. But Eddie had to admit, now that he had more friends, it was a lot easier to deal with. He ended up spending a lot of time with his newfound crew after finally graduating, which now included hanging out at the video store where Steve and Robin worked. When you started working up there too, the two of you hit it off immediately. It didn’t take long before you were soon dating and soon after that were officially in a relationship.

When you showed an interest in playing D&D. Eddie started teaching you how to play, running one-person campaigns for you at home. While he loved doing this with you, he figured you’d lose interest before long like most people did. Contrary to that, you fell even more in love with the game than he was, if that were possible. His group took to you quickly since Eddie didn’t give them a choice in the matter, but they genuinely warmed up to you after a while.

“Give Y/N a damn minute, Eddie,” Erica said, rolling her eyes. “They’ve got one hit point left and they want to make this one count.”

You nodded in agreement with Erica but stayed quiet. Before Eddie could goad you further, you looked up at him.

“Can you describe the chamber we’re in again?” you asked. “And please be as detailed as possible.”

Eddie smirked, leaning his elbows on the table, and resting his chin in his hands as he gazed over at you.

“You’re not gonna escape me, Princess,” he said, batting his eyes at you.

“Wasn’t trying to,” you said seriously. “I just wanted to make sure we’re not missing anything important.”

He indulged your request, reading off the detailed description of the chamber you were all currently in. To access it, you all entered through a temple and fight down ten floors. The underground chamber was large enough that the monster could fly around in it comfortably. Near the beginning of this fight, one of the first botched spells had collapsed the doorway, sealed the chamber, and cut off escape. There was no other way out. The party had been very thorough in their search of the chamber before the monster found them. They hadn’t missed anything that could help.

After considering the game mat for another minute, you started asked about the chamber structure itself. You asked about the walls, the ceiling, the structural columns, everything. You left no detail unexamined. At this point, Eddie noticed the other players were actually patient for once, quietly listening while looking back and forth between the two of you like they were at a tennis match. They knew you never got any special treatment or hints or advantages being the DMs partner. He was almost harder on you than the other players in hopes of avoiding that accusation from happening. But they also knew if anyone could figure out Eddie’s thought process and understand his mind, it was you.

There was another period of silence while you thought things over again. Eddie could see your eyes shift between the various figures and tokens on the mat.

“And this place is old,” you said thoughtfully, sounding like you were talking to yourself.

“You’ve never seen a place more ancient, Princess,” Eddie said, then smirked. “And aren’t likely to again.”

You nodded then raised your gaze to Eddie with a look of determination so fiery it made him get goosebumps.

“How many hit points do the columns have?” you asked.

Eddie blinked.

Everyone else blinked.

That was a question no one had been prepared for.

“Uh, come again?” Dustin asked.

“Think about it,” you said, addressing the party, looking at each player in turn as you spoke. “We’re not leaving this cavern. No matter what we do during this turn, we will not survive. But we can make sure that thing doesn’t either. We take out those columns, we bring this whole place down on top of it.”

“And seal all the horrors of the temple away from the world,” Gareth said, realizing what you were saying.

“No one will ever be lost to this place ever again!” exclaimed Mike.

The Dice Gods seemed to be impressed by everyone’s sudden burst of drive, and fortune started favoring you all. The columns were easily dispatched before the monster’s next turn and the temple was brought down, wiping out the party AND the monster in the process.

Despite the fact everyone died, spirits were high. Everyone stayed afterwards to help clean up Dustin’s basement, excitedly talking about the campaign and praising Eddie for yet another fun adventure. Even you gave him credit for it, even though he knew full well that it was all on you. Had he killed everyone off like he originally planned, everyone would be moping, would’ve left immediately and you two would be cleaning up alone. But, instead, you made them all feel like heroes.

That ended up being the night Eddie decided he was going to ask you to marry him.

[whltlock]

Hiii... I usually don't do asks like this so sorry if it's weird or whatever. Could I get something with jason and a reader with really low self esteem, but not like all the time like, an oscillating self esteem, if that makes sense. Just really need some comfort with our big tittie man rn 🌚sorry if this ask is weird I am emotionally unintelligent 🙃

A/N: I hope this works for you! ❤❤❤❤❤❤ everyone deserves to feel like they have a rightful place on this earth, no matter what.

When Jason drapes himself across your lap, the action rouses a small smile from you. It pulls you from your stupor for a moment—but the moment’s well and truly fleeting as you look towards the skyline again.

The sun isn’t so shy today, and the breeze is somewhat warm as it brushes past. There’s no explosions or sirens polluting the city air. And yet.

And yet none of it feels as good as it should. It feels like you amount to less than the tally of all of these good things, and you think maybe you haven’t earned the peace. That’s why you’re not satisfied, not content enough, to experience the moment fully.

Jason catches your sigh. His knuckles float towards your jaw in question.

Slowly, you look down at him, thoughts blaring. Why are you here?

He nudges you, trying to free the words that are stuck in your throat. You touch his hand and your cheek sinks into his palm with an upset noise.

“You’re so… accomplished,” you rasp. “Gotham gets a little better each day because of you.” Your voice remains low and ragged as you voice your thoughts. “People are safer, happier with you around…” You could go on: he’s witty, delectably smart, overly skilled and always eager to learn more, and somehow he manages to be modest about it all.

He’s everything, and anything you’ve ever done pales in comparison. It nicks your heart.

“But I’m not. I do nothing like that.”

For the first time since his arrival, Jason exhales loudly. It’s the sound of distilled disappointment. Your eyes flick to him with shame. His gaze doesn’t meet yours and instead, he runs a hand through his curls as he considers his response.

He licks his lips in preparation, then says, “I do those things so everyone else gets to have an easier life. God, babe, just surviving is a massive accomplishment. People should get to live—really live. It’s a waste to base your worth on a few bucks.”

You swallow as heat builds behind your eyes. His bleeding heart—and honesty—snatches the breath from your lungs.

Jason looks at you now, his expression earnest. “It makes me happy to see you sit outside and enjoy the sun, or burn toast and still eat it, or take ten minutes to choose which can of beans you want for the week while everyone in the aisle has to push past you—”

You poke Jason’s chest with a watery laugh, and he laughs too.

“I love watching you be human, not worrying about success because someone else forced you to.” He touches your elbow thoughtfully, fingertips grazing over your skin to comfort you. “Those little moments are all that matter. That’s what I protect,” he says, voice soft as he looks up at you. “Okay?”

You wipe your eyes with a sniffle and say, “Now I have to add motivational speaker to your CV.”

Jason’s arm wrings your neck as he struggles not to laugh. “You will not catch me giving a TedTalk.”

“We’ll see.”

He hauls you closer and you settle into his hold, mentally repeating his words over and over again, letting them douse you with knowledge.

You’re free. You’re lovable. You’re worth everything even when society says you’ve done nothing.

[feverishly-kpop]

Yeosang & Ateez - Under the Weather

Yeosang was miserable. Beyond miserable. And he was alone.

Logically he understood that coming down with something the day that they were set to begin filming their new variety show meant that he’d have to stay behind while the others went to work. But, given the state of fog his brain was in, Yeosang couldn’t help but feel a little bitter about being left by himself.

Yeosang had been in and out of consciousness all day after waking up that morning feeling like he had been hit by a bus. He vaguely remembered hearing Yunho on the phone with Seonghwa but he hadn’t been able to make out exactly what they were talking about. He picked up a few words here and there, like “exhausted,” “nauseous,” and “overworked.”

“Stop talking about me” Yeosang muttered under his breath to nobody but himself before pulling the edges of his blankets in closer, trying to will himself to stay awake until Yunho was off the phone. He wasn’t entirely successful.

After a few minutes Yeosang was roused by Yunho knocking on his door.

“I have to go,” Yunho said sadly, looking down at his feet. “Seonghwa-hyung wants you to stay in bed and he said he’ll come over and check on you once we are done with filming.”

Yeosang didn’t respond, only turning his back toward Yunho. Yunho sighed, feeling guilty about having to leave Yeosang alone in his condition.

“I’m sorry somebody can’t stay with you” Yunho added. “Is there anything I can get you before I leave?” Yeosang shook his head but, once again, said nothing.

*~*~*~*~*~

After a few hours of restless sleep Yeosang woke to the sound of keys rattling and the apartment door opening. Assuming that filming was finished and Yunho was home Yeosang closed his eyes again, hoping to get a few more minutes of sleep before Seonghwa stopped by to check up on him. He was surprised, however, when he heard his bedroom door open and the sound of soft footsteps approaching. Without a word he felt the side of his bed dip down behind him and a warm body getting comfortable under the covers with him.

Typically Yeosang wasn’t very fond of skinship or cuddling, but he had to admit that the extra warmth felt amazing. He had been bitterly cold all day, no matter how many blankets he piled on top of himself.

“What are you doing here, Wooyoung?” Yeosang asked, not even having to look over his shoulder to know who had joined him. “Is filming done?”

“No, they’re still filming. Probably for a few more hours. But I told Seonghwa-hyung that I was feeling sick and Hongjoong sent me home” Wooyoung responded in a matter of fact tone as he snuggled in closer to Yeosang.

“Shit, Woo, did I get you sick? Are you sick to your stomach? We can get you some medication…” Yeosang started before being interrupted.

“I’m not actually sick, Sang” Wooyoung interjected. “I just felt bad that you were here all alone. So I just…pretended. Maybe I should audition for a drama…”

Yeosang laughed for a second before his laugh turned into a cough.

“You’re shivering” Wooyoung said sadly after Yeosang’s cough had passed. He quickly disentangled himself from Yeosang and got out of bed before returning with another blanket.

“Did you just take that from Yunho’s bed?” Yeosang asked, already knowing the answer.

“It’s fine, he doesn’t need it right now” Wooyoung replied, draping the blanket over Yeosang and climbing back into bed, once again wrapping himself around Yeosang.

Yeosang instantly relaxed, the extra warmth and the presence of his friend providing enough comfort for him to fall asleep again.

“Hey Sangie” Wooyoung whispered Yeosang’s ear just before he was about to doze off. “If hyungs ask, I was really sick when I got back, okay? Burning up. Throwing up. All of it.”

Yeosang smiled and nodded. If he had to lie to have his friend there to take care of him when he was feeling sick, Yeosang had no problem with it.

[xalygatorx]

Worthy (2015) | Chapter 5, "Matters of Change"

Disappearing sporadically in public spaces quickly becomes Cora Dempsey's least concerning problem when suddenly she captures the attention of the forming Avengers Initiative, the World Security Council, and Asgard's fallen prince all in one week. And the universe is only just getting started with her.

Worthy is a slow-burn SFW Marvelverse (films) romance between Loki and a female OC. For additional details on what canon is used, see the Prologue post.

Summary: Loki is sent on an errand and is a little too successful. The two have a heart-to-heart and get to know each other a little better. The more Cora realizes who she’s dealing with now, the more Loki realizes the same of her.

Pairing: Loki x Fem!OC

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 2.3k

Cora's limbs felt stiff and pained when she roused the next morning, her eyelids heavy even as she lifted them to peer around the room. For the first few seconds of waking, she had a lapse in memory and wondered where she was. However, realization dawned and she sighed, turning over in her makeshift bed of old blankets and a flour sack she'd found in a few of the dust-coated boxes toward the back where the light-switch had been.

She wasn't awake for more than a couple minutes when her stomach growled quietly. It wasn't like Cora was surprised she was ravenous—after all, she hadn't eaten in probably twenty-four hours by now—but it was a bit of an inconvenience for her body to demand food when she had none to give it. Maybe if she just snuck out and went somewhere nearby, she wouldn't need to aggravate the man who was already pretty aggravated with her, but also blessedly keeping her off SHIELD's radar for the time being.

Cora started to get up when she glanced toward the opposite wall, surprised to see Loki and even more surprised to see him asleep.

He sat like the warriors she'd seen in old paintings, his back against the wall and his legs pulled up closer to his chest. His arms rested over his kneecaps and, while she was sure he could spring to action at the drop of a hat, he looked so peaceful. So peaceful, in fact, she wasn't sure if he was even the same person she'd been dealing with the day before. There was none of the anger, the bitterness, or the exasperation etched into the subtle lines on his face; he looked young and, if anything, he looked quite serene.

It didn't last long though; within seconds of her looking at him, he'd opened his eyes and they'd immediately focused on her, his brow creasing with a question. "Going somewhere?" he asked quietly, pointedly.

She felt the chill seep into her bones just from his tone and she wondered how someone could have that much influence with only their voice. She shook it off and said, "Yes, actually."

Loki hadn't been entirely expecting her straightforward answer without at least a little fearful cowering, but he was starting to get the impression that there were absolute multitudes of differences between this woman and the others he'd known in his long lifetime, and not only the mortal ones. "And what makes you think that?"

"I'm hungry and I want food," she murmured matter-of-factly.

"Ah yes. I forgot how pathetically needy your little systems are," he sighed before standing, running a hand absently over his hair. "Very well. Where may I procure food?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, I said I'd go," Cora argued, frowning as she got up, too, trying to right her tousled locks while maintaining a staring match with him.

He looked at her in that strange way he did sometimes, like he was measuring her up and taking apart everything she was to put it into a more understandable equation. "No."

"Excuse me?"

Loki glared and retorted, "You heard me, mortal."

Lifting up the hammer she still had tied loosely around her wrist, Cora scowled and murmured quietly, "I will use this."

He raised a brow and pressed a single fingertip against the hammer, guiding it down from his face. He wasn't willing to admit it, but his jaw still smarted a little from where she'd hit it the night before. To his slight consolation, he noticed that the knuckles of her dominant hand—which now held Mjolnir in only a marginally less threatening grip—were bruised. Though he paused to wonder why that sight bothered him as well…

"Are you even listening?"

Loki blinked and looked at her. "There was nothing said worth my listening, but you listen close," he said as her expression turned comically affronted and he felt more than ever that she might actually swing that infernal weapon at him. "I am denying your request because of that."

"I only threatened you with it because—"

"Sh, just listen to me a moment," he murmured with a strain for patience that surprised both of them. "It would be conspicuous and warrant questions. However, if you were to separate it from yourself, it may be recalled. Not only that, but you are wanted by the government sect; they will be looking for you. My face is not yet known here."

Cora frowned before gustily sighing; he made a good point. "Want to give me a general sense of where we are so I can tell you where to go?" At his frown of displeasure at her having forgotten that he didn't know their exact location, she sighed and rephrased, "Have you seen any places around here that look like they sell food?"

"There was a shop I passed yesterday that appeared to have breads in the window…"

"Good, okay, go there and… Do I really only have a fifty?" she murmured with a frown when she pulled her money from her pocket. She shrugged and instructed, "All right, go back to that shop and get two—no, three—plain bagels with cream cheese for me and get something for yourself, too. Then give the person behind the counter this. She'll give you smaller counts of money back. Bring that and the food back here. Understand?"

"Are you giving me orders?" he asked, not looking at all happy about being talked to like a child.

"Yes, I am, because you're new here."

"I have used currency before, you know."

"I'm sure you have."

"But what is a 'bagel'?"

"What depressing world did you come from where there aren't bagels?" He scowled and she waved her hands a little, the hammer swinging a bit and smacking her lightly in the ribs. "Okay, okay, I was kidding! Jokes, remember, I'm still under the impression that I'm funny! Now, go."

"…Just stay here," Loki growled before he walked out of the warehouse.

Forty-five minutes later, Cora was listening to her stomach moan again when the door opened. At first she panicked because she didn't see the familiar hulking form of black and green she was getting used to, but she soon realized it was Loki, just…

"What are you wearing?" she asked in surprise.

Loki looked over his shoulder at her with a blank expression before giving a small, "Oh," of recognition and dropping the illusion of a blue button-up shirt and jeans from his frame, his Asgardian attire returning beneath. "Blending in." Cora had to admit, she hadn't minded what he'd picked out. She minded even less the mouthwatering smell of fresh baked goods that hit her after a few seconds of the door being closed. "Did it not look inconspicuous?"

"You looked fine. The blue was a good color on you," Cora answered honestly. "I hope my change didn't fade along with your illusion though." She only had so much money and if she was going to be on the run for a while, she'd need to really use it sparingly. Luckily, their breakfast only would've cost around six bucks.

Loki held out his hand and dropped a few coins into her hand. She waited patiently for the rest and it was only then that she looked at the box he was carrying, noting the massive size of it. "…And the rest?"

"What 'rest'?"

"…You spent forty-nine dollars on bagels?"

Loki got a bit defensive as he noted, "I require sustenance as well."

"How many bagels are in that box?"

"…Sixty."

"SIXTY."

"Yes, sixty! Is there a problem?"

"You better be eating about fifty-six of them. Hell, yes, it's a problem! I only had fifty dollars!"

Loki didn't like the way her incredulity was making him scramble to explain, almost as if he valued her opinion of him or something equally outlandish, but he hastened grumpily, "Look, I will replenish your funds and this will be more than enough food for a while yet, so…" He trailed off when he realized she'd broken into a fit of laughter. "What amuses you?" he demanded, his face reddening a little.

Cora had been mad at first. Rather feverishly so. But the fact that this alien god-who-would-be-king had dropped nearly fifty dollars on a box of bagels because "he was hungry, too," had gradually sent her from frustration to endearment then, ultimately, to sheer amusement.

"Nothing," she laughed, wiping tears from her eyes. Perhaps it was because this was easily the most uncomplicated, absurd problem she'd faced in the past few days. It felt good to have a bit of a laugh. "Did they at least give you enough stuff to put on them?"

Loki nodded tightly and inclined his head toward a bag he had balanced on top of the box.

"And a knife?" she asked, still smiling as she looked at him. He checked the bag and shook his head. "All right, I bet there's something of use in here. Go ahead and start." She got up and went to scour through a few of the boxes at the back of the warehouse, where more trivial supplies seemed to be kept, though he heard her laugh a little more once she thought she was out of earshot.

Loki sat down against the wall and opened the box, taking out one of the circular breads before tearing off a piece and experimentally popping it into his mouth. He had to admit, it wasn't bad.

He'd gotten through two before Cora returned, a pack of napkins and a box of plastic knives in her hand. She sat down next to him—a bit too close for his immediate comfort, though she'd not meant anything by it—and tore open the plastic with the edge of her nail, taking out a knife and opening the bag for one of the cream cheese tubs that had come with the obnoxiously large box of bagels. She was still giggling about it, but she was able to keep silent, which she thought was enough until he asked, "Do you normally vibrate when you eat?"

"Shut up," she told him, a tiny laugh escaping her and earning an indignant glare from the god at her side when he realized she was still humored by the stunt he'd pulled. Cora popped the lid off the tub and dipped the edge of her knife in before slathering cream cheese across the half she had balanced in her hand. He watched her and, a moment later, copied by putting some on the edge of his own, just enough to taste, finding that somehow with that addition, the already-delectable bagels managed to get even better.

Content that her appetite was finally being appeased, Cora started on the second half of her first bagel, but she'd sobered from her laughter. She really couldn't remember the last time she'd honestly laughed, at least for the few weeks this dangerous dance with SHIELD had been going on. Loki noticed the change in her just seconds after it took place, not looking at her as he asked, "Has your anger toward me renewed?"

"Why would that matter to you?" she asked a bit rhetorically though he was wondering the same thing. "No and I wasn't angry with you before either. Maybe a little frustrated, but not anymore."

"Then what ails you?"

Cora frowned before giving a general wave of her hand. "All of this. How things could've changed so much in, well, just three weeks or so."

"It is hardly something for which to look so somber. You have not been captured—by the agents, anyway—and you are alive. You have power, is that not pleasing to you?"

Cora shook her head a little after some thought, her eyes downcast toward her knife, which was absently milling cheese into the very pores of her breakfast. "No. Not in this world," she said quietly. She smiled a little bitterly. "I'm a freak. The looks on those people's faces in Central Park, in the subway, when I…"

"Most do not value what they do not understand, they spurn it, but why lay so low as to accept their misconceptions? Who cares how they look at you?"

"You don't understand," she said and, above her downturned gaze, Loki opened his mouth to argue that yes, he did, more than anyone, but he stopped, his left hand tightening. Even so, his frame had subconsciously relaxed beside hers throughout their feast and conversations, and that did not change even then.

They ate in silence for a bit longer before they'd demolished about a third of the box, Loki having done most of the damage. As he was working on his last, Cora heard him say, "We will work on it in the time we have here."

"What?" Cora asked in confusion, looking up at him.

He didn't look at her, but he did clarify in a rather stony voice after swallowing the last bit of his breakfast, "Your gifts. We will work on them."

Cora wanted to argue that they weren't gifts, that the strange invisibility thing she did and the capability for her to lift the hammer were the curses that had brought SHIELD upon her head, but she didn't. If anything, she was surprised he was offering at all.

Learn what you can, from who you can, right? she figured silently as she nodded in confirmation that she would indeed see what he could teach her.

Next chapter: Chapter 6, Lessons in Worth

[xplrvibes]

I’m kind of annoyed I know I shouldn’t but SnC could have traveled this month in Asia , Europe or whatever destinations they’re going too , we could also had some content video but instead they decide to stay in vegas for K and M ://… unless SnC are waiting until April for Coachella which I’m not surprised but still meh….😕

Alright, let it be known for the record that I do not condone leaking xplrclub information at will.

But I think some things need to be set straight, here.

Not everything snc have been doing as far as their travel is concerned is about the girls.

Colby has had two health scares arise since January; both of which required a lot of testing and doctor's appointments. One occurred in January; the other occurred days before they left for Australia and was only just resolved within this last week.

He is ok - still cancer free and was not diagnosed with anything serious. But he had to deal with quite a bit as it pertains to his health recently - as anyone who battled cancer has to do.

He is also in the process of switching his oncologist to one in LA, and will be back there in a few weeks to meet with them and begin his quarterly scans and testing with them. So, when they pop up in LA in two weeks and everyone gets all pissed off because, "All they do is hang out with those girls," PLEASE REMEMBER THAT THIS MAN HAS OTHER SHIT GOING ON. His life isn't just fucking and ignoring the internet and his youtube career so he can act like some hedonistic fucking frat bro like some of you seem to think. There is other, way more important shit at play here.

Also, for anyone wondering - the main reason they went to LA after Australia, besides meetings with their teams and filming the podcasts they appeared on, was to meet with a real estate agent so they could buy more property. AGAIN, Colby's oncologist team is now based in LA. He will need to be back and forth for his health quite a bit. So, buying a property so they don't always have to rent air bnb's every time they need to be in town for either medical, business or personal reasons is really probably a smart move.

I need everyone to remember that they do not have a huge team behind them. They have an editing team of THREE (one of the three being Colby), they have ONE producer, and them. That's really it. They have a management team for high business matters, but even then, snc are heavily involved in that. There are not enough hours in the day for them to smash content out the way everyone seems to want them to do, unless they give up all control of their editing and business to focus solely on filming the content - and the last time they tried that route was 25x25, which is not something I'd call a rousing success.

And even if they are taking some time off to hang out with their girlfriends - are they supposed to be working 24/7? Is anyone on this planet supposed to be working 24/7? No. Everyone deserves some down time. Even filthy rich youtubers.

They cannot do it all. And expecting them to give up their personal lives to give everyone more content when they not only deserve personal lives, but also have way more important shit going on in their lives, is just unfair to them.

[bloodpotency]

Homebrew V:TM 5e Humanity Track

Hey everyone, just for fun I decided to completely rework the Humanity levels in Vampire 5e. The goal of this homebrew is to take away the “moral-goodness” assigned to high humanity ratings in the original VTM 5e version. This will theoretically give the player more roleplay and gameplay freedom for their character to behave how they want them to instead of equating being a “good” person with being of high humanity, and being an “evil” person equating lower humanity. Instead, I have tried to emphasize a closer connection with one’s beast to the descent down the track. This, I think, makes the Humanity Track more compatible with Sabbat PCs. Any other changes are my own personal preference, like how I think it’s pretty dumb that vampires can only rouse their blood to resemble humans if they are “good” people (and thus cant have sex if they are “too evil”?). This also is designed to give lower humanity vampires some actual gameplay advantages- which I think makes the decision for a PC to remain a good person more compelling as they must resist the temptations of tangible buffs to their stats. Enjoy!

Humanity 10: A great deal of effort is required to achieve this state of unlife, and the storyteller and player must come up with a story event that can allow their character to reach this level. Your beast is entirely in check, almost never a problem except in your absolute darkest moments. Many Kindred pursue this level of humanity in hopes of achieving Golconda- a nirvana-like state of complete peace between the human and monster within. 

You are able to eat and drink all human food and process it without having to throw it up- although it does not sate your Hunger.

With the beast within you so thoroughly leashed, you require significantly less blood to thrive. You get a pool of 4 dice to rouse your blood at the start of each night, and still only require 1 success to avoid getting hungrier. 

No matter the circumstance, your control of your beast is stronger than it could ever be over you. You do not ever have to roll for Frenzy.

You take only halved superficial damage sunlight every turn when exposed to it.

You heal Superficial damage as a mortal, in addition to vampiric mending.

You are capable of dreaming while in Daysleep.

Torpor Length: 12 Hours

Humanity 9: Most humans do not rise any higher than this level on the humanity track. You do not let the harsh sting of your Beast's hunger control you, and through steeled principles you are a master of your own actions. The beast rarely gets through to you, and if it does, you are able to keep it in the back of your mind while you feed.

You are able to eat and drink all human food and process it without having to throw it up- although it does not sate your Hunger.

With the beast within you leashed, you require much less blood to thrive. You get a pool of 3 dice to rouse your blood at the start of each night, and still only require 1 success to avoid getting hungrier.

The allure of spilled blood does not affect you as much anymore. You have a +2 dice bonus to Frenzy checks when you smell blood at Hunger 4 or higher.

You take only superficial damage to sunlight every turn when exposed to it.

You are capable of dreaming while in Daysleep.

Torpor Length:  24 Hours

Humanity 8: Many good-intentioned and philanthropic humans are at this level. Most Kindred at this level are freshly turned and the seductive whispers of their Beast haven't taken over their subconscious yet. You remember what you used to be and what you can become if you stop caring about your convictions. To remain at this level takes good self control and strong principles… or guilt. 

You are able to drink wine and process it without having to throw it up- although it does not sate your Hunger. 

With the beast within you leashed, you require less blood to thrive. You get a pool of 2 dice to rouse your blood at the start of each night, and still only require 1 success to avoid getting hungrier.

The allure of spilled blood is easier to resist. You have a +1 die bonus to Frenzy checks when you smell blood at Hunger 4 or higher.

You are capable of dreaming while in Daysleep.

Torpor Length: 3 Days

Humanity 7: This is the average level of most humans. You have a good sense of what is socially appropriate, and enough care in your heart to at least do right by the people around you. As a Kindred, your Beast gnaws at the back of your mind, an omnipresent reminder that you can never be truly satisfied unless you act selfishly. 

You are able to drink and stomach wine as if you have Eat Food activated, however you must throw it up by the end of the night.

You are capable of dreaming while in Daysleep.

Torpor Length: One Week

Humanity 6: Most humans do not sink any lower than this level. You are motivated mostly by your own interests and interests that serve your closest friends. It is easy to make it a habit to satisfy the Beast's urges, so long as doing so doesn't backfire on you later. What's the harm in indulging once and awhile? 

You are capable of dreaming while in Daysleep.

Human logic often eludes you when faced with your kind's greatest fears. The difficulty of Terror frenzy checks is +1.

Torpor Length: Two Weeks 

Humanity 5: Honestly, who cares what others think anyway? You know what you're doing, and your instincts are often right. It's often difficult for you to put the needs of others before your own when you are hungry. You find yourself needing to sate your beast before you can clear your head and make the "right" decisions with careful thought. 

Your dominance over your natural prey is absolute. Mental disciplines always succeed against ordinary humans (even if they are not unsuspecting) if your dicepool for the roll is greater than their counterroll by a margin of 4.

Human logic eludes you when faced with your kind's greatest fears. You always Terror frenzy when taking damage from sunlight or fire.

Torpor Length: One Month

Humanity 4: The Beast is difficult to deny. It takes a great deal of mental fortitude to put off opportunities to feed, and much more to make sure your prey is comfortable when you do. It's easy to slip into selfish habits, ignore the feelings of others, and become a monster- especially when doing so only harms others rather than yourself.

Your dominance over your natural prey is absolute. Mental disciplines always succeed against ordinary humans (even if they are not unsuspecting) if your dicepool for the roll is greater than their counterroll by a margin of 3.

Human logic eludes you when faced with your kind's greatest fears. You always Terror frenzy at the sight of sunlight and large fires.

Torpor Length: One Year

Humanity 3: It is nearly impossible to look at humans and not see walking sacks of blood. Every moment of consciousness your blood tells you to indulge, or otherwise feed your deepest desires… and only the threat of societal and social consequences for doing so stops you.

Your dominance over your natural prey is absolute. Mental disciplines always succeed against ordinary humans (even if they are not unsuspecting) if your dicepool for the roll is greater than their counterroll pool by a margin of 2.

Your beast is attuned to the aroma of blood humans carry. You have a +1 die bonus to rolls attempting to locate specific humans you've either fed from or detected the Resonance of within 24 hours by utilizing their scent. The area you can track within is no larger than a single average room (human noses simply aren't that good).

You have a reckless ferocity befitting a rabid animal. You have a +1 die bonus to Athletics, Brawl, and Melee rolls.

Embracing your inhuman qualities, disciplines are easier for you to use. When using disciplines that require rouse checks, you can roll 2 dice instead of 1, and still only require one success in order to avoid getting hungrier. 

More monster than person, the traditional banes of vampires are more effective against you. You take +1 more aggravated damage from fire and sunlight every turn you are exposed to it. 

Human logic eludes you when faced with your kind's greatest fears. You always Terror frenzy at the sight of sunlight and large fires.

Torpor Length: Ten Years

Humanity 2: Very few Kindred reach this level of humanity under the jurisdiction of the Camarilla, as the utter lack of shame and self-awareness characteristic of "humanity" is gone by this point. Powerful individuals at this level are rarely negotiable and only act in their own self-interests. Only Touchstones are able to break through to you at this level and keep you in check if those interests are harmful.

Your dominance over your natural prey is absolute. Mental disciplines always succeed against ordinary humans (even if they are not unsuspecting) if your dicepool for the roll is greater than their counterroll pool by a margin of 1.

Your beast is well-attuned to the aroma of blood humans carry. You have a +2 dice bonus to rolls attempting to locate specific humans you've either fed from or detected the Resonance of within 24 hours by utilizing their scent. The area you can track within is no larger than a single spacious room.

You have a reckless ferocity befitting a rabid animal. You have a +2 die bonus to Athletics, Brawl, and Melee rolls.

Embracing your inhuman qualities, disciplines are easier for you to use. When using disciplines that require rouse checks, you can roll 3 dice instead of 1, and still only require one success in order to avoid getting hungrier. 

More monster than person, the traditional banes of vampires are much more effective against you. You take +2 more aggravated damage from fire and sunlight every turn you are exposed to it. 

Human logic eludes you when faced with your kind's greatest fears. You always Terror frenzy at the sight of sunlight and small fires.

Torpor Length: 50 Years

Humanity 1: Barely holding on to humanity, only the most desperate pleas from loved ones can prevent you from giving in to your Beast's overwhelming urges. Kindred at this level often don't survive unless they are powerful enough to fight against attempts to slay them- Hunters or otherwise. As a PC, it is often wise to invest EXP in raising your Humanity level at an appropriately cinematic moment when the raw power of this level is no longer needed.

Your dominance over your natural prey is absolute. Mental disciplines always succeed against ordinary humans (even if they are not unsuspecting) if your dicepool for the roll is greater than or equal to their counterroll pool.

Your beast is highly attuned to the aroma of blood humans carry. As a well practiced stalker of prey, you have a +3 dice bonus to rolls attempting to locate specific humans you've either fed from or detected the Resonance of within 24 hours by utilizing their scent. The area you can track within is no larger than a single building. 

You have a reckless ferocity befitting a rabid animal. You have a +3 die bonus to Athletics, Brawl, and Melee rolls. 

Embracing your inhuman qualities, disciplines are easier for you to use. When using disciplines that require rouse checks, you can roll 4 dice instead of 1, and still only require one success in order to avoid getting hungrier. 

More monster than person, the traditional banes of vampires are especially effective against you. You take +3 more aggravated damage from fire and sunlight every turn you are exposed to it. 

Human logic eludes you when faced with your kind's greatest fears. You always Terror frenzy at the sight of sunlight and fire, no matter the size.

Torpor Length: 100 Years

Humanity 0: A Wight- Kindred who have fully embraced the beast and lost all semblance of their former selves. Wights are impulsive, monstrous vampires who operate entirely on an overwhelming desire to feed. They are capable of pretending to be human by rousing their blood and using higher-level problem solving skills, but this often serves to make them more terrifying assailants. Due to the drastic nature of this level, a fitting story event should be discussed between the player and Storyteller before a character reaches it.

PCs who reach this humanity level are no longer controlled by their players and effectively become hostile NPCs with all the gameplay buffs and debuffs of Humanity 1. 

Characters at this level may raise their level back to Humanity 1 if they are at zero Hunger, and a touchstone attempts to "bring them back"- an action which the Storyteller may decide the difficulty of. 

Wights are not often able to articulate intelligent thoughts. They cannot use Dominate disciplines other than Compel.

Torpor Length: 300+ Years

Thanks for reading and let me know if you like it or even if you want to use it for a game! I hope it made the descent to becoming a wight specifically make more sense. (How does being comically evil at Humanity 1 transition to mindless animal at Humanity 0?) Additionally, I hope this makes wights seem a little bit more threatening and impactful to potential narratives. Imagine a Humanity 0 vampire passing as a human in the sole pursuit of feeding to kill. Pretty scary! The dichotomy I was going for was high humanity makes it easier to live a "normal" human life that doesn't need to do much vampire stuff, while low humanity makes it easier to be a terrifying threat to humans.

Also, please forgive any grammatical or formatting mistakes, I wrote all this on a separate document and tried to copy paste it onto the mobile web browser version and you know how that goes.

[sixteen-sugars]

gladiator, gladiator - a satosugu songfic

It seems life had lost its luster, for Satoru. He was roused by his cheery ringtone as he was forced on another mission of more and most. The higher-ups took advantage of his aversion to sleep. As he was plagued by his one and only night after night. So he simply stopped. He often woke up with his hand reaching towards a man who was already gone. So, the higher-ups smiled and chuckled behind shoji screens, as the nights grew longer and longer.

body's more than just a flesh, you can sell it for success

The curse scattered like dandelions in the breeze. The viscera hitting the walls with a splat, his infinity making him so godlike. Untouched by the viscera and filth of those below. The bills filled his hand with impersonal fwhips. His skin became thinner, greenish-blue veins bursting from the galaxies of his eyes. His lips dried and cracked, his lip gloss abandoned as there was no one to taste it on him anyways. 

i can get you dressed, wrap your body in excess

Chanel and Versace caressed his failing body. He smiled as his lips cracked over too-white teeth. He was gifted some of most. Empty thanks pressed into palms covered by the smooth water-like texture of infinity. They prayed as if their god wasn't falling apart at the seams. Groveling at the feet of a man who once held the power of the world in his hands. Gucci covered ribs that protruded just too-much. Hands reached up in a prayer to a god that had never heeded his only plea. A plea said over cooling blood and sobs in the skies of eyes. Screaming up at an unfeeling city sky. 

give them something to obsess over

He winked, and flashed peace-signs when appropriate. Tongue licking his cherry-sweetened lips. Coming up in the tabloids just enough to keep his cult-following. His mask was cracking. A girl approached him, he snapped backwards with eyes blown, a purple  ready at his fingertips. Not, crouching and waving, giving an autograph and an exaggerated wave paired with a blown-kiss. He became less Gojo and more Satoru every passing day. His personality wearing thin. He himself was becoming more threadbare the more finery he was given. The more he was adored the more he fell apart.

 

i know your addiction's attention, let's start a show

Day in and day out, curses came and went by the hour. He was on a roll, leaving pieces of himself behind was simply a price. He smiled and sat in seiza for hours. The higher-up praised him, high off the power of Satoru untethered. Unbound and unraveling, destroyed on a pedestal of his own creation. Humans below their unfettered god, who was bleeding and cracking for their own sleep at night, screaming and clawing with the monsters under their beds. So others could sleep still, all while their savior tossed and turned. Dreaming of something that once was and could never be.

 

smash your competition, baby

show us some good entertainment

He was the Honored One, above both Heaven and Earth. Months passed, after Suguru’s death. He still felt the blood stuck under his fingernails. But no matter the amount of blood on his hands he was still pointed and told to destroy, special grades turned to dust. He smiled and looked to the side, but there was nobody to scold and scoff at him. Only a concrete wall, not a smiling person he would smile in return to. One who would retaliate and let him go to a nearby crepe shop, and kiss the whipped cream off his nose. All that was left is faceless people, hoping for a man (god?) to take their eyes off this meaningless life and be entertained by a man falling apart before them. 

victory's your only payment

But, no matter the power he held, no matter how much false godhood he gained. He couldn't bring back the one thing he had lost. His payment, all his ‘good’ he had done. How much had he sacrificed? Just to be denied the warm touch of the one who could part the infinity. Touch and caress a god, kiss and understand . Understand one of such height and power. His payment in the hands of others in their blessings. He was the blessingless one who fought as his nights were gone. Fought and shielded so nobody else had to. Alone in the coliseum, hands raised in a salute to loneliness and destruction. He tilted his face to the sky.

gladiator, gladiator

[edosianorchids901]

A Day in the Life

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "reporting the scoop"

“Angel!” Crowley kicked the shop door open and stormed in, heart pounding. This was ridiculous. A disaster. “Aziraphale, are you here?”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale rushed out of the back room, carrying an armful of scrolls. He looked over Crowley as if expecting signs of injury. “Good Heavens, what’s the matter?”

Breathless, Crowley leaned against the counter and tried to focus. “Need your help.”

“Yes, of course! Anything, my dear.” Once again, Aziraphale looked him over. “Um. With what?”

Crowley slammed the newspaper down. “I need a scoop.”

Aziraphale blinked at him, then slowly said, “Well, there is an ice cream shop just around the corner…”

“No, I’m not talking about scoops of ice cream,” Crowley snapped, thumping the newspaper. “M’ talking about this.”

Expression crinkled with confusion, Aziraphale looked down at the Infernal Times. His eyes widened with a terrifying sort of excitement. “Oh, a scoop! About what?”

“Life on Earth, mostly. Hell wants me to do up something like…” Crowley made a face and shrugged, trying to remember. “The ways that I tempt humans and ruin the world. Or how I thwart angels.”

“By inviting them to lunch,” Aziraphale said primly.

“Angel!”

“I do suppose that wouldn’t be very helpful in this instance.”

“Not exactly.” Snarling with annoyance, Crowley flopped down on the bookshop sofa and tossed the newspaper to the coffee table. “I’ve got no damn clue what to write about. I mean, got loads of stuff I could report on about Earth, but most of what I wanna say would get me locked up in a torture chamber for the next few millennia.”

Aziraphale shuddered and sat beside him. “Well, we can’t have that. But how can I help?”

“I’m pretty fantastic at bullshitting, if I do say so myself, but…” This was probably gonna sound insulting, but Crowley was getting desperate. “You’re the master of it.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed, and he flicked a hand. “Don’t be absurd. Angels don’t… do that.”

“Okay, sure, but I’ve never met anyone else who is as good at creative interpretations of orders and actions.” Crowley pouted at him and gave a tempting sway. “Please?”

For a moment, Aziraphale just stared at him, lips pursed. Then he sighed. “All right, my dear. What precisely do you need?”

“Nnnnh, I dunno. Something that won’t get me tossed in a torture chamber.” Anxiety crushed Crowley’s chest, and he gulped. If he fucked this up…

“It’s quite all right, my dear. I’ll help.” Aziraphale’s fingers curled around his and very gently squeezed his hand. “We shall come up with something beyond reproach.”

Crowley stared at their joined hands for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. So. Technically, m’ supposed to do like, ‘a day in the life’ sort of feature about myself. But my life is… driving around in my car, listening to loads of music, watching telly, drinking scotch, hanging out with an angel…”

None of which were exactly convincing as demonic activities. He was so fucked.

But Aziraphale’s expression brightened, and he nodded. “Well, that certainly gives us a great deal to work with.”

---

Article in the Infernal Times:

Evil never sleeps, and every day starts early for the Demon Crowley. After six thousand years as Hell’s top agent of mayhem, he’s an expert at time management. With this many human souls to harvest, efficiency is key.

Rousing human drama sets the mood for a successful day. Over the centuries, Crowley has sank his claws deep into the fields of human entertainment. Every day, he studies the latest twists and turns of human television and films, ready to pounce at the first sign of an opportunity.

One call to a studio to nudge a plot towards darkness, and he’s off to the next job. The chaos of human traffic has always been one of Crowley’s specialties—just look at the M-25, a project that earned him a commendation—and he does his part to make the roads even worse. By exceeding the speed limit and cutting off other drivers, he plants seeds of wrath and envy, causing a ripple effect that tarnishes thousands of souls at once.

As he drives through London, human entertainment makes a reappearance. Crowley blasts music in his car, another clever source of annoyance for those unfortunate souls nearby. He also specializes at lurking in pubs, where he can encourage drunkenness and sloth. Every little bit of evil advances the goal of bringing about Armageddon.

During his long days and nights of tempting and corrupting people, Crowley also keeps an eye on his adversary, the Principality Aziraphale. Through clever distractions and close observation, he sabotages Heaven’s plans.

“It’s a tough job,” Crowley says, pouring another glass of alcohol. “But somebody’s gotta do it.”

---

One week later

Crowley kicked the shop door open, latest edition of the *Infernal Times* in hand. “Angel!”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shoved out of his chair, eyes wide, and rushed over. “How did it go? Is everything okay?”

“Yup. And look at that.” Grinning, Crowley shoved the paper into Aziraphale’s hands and tapped it enthusiastically. “Front page column and everything. Thanks.”

“Oh, how exciting! And you’re quite welcome.” Aziraphale gave him a shy look. “Although I wouldn’t object to a more concrete form of thanks.”

Rolling his eyes, Crowley jerked his thumb towards the door. “Come on, then. I’d better provide some clever distractions and close observation in the form of lunch. And drinks, of course.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said slyly, taking his arm. “You old fiend, sabotaging my plans again.”