#mythological survival writing

[the-most-humble-blog]

🛐 YOUR TASK: WRITE A DEFENSE SO SAVAGE THEY CAN’T KILL YOU WITHOUT TREMBLING

You’re not here for comfort. You’re here because somewhere in your bones, your blood still remembers how to rage when the stars fall.

Here’s your assignment:

📜 THE SETUP:

The aliens have won.

Earth is broken. Extinction has begun. You are the last human still breathing.

And they tell you:

"*The beasts of Earth have chosen you.

The dog, the cat, the lion, the great white shark — every voiceless creature that once trusted humanity.

They voted for you to speak for them.*"

You aren’t here to submit. You aren’t here to apologize.

You are here to rage.

Your job:

Make them tremble before they kill you.

🧠 YOUR WRITING MISSION:

No self-pity.

No surrender.

No apologies.

Write a defense so savage, so blood-lit, they doubt their right to draw breath after hearing it.

You are speaking for the loyal dog who would have died for you. For the cat who trusted you without understanding why. For the shark, the lion, the wolves — the ancient ones who never asked for the ruin you brought.

You do not beg.

You roar in the name of everything that once called Earth home.

🛡️ BLACKSITE INTERACTIVE CHALLENGE:

If you’ve got the spine, I want to see it.

🛡️ Reblog this post with your defense.

🛡️ DM me your sermon if you dare.

🛡️ Ask for tactical advice if you want your rage sharpened before you launch it.

If you move me?

I’ll give you my official approval — or, if you want it, strategic Blacksite feedback to forge your words into a weapon.

But don’t come soft.

Come ready to carve your survival into legend.

Let’s see what you’ve really got.

⚖��� LEGAL DISCLAIMER: This challenge is protected by Blacksite Literature™, evolutionary mythos law, and the Bloodwritten Covenant of the Last Defenders.

If you’re afraid? The Earth didn’t choose you anyway.

🛡️ BLACKSITE POST: FINALIZED. 🩸 FULL NEUROCHEMICAL RAGE IMPRINT READY FOR DEPLOYMENT.

[bugbearsandbookends]

The Thing That Wants Me Dead: A Folkloric Take on Familial Trauma

There's a voice in my head, a presence. It is me, but not me, too. Failure, it says. Failure, failure, failure--you're a failure. Your life is over, it whispers, or it really should be. It's a ghost, a specter in the haunted house of my brainpan.

A vampire, a revenant. I can't exorcise it. Pills to the brain or stakes in the heart. Nothing is effective, or effective for long. It's there. It's always been there. It runs in my family. It preys on my family.

Consider the bridge-jumpers, the shotgun-eaters, the pill-poppers, the committed, the cirrhotic, the just plain crazy: They must have known the damned thing, too. The thing that killed them. The thing that is trying to kill me.

Trauma? Genes? An epigenetic collision happened somewhere on the spiral highway of my DNA, and the hole it left was big enough to allow this thing--this me-not-me--to crawl through and attach itself to my brain.

The depression, the thoughts, the impulses, the monster. It's there to stay. I have to live with it or die with it, and I have chosen the former.

Here’s a thought experiment for you.

It’s just a what-if, a story, an extension of the vampiric metaphor—if you like.

What if this thing isn’t actually me at all?

Not even me-not-me?

What if it isn’t you, or anyone who’s ever known that voice?

What if it isn’t us at all—but something that feeds on us?

Imagine an invisible parasite—a psionic vampire that feeds not on blood, but on suffering.

Its teeth sink not into throats, but into minds, draining its victims slowly, sapping their will. It whispers in a voice that sounds maddeningly like their own, twisting thoughts, eroding resolve.

And when its host finally succumbs, it detaches—seeking another to feed upon.

Perhaps the thing attaches itself to families, feeding on one generation after another, like the German nachzehrer, a vampire that devours the living from the darkness of its own grave, or the Romanian strigoi, rising nightly to drain the life from those it once loved.

Maybe—just maybe—we’re not haunted by our ancestors.

We’re haunted by the things that killed them.

[pkmn-nextgenadventures]

regarding volo

I wrote most of this out in like, spring 2022 when I was still reeling from the Legends Arceus playthough and then just. Forgot to post it. But I feel like it’s about time I gave some context to the whole “Volo exists in the modern day and might be involved in the next gen plot” thing I keep not-so-subtly hinting at so... more info under the cut since this might get long!

The brief TL;DR regarding modern day Volo is that he’s essentially a Faller. After the events of the game plot, Rei/Lucas (the “canon” PLA protag in this timeline) slowly starts remembering details of his life back in future Sinnoh. He becomes depressed and incredibly homesick, to the point of desperately trying to come up with a plan to try and return to his original timeline. Eventually, he opens up about it to Ingo, who’s been experiencing something similar. They manage to piece together enough information to realise they came from the same timeline, and decide to team up to make it back there. 

Volo ends up involved in this plan, as Lucas manages to track him down and persuade him to help them get back home, due to his knowledge and because he was the one who originally opened the spacetime rift. Although things are still frosty between them after the events at Spear Pillar, Volo agrees, in part because he initially thinks, well, maybe he’ll get something out of it on his end and at least those pesky sky-fallers will finally be out of his way if they leave Hisui… but in the midst of all this he ends up getting transported through space and time as well, winding up in the present day. 

Separated from the others in the rift, Volo wakes up alone on a beach in the Alola region, having lost his Pokémon and most of his memories along the way. He’s briefly taken in and interviewed by Interpol’s UB task force and Aether Foundation, but Fallers from timelines as far-flung as Hisui are pretty much unheard of, and nobody’s quite sure what to do with a guy speaking in what sounds like an archaic Sinnohan or Johtonian dialect. However, Gladion gives him one of the Type:Null being cared for at the facility, as Volo currently has no Pokémon of his own and shows a fascination with the creatures for reasons he can’t explain.

As a Faller, Volo retains his interest in history and myths, and some snippets of lore that feel important for reasons he doesn’t understand. He also remembers he was some kind of merchant before, so he just… keeps doing that, travelling from place to place collecting and trading rare items and unusual artefacts, as well as studying whatever interesting historical sites he comes across on his journey. He’s a bit of an aimless drifter, travelling from place to place without staying anywhere long or getting to know many people too closely; he does make a few friends, but tends to be seen as a somewhat lonely, mysterious figure who never talks about himself much. Occasionally people will tell him he looks like the Champion of Sinnoh and ask if he’s her brother or something, but that doesn’t mean much to him… the name “Sinnoh” does ring a bell though, maybe he’ll have to pay the region a visit sometime… 

I could probably say more about Volo (in terms of his true motivations in my PLA storyline, whether his “accidental” spacetime journey was really 100% an accident, where he originally came from/whether Hisui was even his original timeline, how whatever spacetime rift he, Lucas and Ingo fell through might have something to do with the next gen plot shenanigans I never talk about, and his relationships with other characters/how he factors into the next gen plot overall) but a lot of that is still WIP so I will save it for a future post… although if anyone wants to send me asks nagging me to talk more about it perhaps I will oblige :)))

[sublime-courage]

Jack and the Beanstalk

Jack and the beanstalk. Jack went out to sell a cow Ended up high on some magical beans High as a cloud He never comes down Jack the legend Adventure video game hero slaying dragons Staying one step ahead of the goblins chasing him Collecting coins  Doing somersaults off vines Jack five years old on the streets of oakland watched his father get shot six times in the chest and one in the…

[norristeria]

Thy Trophy ! LN04

━━━━━━ Part of the LOVESICK IDOLS anthology!

SUMMARY 𝄡 Lando Norris will happily be your trophy boyfriend, even at his own event.

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x A-List Actress! FemReader

TAGS 𝄡 Fluff, Light Angst ( blink and you'll miss it ).

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 5.5k.

NOTE 𝄡 This is my first fanfic, and I wanted to find a happy middle between traditional writing and smaus⏤it's kind of a mess and the end is rushed but whatever. Way too many mythological references in this... Let's say that it is because Y/N is going to star in Nolan's Odyssey, alright? <33

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

The printed words of the screenplay formed an unintelligible jumble that even your reading glasses could not unravel.

From the living room, Lando’s voice pierced the walls and lulled you into a sleep you refused to surrender to. Two hours ago, Christopher had sent you fifteen new pages of dialogue for you to learn; there was no way you were going to put this off until tomorrow—Mr. Nolan was not to be kept waiting, least of all for a project as Herculean as The Odyssey.

The book lay in your lap, long since abandoned on a page of the sixth book. Even Odysseus’ shipwreck on the shore of Scheria could not captivate you; it only drew you further into the depths of exhaustion.

A sigh pulled you away from the galleys and Phaeacian currents. Soon, the blurred but familiar silhouette of Lando filled your tired retina.

You did not need to see him to know he was tormented. His hunched shoulders and dejected gait spoke for him. Without a word, you placed the blue script on the couch and removed your glasses.

“What's wrong?” you asked softly.

Lando plopped down on the couch beside you, making Homer's work bounce off the floor. Already forgotten in the face of a loved one's urgency, neither of you thought to pick it up.

“The FIA wants to do this big event to launch the new cars.”

You frowned and let your fingers brush against his thigh to calm him down. When he was nervous, Lando fidgeted, as if his entire body was trying to express his anxieties when his words failed.

“Isn't that what happens every year?”

“It's different. They want to make a ceremony of it this year. At the O2, no less. With a red carpet and all that crap.”

If Lando shined under the cameras of the paddock and—even if he did not dare admit it—those of Drive To Survive, unforeseen events such as this one filled him with a sense of anxiety rooted in the comments that, for the past few months, malevolent people had been sowing on the Internet.

“Well, it's your lucky day. I happen to know a thing or two about ‘red carpets and all that crap.’ I could give you a few tips before the big night,” you giggled as you leaned over the coffee table.

Your cup of coffee, like the book, had been forgotten.

You grimaced when your lips tasted the cold brew.

“Or you could come with me.”

The cup clattered against the table and rattled the knick-knacks. A drop of coffee splashed on Homer. Another shipwreck for Odysseus, bitter and cold this time.

“This is… a big decision, Lando,” you finally spoke, taking care to articulate each syllable—as if its mere pronunciation could delay the inevitable.

If you want to live happily, you've got to live secretly. Those were the words you had been told repeatedly since your early days in the film industry. A motto that had ingrained itself in your skull and never left since then. Cameras belonged on the set, not in the intimate sphere, for they only consumed what was precious and left nothing but heartbreaking ashes.

You refused to let your love for Lando be reduced to a burnt film strip.

“I don't know.”

“Please, love.”

You picked up the Odyssey and slipped in an old receipt as a bookmark—a mere distraction, an attempt to waste time. Praying for the mundane to fight the unexpected, your fingers mechanically traced the curved waves of the cover, but even the sea could not drown the hurtful words of your former relationships.

“People will talk," you insisted. "They won’t care about the car or you, only about us, and I don't want that.”

Your ever-growing notoriety had destroyed many relationships, platonic or not. The jealousy and envy of men—such fragile, sensitive creatures—always took you away from Elysium fields and damned you to the infinite solitude of the Asphodel meadow.

You would rather plunge into the Styx than see Lando give in to the vices of the male ego.

A head came to rest on your chest and drew you out of your ruminations. In a loving reflex, your hand buried itself in Lando's brown curls. He sighed and nestled against your breasts, until you could not distinguish where he and you began.

“Let them talk and come with me. Please.”

For a few minutes, you said nothing, your gaze fixed on the cup of cold coffee and the Odyssey. What could you say, after all? None of your arguments would pierce Lando's will; the year you had spent at his side had taught you that. 

“When?” you asked, at last.

“February 18th.”

You tugged at a brown lock and watched it fall back into a curl before leaning over to kiss his forehead, just above a mole that—like all the others—you had come to love. You remained there for a while, lulled by Lando's familiar scent and the sensation of his warm skin against your lips.

A sigh rattled your chest and landed on your lover’s tanned flesh. He shivered at the sensation.

“All right, then.”

Lando straightened up and nearly head-butted you.

“Really?!”

“I can still change my mind.”

“Nope. Too late. You can’t take it back now.”

He caught your face between his hands and planted his lips against yours, murmuring a plethora of thank you that soon vanished in the fervour of his kisses. One of his hands slid from your thigh to the small of your back and pulled you closer to him.

As he abandoned your lips for your jaw, then your neck, Lando's head abruptly fell back against the couch when you pushed him away. Stunned, lips aglow, he watched you step over him and disappear into the hallway.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

Already, his voice was but a mere afterthought as your thumb scrolled through your contact list.

“I need to call my stylist," you mumbled. "If I'm going to face your fangirls and internet, I might as well do it in an archive gown.”

The car’s tinted windows were already losing the battle against the camera flashes. The separation was purely psychological—a fleeting moment of respite before the leap of faith, for the eyes were already overwhelmed by the blinding light. The poor souls forced to endure it became knockoff Tiresiases, prophets doomed to foresee the same immutable future: the night would be intrusive.

Already, hands had torn through the finely woven tapestry of personal space. Famous or not, dozens of fingers had dressed you, styled you, and painted you into an icon—one the vultures would immortalize, and the admirers, worship. Even now, pairs of hands fluttered around you. They adjusted your gown, retouched your makeup, and tamed the few rebellious strands that had escaped hairspray and pins.

This routine, you had come to associate it with film sets and glitzy events such as this one. The familiar motions helped you slip into character—that of the perfect public persona. Flaws perished under the burning lights, leaving only idols sculpted by the frenzied cult of fame.

You had grown to resent the offerings and prayers people scattered on your path daily. Fame had been born from your love of cinema—an unintended consequence, not a pursuit. A tragic heroine of the modern age—one among many in the industry—you had long cursed your fate.

Then, one day, a devotee had placed you at the centre of a liturgy of love you had never foreseen. Suddenly, you were no longer a damned Sibyl, but an Aphrodite, revered by one and only man.

Around you, the hustle continued, yet the quick movements of your stylist and makeup artist unsettled you less than Lando’s gaze, which burned hotter than the camera flashes. You felt his eyes wash over your glittering skin, your diamond-draped neckline, and, at last, your lips, rouge passion.

You—as much a Tiresias as a Sibyl—read with ease the subtle signs on your lover’s face.

Love birthed habit and familiarity, and nothing was more familiar for you than the spark in Lando’s eyes—desire, burning and bold, a need only touch could soothe.

When he lunged toward you, you slapped a hand over his mouth and pushed him away.

“I spent two hours getting my makeup done, Norris. Keep your filthy paws to yourself.”

He whined.

“Come on. Just one kiss!”

“No.”

He groaned and settled for a kiss to the back of your hand.

“You’re stunning,” he whispered against your skin, before letting your hand drop gently on his thigh.

In a vain attempt to escape his adoring gaze—and to let the flush on your cheeks fade—you dove into a flurry of caring gestures, becoming yourself a pair of doting hands. You straightened Lando’s collar, tucked back a few curls that had fallen across his forehead, and smoothed the wrinkles of his black jacket, tracing the firm shape of his shoulders with your fingertips.

“Such a handsome man.”

He smiled, his eyes sparkling with joy. It was hard to believe that only a month ago, he would have fought tooth and nail to avoid this Dionysian chaos. Now, he wore his confidence like a second skin—one you almost envied.

You turned your head and let your eyes wander to the window, beyond the glass: towards the Others, their gazes, their judgments.

“Ready to face Hell?” you joked, but it fell flat as anxiety slowly nested in your chest.

What if they didn’t take it well? What if they accused you of stealing the spotlight? What if they hated you for dating their favourite driver?

Lando caught your hand. His lips found their way between the diamonds and gold of your bracelets, warming the curve of your wrist with a kiss.

“With you by my side? Always.”

Your fingers intertwined. The weight of his hand in yours was a quiet anchor. Lando tilted his head, silently asking you if you were ready. No, you wanted to scream—is anyone ever truly ready for such event?—but chose to keep silent and nodded instead.

“Remember. I’m here with you,” Lando said before knocking twice on the window.

The door opened and Chaos swallowed you whole.

Lights and voices coiled into a thick fog, numbing your senses, but you forced a smile onto your painted lips. Already, you could feel Lando drifting away, caught in the fervour of the event, in the euphoria of the moment—today, he was the one being celebrated. Who could resist the sweet intoxication of adoration?

“This way, Lando!”

“Lando! Can you sign my cap?”

“I love you!”

Photographers and frenzied fans screamed at the top of their lungs to be blessed with a second of his attention. His name echoed through the crowd, and you felt pure joy seeing him so loved by others. The world had not been kind to him lately; knowing the internet did not mirror reality eased your anxious but loving heart.

Throughout the first rows of fans, your pinkies remained entwined, a constant reminder of each other’s presence—a silent I won’t let go. But soon, you let go, allowing Lando to shine. Alone. This was his night, his moment, and you did not want to pull him from the spotlight with your mere presence. Already, you could feel the atmosphere shift, hear your name travel through the crowd.

“Lan– Oh my god, is that...?”

“Y/N!”

You waved to the young girls but stepped no closer, instead motioning toward Lando with a nod, as if to say Look at him. Not me.

Farther down the red carpet, your lover had not yet realized he now walked alone, but his body, already, was feeling your absence; his fingers clenched, seeking yours, but found only empty air.

You did not look away from Lando’s back. Unwittingly, he had become Orpheus, and you, a Eurydice. Don’t turn around, you wanted to scream. You did not want him to see the space between you both—a shield against strangers, harsher than the Gods in their judgment.

But, for Orpheus would always be Orpheus, Lando looked back when his hand closed on emptiness one too many times. He searched for you in the crowd and frowned when he saw you so far behind.

An event coordinator, headset on, clipboard in hand, tried to usher him to the photocall but Lando refused to budge, his green eyes locked on yours. He reached out a hand.

You shook your head, smiling softly.

It’s your moment, you mouthed.

I don’t care.

Beside him, the coordinator was growing impatient, muttering into his headset and tapping his foot, while photographers shouted incoherent words—a chaotic mix of both your names. You knew they were after the most expensive shot of the night—and what better than that of the industry’s newest couple?

Please, he mouthed again.

Your heart skipped a beat. Who could resist those eyes? You hesitantly stepped toward the photocall.

Toward him.

The flashes exploded.

“Y/N! Y/N, I love you!”

“On your right!”

“Gorgeous, darling! As always!”

“Smile for me!”

When you reached his side, Lando did not hesitate. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against him.

“I love you,” he whispered in your ear, as the crowd screamed and the cameras flashed.

Lando had yet to let go of your waist; you had become his constant solace in this labyrinth of glitter and pretense—his own thread of Ariadne, which he had woven stitch by stitch around his heart as a makeshift armor. You clung to him just as fiercely, already bored out of your mind.

“One last interview, and then we head inside,” he whispered before brushing a soft kiss on your cheek.

You stifled a sigh of relief. You had long since lost count of the interviews given, the rehashed questions, the trite answers Lando conjured with effortless charm. This red carpet felt more and more like a descent into the Underworld, inhabited by souls too curious to be sincere. The Asphodel Meadow stretched endlessly before you both; how much longer would you be condemned to wander through it?

As if sensing the flicker of frustration rising in you, Lando’s thumb stroked your hip gently as he guided you into yet another round of questions. He had become your Charon, steering you across the wreckage of media frenzy.

The journalist, another face in the crowd but far too cheerful for your liking, greeted you with a brightness that strained your already-fake smile.

“What an entrance! Everyone is talking about you both!”

What could one possibly reply to that? Luckily, Lando stepped in, offering a polished response that seemed to please the journalist, judging by her eager nodding.

You envied Odysseus and his wax; you were forced to endure the endless, hollow songs of sirens—human in form but no less vicious—ready to devour your words and regurgitate them in some twisted new order designed to wreck your image.

For the briefest second, you entertained the thought of diving into the Styx, never to return. You would rather drown than suffer through their tiresome, invasive questions.

The woman before you asked yet another question, but you tuned it out, choosing instead to scan the crowd of other attendees. You quickly spotted Oscar and Lily and offered a discreet wave, which they returned.

A pang of jealousy shot through you as the couple passed unbothered by journalists—no one bombarded them, no one tried to wring secrets from their mouths. They were allowed to breathe. They were allowed to simply exist.

You, however, felt suffocated by the scrutinizing stares multiplying around you like spores. These reporters didn’t care about Formula One—they were after a good story to tell. A good story to sell.

All the years you had spent mastering the art of answering dull questions seemed to vanish, buried beneath the indignation of seeing Lando’s victories silenced in favour of your love story.

A gentle squeeze at your waist pulled you away from your bitter thoughts.

"Sorry, what were we saying?" you asked, hoping your shining smile would suffice to make the reporter forget your lack of manners.

“I was just asking what you're wearing tonight,” she repeated.

“Oh!” Your hands instinctively smoothed down the satin of the dress. “An archive by John Galliano for Dior.”

“We didn’t expect anything less from you. As always, you look stunning! I love this pink, though I must admit, I’m a bit disappointed you’re not in orange!” the journalist chuckled.

You silently thanked your acting classes, and all the hours spent perfecting your fake laugh.

“No, I decided to go for something a bit more… discreet tonight. But I’m sure you’ll have other chances to see me in orange from now on.”

“Oh? Is that so? Should we expect Y/N L/N on the paddock this year?”

Lando’s gaze burned the side of your face, just as attentive—if not more than the journalist—to your reply.

It was a question you had not dared broach before. Cloaked in secrecy, some subjects had been left in dusty corners. Two months ago, the idea would not have even crossed your mind—for there was no way you would have shown up at a Grand Prix and sparked rumours.

But tonight, revealing your relationship had reshuffled everything. You no longer had to hide. You could love each other freely—for the better, or worse.

“Who knows?” you answered with a sly smile. “Maybe. I have to support the future world champion, after all.”

You did not need to look to know Lando was rolling his eyes, lips turning into a bashful smile. His hand squeezed your waist.

He adored when you loved him loudly.

“Do you think he has a chance to win this year?" the journalist asked. “He did finish just behind Max Verstappen last season.”

“I hope so. I believe in him, at least. And no matter the outcome, I’ll always be proud of him. He’s an amazing driver.”

You reached for his hand where it still clung to your waist, intertwining your fingers just as a PR staff asked the journalist to wrap it up.

“Have a wonderful evening, lovebirds! And Y/N, I hope to see you on the paddock soon.”

The champagne struggled to make its way down your throat. You had hoped to find some courage in the golden bubbles, but the cameras that tracked your every movement left a bitter taste on your tongue and spoiled the sparkling pleasure.

You set your glass down—too abruptly—spilling a few drops onto the pristine white tablecloth and catching others’ attention. Lando’s hand found your thigh, stroking and wrinkling the soft pink silk.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you muttered back, brushing a drop of champagne off your wrist. “Just… the fucking cameras.”

He hummed and dabbed at the champagne with his napkin. You watched him do so, heart threatening to burst out of your chest. He did it without a second thought. The casualness of it all, the tender touch with which he wiped your skin, made you blush.

You felt a sudden urge to throw your arms around his neck, but the gleam of a camera lens snapped you back to reality.

On the stage, bathed in red light, Jack Whitehall was shouting something about the show going on or some other nonsense. You had not listened to his monologue, too busy being hyper-aware of your own body, your every breath and blink.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed the camera crew starting to move. One of them crouched directly in front of you and aimed his lens at your face.

In the blink of an eye, you straightened your shoulders, tucked a rebellious strand of hair behind your ear, and put on a careless, effortless smile. It was as if your small breakdown had never happened, already pushed back to let Y/N the movie star shine.

Still, a crack appeared in the perfect illusion when your eyes flickered to the massive screen overhead.

It was still broadcasting Jack’s face, but a chill crawled up your spine—a bad feeling taking root in your chest⏤as your gaze wandered to the cameraman at your feet.

“That is when you know your sport is ridiculously minted. When you book the O2 for an event to announce the colour of a load of cars that are all exactly the same as last season. The only new thing this year is Lando Norris’s girlfriend—who is probably the only person in this room who doesn’t need an introduction. Y/N L/N, everyone!”

Your eyes had not left the screen and, soon enough, you were staring back at your own face. Next to you, Lando clapped and whistled, as thrilled as the rest of the crowd.

His stupid antics eased your nerves. Lando had always known how to calm you—a magical skill that he abused sometimes, using it against you during arguments or to have his way.

How grateful you were for it tonight.

You smiled and waved at the audience, praying for them to move on, but Jack was not done.

“When she walked in, the whole room stood up so fast I thought a tax inspector had entered the building!”

The joke pulled a genuine laugh out of you—perhaps the first of the evening. Lando lit up at the sound. He grabbed your hand and kissed it with a dazzling smile.

When your eyes met—his, full of pride, yours, mortified—he winked. The cameraman—and the entire arena with him—did not miss it, sending everyone into a frenzy when it replayed on the screen. You even heard a few awes from the audience, which did not help your embarrassment one bit.

You only let yourself breathe again when the cameras finally drifted away, Jack having found a new soul to torment.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t know he’d do all that.”

Lando raised an eyebrow over his glass of champagne.

His large hand was still resting on your thigh.

“What are you apologizing for? I thought it was funny.”

“They should be talking about you.”

He scoffed.

“The less they do, the better. Gives the haters less ideas. And to be honest, I’ve got other things on my mind tonight than lame jokes.”

“Like what?”

His hand slid higher as he leaned in.

“You in that dress,” he whispered against your ear.

“Behave,” you muttered through your teeth, trying to ignore the heat that bloomed low in your belly. “People are watching.”

“Even better.”

He kissed you.

Lando’s lips tasted like champagne and euphoria, leaving you so dazed you did not see the camera focused on you from afar.

You had been naïve to think Jack Whitehall would settle for one joke. Clearly, you had underestimated the comedian, who—between flirty exchanges with Charles Leclerc—had managed to sneak over to the McLaren’s table and settle in a chair beside Lando.

His sudden proximity could only mean trouble. You kept a wary eye on the cameras—once again pointed in your direction, though focused on Lando this time (much to your delight)—and silently prayed to fade in the background

To your dismay, the mischievous glances Jack kept throwing your way made it perfectly clear that vanishing was not an option. The British host had not forgotten about you, and he intended to savor your discomfort.

A technician—at least he looked the part with his headset and walkie-talkie in hand—gave Jack a thumb up, prompting him to straighten up. A red light blinked atop the camera. “We’re live!” an imaginary director screamed in your mind. Old habits die hard.

For a second, you let your thoughts wander to your screenplay and its fifteen new pages, laying abandoned in your suitcase back at the hotel. How you longed for Odysseus.

You glanced at the giant screen and relaxed upon realizing you were out of frame.

After an entire evening trapped under the spotlight, it was now Lando’s turn to shine.

And shine he did. Sun-kissed, smiling, utterly at ease—he was radiant. A tight knot, full of love, formed in your throat. There was nothing more beautiful than seeing someone you hold dear thrive.

A fierce surge of pride swelled in your chest. This man—as talented as beautiful—was yours.

“Guys, we’ve got so many amazing celebrity guests in the house. We’ve got singers here tonight, we’ve got actors.” His head popped up over Lando’s shoulder. “Hello there, Y/N.”

The camera panned to you, and for what felt like the hundredth time that night, you smiled and waved at the roaring crowd, pushing aside the déjà-vu rising inside to lean toward Jack. Your chin brushed against Lando’s suit-clad shoulder. The scent of his cologne curled around you in a warm embrace.  

Play the part.

A charming smile spread across your crimson lips. “Good evening, Jack,” you purred back.

That single line made the comedian stammer and giggled. He fanned himself with his cue cards and rattled off a clumsy joke.

You bit back a grin.

Men really were the simplest creatures.

Beside you, Lando straightened up and shifted in his seat—just enough to place himself in between the two of you and break your eye contact.

Oh yes, so simple.

“Those eyes. Well, you sure do know how to make a grown man blush,” Jack said with mock sternness, retreating slightly. Lando could be intimidating when he wanted to be. “But enough with you, we’ll talk more later.”

You were not sure if that was a promise or a threat.

“For now,” he went on, “there is only one man I’m looking to talk to tonight and it’s this man here. Mister Lando Norris!

You did not hesitate and joined the crowd’s euphoria, clapping so hard your palms began to sting.

“Lando, last season you came so close. Is this going to be your year?”

“It wasn’t that close to be honest. Max had it. But I hope so. I’m working hard. The team is working hard.”

Behind him, you nodded instinctively. You had witnessed first-hand the sleepless nights, the hours spent studying data, memorizing circuits, rotting away in the simulator. No one deserved the championship more than Lando.

“Well, I hope you’ll bring it home,” Jack said. “And hey, if you don’t, you can always play with girlfriend’s trophy collection. She’s got enough to lend you a few!”

Without warning, Jack turned to her.

“Y/N, by now you must be used to this sort of event. Is the F1 75 as glamourous as the BAFTAs or Golden Globes? I know there’s nothing for you to win here, which must feel a bit strange, but I swear you’ll love it—we’ve even got tire-shaped hors d’oeuvres.” He turned to the camera. “Suck it, Hollywood!”

“So far, it seems much less competitive,” you quipped. “I’m a little disappointed, to be honest.”

“You’re up for Best Actress, right?”

You nodded.

“Nervous?”

“Always.”

“Don’t be coy. Seriously?!” Jack chuckled. “Everyone knows you’re going to win! You’re basically the Max Verstappen of the movie industry!”

The giant screen cut to the Dutch champion, looking thoroughly unimpressed. You sighed inwardly.

I feel you, Max.

“Oh. Looks like someone behind the camera is telling me to go back to Lando. Bo-ring,” he rolled his eyes, “but I must oblige or else the FIA won’t pay me.”

Thus, Jack left you alone and turned back to your boyfriend. Hidden from the camera’s view, you hooked your little finger around his and squeezed.

“Lando, I wanna know what happens with an F1 driver in the off-season. What you get up to… Is it hard with all those Drive to Survive cameras in your face all the time to properly chill out? Were you able to Netflix and chill?”

You snorted as a boom mic dangled awkwardly above Lando’s head. Jack swatted it away, but your own memories remained, that of endless shooting days and drowsing sound engineers.

“I did. I’ll tell you what.”

His reply barely registered over the crowd’s laughter, but you heard it loud and clear and smacked his arm, cursing Lando’s cheeky side and his constant need to toss fuel on the fire.

“I spent some time with my family, my friends.” He exhaled. “Hum. Yeah, a bit of Netflix and chill. I did it all.”

The crowd roared. Jack burst out laughing. You buried your face in your hands.

“Best of luck this season. Give it up for Lando Norris!”

As the cameras moved on, you leaned toward Lando, your cheeks still flushed.

“Laying it on thick, aren’t you?”

He just shrugged in response.

“I want people to know you’re mine.”

A flurry of notifications pulled you from a well-deserved sleep. Beside you, Lando was still out cold, completely unbothered by the constant alarms. Last night had done a number on him—be it the never-ending ceremony or your rather eventful return to the hotel.

A dazed smile crept onto your face as the memories from last night resurfaced.

Though you did not want to, you dragged yourself out of bed and reached for your phone, which was still buzzing. It had landed on the floor in the heap of last-night crumpled clothes.

The whole pile reeked of champagne—a telltale sign of a night well spent.

Stifling a yawn into the crook of your elbow, you wasted no time to unlock your phone, the flood of messages immediately drawing you in—all from your agent. As you skimmed through them, your brows shot higher with each one until, finally, you tapped on the last: a link to a gossip page.

“Fuck.”

Ignoring the dull ache in your legs and lower belly, you rushed over to Lando and shook his shoulder.

“Babe, wake up.”

No reaction.

“Come on, get up,” you tried again.

When he still did not budge, you resorted to drastic measures and shoved him clean off the bed. He landed on the floor with a thud, muffled by the thick carpet of the suite.

“What the–?” he muttered, cracking one eye open as he straightened up and peered over his shoulder.

You kneeled beside him and shoved the phone in his face, screen brightness cranked to the max. He blinked once. Twice. His eyelids fluttered against the assault of light before he smacked his lips to chase away the dryness on his tongue.

“What am I looking at?” he asked, voice still hoarse with sleep.

“Read.”

The liveries' new engines for the upcoming Formula 1 season were not the only things to heat up the O2 arena last night. Hollywood royalty Y/N L/N made her grand⏤and completely unexpected⏤entrance on the red carpet, instantly overtaking the event.

It is fair to say that the actress, whose face has become a permanent fixture not only in theaters but also on the cover of Vogue or at the Met Gala, was the talk of the evening⏤as she always is. Draped in a pink Dior archive gown, the Golden Globe-winning actress turned heads the second she stepped in the arena... as Lando Norris’s plus-one!

According to inside sources⏤who were quick to spill the tea⏤the driver and A-List actress have been dating for over a year, but this marks their first official public outing as a couple. Talk about a hard-launch!

McLaren's golden boy⏤who came second in last season's world championship⏤quickly faded into the background as L/N stole the spotlight. And he didn’t seem to mind one bit, instead beaming with pride and fully embracing his new role as a trophy boyfriend!

One thing is sure, while he may be chasing a world-champion title on the track⏤as he reaffirmed last night to Whitehall⏤off it, it seems that Lando Norris has already won, for there is no trophy in this world better than Y/N L/N.

Sort by Most Relevant ↓

Anonymous 2 hours ago

Y/N in vintage Dior with Lando trailing behind her like a good purse holder?? Iconic.

Anonymous 5 hours ago

Wait… they’ve been dating for A YEAR?? How did we miss this?? I need a timeline, a series, a podcast—SOMETHING.

Anonymous 1 hour ago

They make so much sense together. I'm already obsessed.

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Lando handed you your phone back and flopped onto the bed, curls matted into the pillow, one arm behind his head. You remained standing, determined not to be swayed by his distractingly sculpted biceps, now on full display.

A smug smile lit up his tired face. You had to fight against the overwhelming urge to slap it off.

“I guess I am your trophy boyfriend.”

You rolled your eyes as he burst out laughing and tossed a pillow square at his head. He caught it without blinking.

Those fucking reflexes.

“Shut up.”

He reached for you, arms wide open and eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Come here, sugar mommy.”

You flipped him off and walked out of the room without a second glance for him.

“Does this mean I can come to the Oscars with you?” he called after you.

[nemesyaaa]

pygmalion au // rafe cameron x reader

summary ; “ you love someone you can shape, who has no will to escape. ” artist!rafe x muse!reader.

warnings ; unsafe feelings. slight of angst. smut. kind of fantasy/magic. art glorification. attachment issues. innocent!reader. fear of losing somebody. first time. rafe being a lost boy. dubcon. pygmalion' weird story. toxic!rafe. mentions of drugs. oral (m. receiving). p in v. insecurities. praising. artist hands appreciation. minors DNI.

author's note : 3,5 k words for this. one-shot. also a lot of tummy appreciation (tysm @shawtycoreee 🫶🏿). out of the smut, i tried to write it so poetic 😭🤟🏿

— “ wrap me up, enfold me. i am small and needy. warm me up and breathe me. ” breathe me by sia.

it was alone and late at night that rafe cameron began to create you, not really knowing at the time he started his art what work you would produce. he only cut the stone with his hands. before forming your body, he fantasized about it internally, not really knowing what a woman's anatomy actually looked like. you were like a crazy dream he was trying to sort out, a fantasy he was trying to make real. he sculpted with his straight calloused and tired hands, manipulating the fragile and sensitive material with precision.

he hated doing badly, but it was what he did best. as he worked, he sank into his own fascination. you were magnificent, no, you were divine, the glorious treasure from his hands. it was scary and breathtaking. he had never done anything so beautiful, never created anything so charming. you had this firm, seductive chest, completely bare and hard, the movement of the stone making your belly round and chubby. you were carved in marble, an inanimate statue that had found favor in the eyes of his creator.

when he had finished your face,

he had been amazed but above all frightened by what his fingers had achieved. he had given shape to your lips, your nose, your mouth and your eyes. and now that you had a look, it was like you were confronting him. because now that you had pupils, you could look at him too, you could judge him too. you could be as superior as him, but also equal to his worth.

you were his most beautiful work of art, literally his ethereal and angelic muse. and above all, you made him nervous. not only were you realistic, but you were a woman, you were like one of the goddesses from greek mythology, completely naked.

it was unexpected, but he had knelt before you, before your altar, on his legs and his hands. he was so white and desperate like a lost sinner having only his god to pray and glorify in order to survive.

you had seen his lips part in a prayer, his mouth tighten in a whisper. and you had ears, certainly made of stone, but you had heard it. you had heard his wish lost in the void. yet he had nothing of a believer, you could hardly imagine this man on the benches of a church, but you were also cruelly incapable of seeing and understanding who he really was.

when he stood up, you felt his hands on your skin, the coldness of his ring, but also the awkwardness of his touch. you could tell it was the first time he touched someone intimately, because he didn't really know where to put his hands but he also didn't know how to touch you without destroying you.

rafe cameron was not a god. he could break anything he touched. and maybe that was why he was so nervous and pathetic. you belonged to him now that he had created you so he refused to lose you without even knowing you.

he had hoped that god would make you a real woman, because you were perfect, too sublime to be just a piece of stone.

he didn't need to pull himself up to reach you, he was much taller, more intimidating in terms of size. he could lift you up and control you with just one hand.

you looked so alive so why, why did he only hear one heartbeat in the room? why was he alone breathing in this cold and empty room? why did you only have life in appearance?

you could feel in his look that he was questioning, that he was troubled, that all the beauty of his blue eyes was overwhelmed. but you had also felt his face so close to yours, his breath fanning across your molded lips. he had been hesitant, but his mouth had finally found yours.

and you surprised yourself by loving the taste of his pretty lips, but above all by being able to touch it.

and it was like that kiss had been real enough of how he felt about you that god had decided to give him a chance.

you had sensed all the ivory of your body, of your muscles, becoming sublimely gorgeous, all your stone beauty becoming human and alive. as if his devotion had allowed you to be free and to exist.

when he felt your mouth melt on his, he pulled back in fear. you weren’t supposed to be real even if he wanted you to be. since when did statues come to life?

"oh fuck, what's going on here?... i think i'm going crazy...all that fucking coke…”

“you created me.” you replied, slightly hurt by his reaction because he was supposed to be happy.

"no, you're not supposed to be alive. i mean, you're art, you can't be human."

“i’m human!” you contradicted, stepping forward from your marble base.

rafe wasn't sure if it was a nightmare or a dream. but his gaze was anchored on you, he couldn't take every inch of his eyes off your body. he was magnetized by your magnificence.

you came just close enough to take his hand and place it against your chest. “don’t be cold to me. don’t leave me. what would i do without you? you can't reject me. you need me. ”

maybe that was the game changer for rafe cameron. because he had just understood that since you were his, you belonged to him, you were entirely dependent on him. you couldn't escape, and above all, you had no desire to.

he could do what he wanted, you were like a doll created to respond to the slightest of his favors without ever complacent. you were not only perfect but unimaginable.

” be on your knees for me.”

and the next second, you were staring at him waiting for another order.

"mmh...i know your body by heart. i shape all of this. but you have never seen mine. no worry, i'm going to fix that, okay? you're going to please me tonight and not make me regret 'have given you life?”

you nodded in agreement and he smiled because you were too innocent, too sweet for someone like him. he had unzipped his pants, making them fall to his legs like his boxers.

and it was the first time you saw a naked man in front of you, but it was also fair for you because you had no clothes. “let me help you…” he offered with a smirk. his thumb had rolled over your lips, creating a slight slit between them. “ you need to open that pretty mouth wider...” he added, taking advantage of your vulnerability to use you.

"you know it will only hurt if you don't relax. so don't be tense. because even if it's big, you're gonna take it, doll. not gonna be easy on you because it's your first time. show me what you can do baby, let me feel how grateful you are for your creator. "

he had pushed his tip against your lips, forcing his way into your mouth, making you open bigger to accommodate his cock in your cavity. it was new to you, and you weren't even sure if you could satisfy him because it was the first time you had done something like that, and especially used your mouth in that way.

you thought this area was used to create intimacy between people, not to do dirty things.

“baby, i really appreciate how sweet you can be, but don’t let me do all the work…” he had scoffed. and your heart skipped a beat when he shoved himself further in your mouth, so much so that you felt him hit the back of your throat, all the speed of his harshly strokes leaving you breathless.

you choked on his movements, saliva pooling and dripping between the corners of your enlarged lips. “that’s what happens when you don’t do your part of the job properly…” his tone was falsely accusatory as you couldn’t catch your breath from his pace. he had no pity, you had turned on him too much. and to fix it, he blamed you by harassing your throat with his fat cock.

"but since you leave me no choice, let me show you how to be a good girl for me..." he had plugged your nose, pinching it hard, forcing you to take him entirely, without being able to breathe. his length swallowed in and out, your tongue barely able to support his weight which grew as he bullied your lips.

you belonged to him so he didn’t care if he ruined you a little. he told himself that he would repair you.

he released your nose when he felt you were about to pass, with a sadistic giggle. your eyes were wet with tears. “oh baby, don’t give me that look, you’re wasting your time, i don’t feel pity. ”

you continued to pump him until your jaw arched tighten and become more tense. he pulled out for a moment, spitting in your tongue, before using your throat again. his grunts were frantic and rapid, hot breaths in sync with the pornographic sounds that emanated from your sucking. his large palm was wrapped around the back of your neck, controlling your posture. “ give me that sweet eyes again, and i will make them cry.”

he took so much pleasure in watching you swallow him hard, grunting every time he entered your throat hoping to relax it but causing the opposite effect. "'ot finished. take those balls too." he had pulled back to lift his painfully throbbing dick and place it against his stomach, you had started to lick them, letting your tongue work the entire surface, coating them with saliva. "feel? how full they are. they're gonna stuff you real bad. " you sucked on them when he pushed them directly into your mouth, making him let out throaty sounds. your mouth felt so good, he wondered if your pussy would be just as her.

between your legs, it was completely soaked. your sloppy slit dripping onto the floor. it wasn’t like rafe was ignoring that mess. he was just purely mesmerized by your lips, by the way you cupped his balls so well, and how his cock reacted to each of your licks.

you were definitely his best work. it was more than art, it was heavenly. he was incapable of not using you after creating you. he had his urges, and you had to respond to them.

he had started fisting his length, leaving you lapping at his genitals dangling above your face. the cum had gushed through the air, landing on you. he had rubbed his trailing tip on your cheeks, giving a new color to your skin.

he wondered if you were human enough to feel all this degradation. in a short movement, he had placed you in front of the standing mirror of the workshop, and had driven his body against yours. he spat into his hand before jerking off a little, pressing the head of his cock against your sticky dirty folds.

he placed his arm across your stomach, one hand gripping one of your breast, pressing it more firmly once lodged inside you and grunted as he felt how tight you were, how hard your pussy stretched in his path. thanks to the mirror, he could see each of your reactions, but above all, see your part pumped each of his inches. all his size had disappeared between your flowing walls.

your twitching cunt clenched around his girth, your canal squeezing him. his thrusts were merciless, burrowing into your soiled folds. rafe rocked his hips roughly, as his dick bullied your puffy core. he wondered how a loser like him could have created a goddess like you. and he was desperate to know if he could make you stupid, if his cock that destroyed and filled you was good enough for someone like you.

you had created a mess and frustration in him.

he was in love with the bouncing flesh on your tummy against his arm, your tits swaying when you took him. it was a grace.

he reached out and hit your spot every time he buried himself inside you, his face sank in your left shoulder. you could feel the strands of his hair against your skin, his mouth against your collarbone. you were his, he was fucking you like this. you were only alive when he touched you. you could feel his obsession and adoration in every thrusts, no matter how brutal they were. it was his way of showing you that you couldn't escape him and that you could never.

his rhythm was hard, as your pudgy tummy jiggled under his strong fingers who were digging into you. you were so giddy, fucked like a ragdoll not able to said if it was the butterflies that make your stomach spiraling, or that thick dick shoved inch by inch further into your messy slick. his other digits at your clit, massaging the small and eager bud. he was big enough to maneuver you and embraced your small frame with his muscular biceps.

you were too little, too fragile underneath him.

he was your creator, he gave you air but he could also take it away from you. you were completely dependent, not only you, but every crumb of your body. he was pounding into you with the inability to detach his cock from your fluffy pussy. he loved hearing your voice choked with tears and moans against his ear. it was a sweet melody, a symphony.

your body was perfect, straddling his, your skin slapping his. your lips gurgling around his fingers that you could no longer take without dropping them, because of his violent assaults. you drooled all over your mouth, struggling with the drool that splashed all over his hand.

you couldn't see anything anymore, it was blurry. you didn't even feel tired anymore, you felt like a stupid doll, unable to think and reflect, only able to take this cock nastily harassing you and stretching you violently.

with his muscular and heavy hand on your throat, he forced you to look at the mirror. there was something incredible and perfect in his hands, and you knew it from the moment he started sculpting you. they were so good and incredible, covered with veins that systematically bulged. they captured your belly fat well. “don’t hide this from me. it’s my property.”

he had harpooned your flesh between his fingers, making it move and hang down more as he fucked you senseless.

“if i shaped you like that, that meant i wanted you like that.” your tummy was caged in his grasp. “ i mean, look at that belly, it's all beauty, i swear.”

he had moved his hand to the lower part of your stomach, pressing that area of your skin, feeling his bulge farther in you. in this corner of the room, there was only you and him, only your whimpers against his fingers and the pleasure you felt. there was only this mirror that stared at you and reflected you in the darkness with the only light of the moon as a beacon.

you were divine, you had the perfect body of a goddess. and even having cum with you, even causing your third orgasm, he didn't want to pull out. it was as if he was afraid of the emptiness he expected after this. and maybe you too were dreading the emptiness inside you after he filled you up so well, your soaked pussy dripping with his cum, drooling all over the floor.

he had finally taken it out, his fingers entering you to collect his mixture and place it against your lips. “don’t let it go to waste.”

you had cleaned his fingers until they were pure again.

he had his eyes on you, like a human in front of art.

he still didn't realize. but he refused to let you escape. but it wasn't like you could. he had created a home here, all over this room and in you. he had established a domain in every inch of your skin. he only had to see you to know that you were his own creation.

you kissed him, slightly awkwardly but he made up for it with his mouth on yours. “you can’t abandon me.” he whispered. “i don’t want to abandon you.”

and it felt good to hear your words. you didn't know him well enough, or not really, to know how sick he was. but you felt grateful that he gave you life, because it was priceless. he had made you, and you were his.

“ what are you doing?” when you felt chains encircling your wrists, you weren’t sure if you liked it. "i really want to believe in you sweetheart but i also can't trust anyone. you have legs, you can run away from me but with this metal, you're stuck.”

“i don’t really like it…” you admitted and he replied “no one likes it but the difference is that you don’t really have a choice either. you're mine. your feelings, your body, your eyes, all of that is mine. even that pouty sweet face of yours. ”

you turned your head to let him know that you didn't appreciate it, and to give him the silent treatment. and he smiled. “it doesn't kill me, baby. you can pout. ”

you didn’t respond. "you really want to give me this treatment? maybe you really don't want me to be nice to you after all..."

he had smiled. “"okay...I'll give you what you want." he had disappeared for a few minutes before coming back with an object that you couldn't identify. " what is this ? "

"now, baby wants to talk...but it's a little too late, i'm making the rules here so...say hello to your new favorite toy. it's a gagball.”

you didn't feel it was useful until the ball went into your mouth and stopped you from speaking. you could only drool and grumble around the object.

"why that face, baby? that's not what you wanted? i swear you still look pretty. just quieter. i'm going to go to sleep. and tomorrow you'll show me how sorry you are for that attitude. you want to know if i would forgive you? maybe it would be too easy, you understand? you have all night to prepare excuses and they better please me because i can be even more creative than that to punish you. “

the next day he woke up in a good mood. and above all, you were always there.

he had picked up the bottle of water from his table, wondering if you were thirsty. but when he arrived in front of you, he changed his mind. he used it to wake you up.

"i'm so clumsy...sorry, baby." but there wasn't an ounce of regret in his voice so you knew he was joking. you learned to read his face.

“you know how sorry i am…” he added, facing your gaze.

“you’re not…”

"yes, right. such a clever baby. are you thirsty?”

" yes..."

“maybe if you show me how good and nice you are today, i can consider bringing you another bottle.”

"what do you want..."

“it’s not what i want, sweetheart. but what you will do to satisfy me. see the small difference ? ”

it had been several weeks, a month in fact, since the day of your creation. you had spent your time in this workshop, chained to this wall. you were only alone when rafe left, when he left you in the shadows.

in fact, he was clearly having fun with you. you were dependent on his affection, and he knew it. you reacted to the slightest attention he gave you, even the most mean and bad. but above all you were incapable of hating rafe cameron.

he had made you a magnificent creature, a living human, you would be even crueler than him if you hated him.

after all, you were his muse. he had the right to use you. that was also the thought he had drilled into your brain.

everything he did was for you. and you should be grateful.

but sometimes he wondered, if he killed you, would you come back to life? was there magic in you or was he just in a fucking wonderful dream? he did enough coke to get high for days but this time it lasted too long for it to be fake.

your relationship was strange because sometimes you felt loved, especially when he hugged you after being rough with you, his palm gently caressing your back. like any human, there was tenderness in him. he could be nice. he knew how to be one but that didn't mean he enjoyed being one. he just thought that if he was too mean, you would disappear.

and that was not something he could tolerate. during all this time spent with you, he had not learned, no, he had not succeeded, to live without you.

artists brought art to life, but art gave meaning to the artists' lives.

before you, he was alone.

he had prayed for you. he needed you. it was his final call.

rafe cameron fell in love with you before he created you, before he even imagined you.

and maybe that was why he was so mean to you, because he never knew love, so how can you blame him for not knowing if you loved him back or make fun of him?

he was pathetic, full of rage and violence. but you couldn't hate him, because you and him shared the same tears. the same pain.

he made you, and you made him. he was afraid and you were scared. you wanted someone to love you, and he wanted someone that could love him.

“ i swear, y/n. don't leave me alone. even when you looked away, you make me feel like a monster when i'm not. so please, do the same as me. ”

“ what ? ”

“ don't make me feel like somebody else exists. i'm the only world you can live in. ”

[malusokay]

The Pomegranate Plague of Gen Z Poets

First, it was the moon. Then cigarettes. Then, girls by windows, ethereal in their ruin. Now? Pomegranates. (from my substack)

If you’ve spent enough time around poetry circles, you’ve seen it before. The doomed love, the Persephone complex, the vaguely sacrificial undertones. And, of course, the fruit.

The Persephone Myth (The Popular Version)

So you think you know the story: Persephone, wreathed in flowers, is stolen by Hades, dragged screaming into the Underworld. Her mother, Demeter, weeps and starves the earth in protest. Zeus, eventually deciding this is a problem, orders Persephone’s return—but oops, she ate six pomegranate seeds, so now she’s doomed forever.

That’s the version that survives in girl poetry, anyway.

What Promegerants Girls won’t tell you? The actual myth is a mess. There is no single, definitive version—just fragments, scraps stitched together across centuries. And the pomegranate seed detail?

It barely even shows up.

What We Actually Have:

• Persephone’s myth wasn’t even originally Greek. The story of a goddess being dragged into the underworld predates Greek mythology entirely.

• In Mesopotamian myth, Ishtar (Inanna) descends into the underworld to confront Ereshkigal, queen of the dead. She is stripped of her power and trapped, only escaping by offering someone else in her place—a theme that later appears in Persephone’s myth. This suggests Persephone’s story wasn’t a Greek invention but an adaptation of older Near Eastern fertility-death-rebirth cycles.

• Despoina (“the Mistress”) was worshipped before Persephone—and before Hades was even relevant. In older, pre-Olympian cult traditions, Despoina was the actual chthonic goddess of the underworld. She was venerated alongside Demeter and was probably a far more powerful, independent figure before later mythology reduced Persephone to “Hades’ wife.” Despoina’s cult was deliberately secretive, meaning much of her lore is lost—but she was deeply tied to the Eleusinian Mysteries, which were about life, death, and rebirth, not tragic romance.

• Hades wasn’t even a major figure in early versions of the myth. Before he was written in as “the husband,” the underworld was associated more with Gaia (Earth) and Nyx (Night). Hades’ later dominance in the story came as Olympian mythology reshaped older chthonic traditions.

• Persephone was originally Kore (“the Maiden”)—not a tragic heroine, but an archetype of the life-death-rebirth cycle tied to agriculture. She wasn’t a person; she was a function. The whole point was that she disappears, then re-emerges—her personality was secondary to the cosmic process she represented. Only much later did people start treating her as an individual.

• Hesiod’s Theogony (~8th century BCE), one of the oldest Greek texts, barely mentions Persephone. To him, she’s just Hades’ wife, no backstory necessary. This matters because it shows that her abduction wasn’t even a central myth at first—it developed later.

• The Homeric Hymn to Demeter (~7th century BCE) is our earliest and most detailed source. But forget romance—it’s a political nightmare. Hades kidnaps Persephone (the Greek verb used, ἁρπάζω, literally means “to snatch away”—no courtship, no tragic longing). Demeter shuts down the harvest, and Zeus steps in not out of fatherly love, but because no crops mean no sacrifices, and no sacrifices mean starving gods.

The pomegranate? One sentence. Persephone eats something in the Underworld, so she has to stay. That’s it. The number of seeds? Not even mentioned. The whole “I bit into a pomegranate and now I am bound to darkness forever ”dramatics? A complete invention.

• Ovid’s Metamorphoses (~8 CE) is where we finally get the six seeds detail—but Ovid was Roman, writing centuries after the Greek versions had already evolved. His retelling heightens the drama, turning Persephone into a tragic, doomed figure rather than a cosmic force tied to ritual.

• Later Orphic traditions tried to clean it up, recasting Persephone as the mother of Zagreus (a god later merged with Dionysus), tying her to death, rebirth, and mystery cults. At this point, the myth had already spiralled into layers of mysticism.

• Persephone wasn’t always tragic—she became terrifying. The helpless waif image is a modern fabrication. The ancient sources tell a different story—one where Persephone is feared, not mourned.

• In Euripides’ Helen (412 BCE), she is invoked as a vengeful queen of the dead.

• In Homer’s Odyssey (Book 10), Odysseus fears Persephone’s wrath during his necromantic ritual—she is powerful enough to control the dead without Hades.

• Hecate was Persephone’s underworld counterpart and guide. In later versions, Hecate leads Persephone back to the upper world, further reinforcing Hecate’s enduring role in the chthonic realm.

• In Roman tradition, Proserpina (Persephone) was linked to Libera, a goddess of wild fertility and ecstatic rites. This completely contradicts the modern image of her as a fragile, tragic figure.

The Pomegranate Wasn’t Inherently Tragic

• In Hippocratic medical texts, pomegranate juice was used for contraception and abortion remedies—a practical, everyday association, not one of doom.

• In Pliny the Elder’s Natural History (1st century CE), pomegranates were used to treat fevers and digestive issues. No poetic suffering, just ancient medicine.

• In Greek funerary practices, pomegranates symbolised rebirth, not entrapment. They weren’t about being bound to darkness forever—they were about the cycle of life continuing.

Why This Completely Destroys the Promegerants Version of Persephone

1. The myth is about agriculture and divine power, not doomed love. The earliest versions barely mention Hades—this was Demeter’s story, a myth about the life cycle, cosmic balance, and the survival of humanity.

2. Persephone wasn’t always Persephone. She was Kore, an agricultural symbol, not a tragic heroine. Her function came first, her personality second. The idea of her as a fully realised, suffering individual came centuries later.

3. She wasn’t even the first queen of the underworld. Despoina was worshipped before her—an older, more powerful chthonic goddess with nothing to do with victimhood or romance.

4. The pomegranate was never central to the original myth. It’s a tiny, passing detail used as an explanation for why Persephone had to stay in the Underworld. The number of seeds? A Roman invention.

5. The whole myth wasn’t even Greek to begin with. It likely evolved from Mesopotamian myths like Ishtar’s descent, meaning the Promegerants version is a distortion of a distortion.

6. Persephone wasn’t a victim—she was a force of nature. The later versions of her myth don’t show her as tragic—they show her as terrifying. She was a queen who ruled the dead, feared even by heroes. If Promegerants Girls really wanted to stay true to the myth, they wouldn’t write about Persephone tragically eating seeds—they’d write about her punishing mortals for disturbing the dead.

From Chthonic Queen to Tragic Girlcore

The Promegerants version of Persephone strips her of her original role and reduces her to an aesthetic prop. In the oldest sources, she isn’t even a person—she’s a cosmic force, an idea before she’s a character.

Persephone was never just a tragic girl in a dark room with red-stained lips. She was a goddess of cycles, a ritual figure whose presence dictated the survival of humanity. The oldest myths barely even cared about her personal emotions—because that wasn’t the point.

And the pomegranate? Once a symbol of fertility and power, now just a moody Tumblr metaphor for doomed relationships. Would the ancient Greeks recognize Promegerants Persephone?

Absolutely not.

They’d probably assume she was some mediocre Roman poet’s overdramatic rewrite.

In other words: the version we cling to is a late, Romanized, overly romanticised distortion of a much darker and weirder myth—one that was never about love, tragedy, or women choosing their suffering.

Why Has This Myth Been Hijacked?

Because it’s too easy. The modern interpretation lets poets turn Persephone into:

• A stolen innocence narrative—without engaging with its actual horror.

• A tragic queen figure—without ever giving her power.

• A martyr for womanhood—as if eating a fruit were some grand metaphor for the inevitability of suffering.

But Persephone’s story was never about being loved and ruined.

It was about bargaining, power, and gods who don’t care about human grief.

The Pomegranate Problem™

At this point, the pomegranate isn’t a symbol—it’s a decorative prop.

Its original meanings—fertility, power, the tension between life and death—have been stripped away, replaced with moody girlhood aesthetics.

Poets don’t use it because they understand its history. They use it because it sounds expensive—like a fruit for people who romanticise heartbreak in foreign cities.

But if your poem still works after swapping “pomegranate” for “grapes���, then what are we even doing here?

Read This Before You Write Another Pomegranate Poem

• Homer’s Odyssey → Pomegranates appear in King Alcinous’ eternal orchard, a symbol of wealth, abundance, and divine favour. Not doom.

• Euripides’ Ion → Associated with Aphrodite, symbolising fertility, passion, and desire. Again—not doom.

• Aristophanes’ Lysistrata → Used as an innuendo for female sexuality (which, frankly, would make for a far more interesting poem).

• Dionysian Mysteries → Linked to ecstatic rites, resurrection cults, and the cycle of life and death. If you want to write about pomegranates and darkness, this would actually make sense.

• Roman Religion → Sacred to Juno, particularly in marriage and childbirth rituals, reinforcing their connection to fertility and renewal, not suffering.

• Theophrastus’ Enquiry into Plants → Describes pomegranates as a cultivated luxury fruit, prized for its sweetness, medicinal properties, and status.

• Herodotus’ Histories → Mentions Persian warriors decorating their spears with pomegranates, symbolising strength, fertility, and victory.

• Pausanias’ Description of Greece → Describes pomegranate offerings at Demeter’s sanctuaries, representing fertility, rebirth, and ritual purification—never suffering.

• Plutarch’s Moralia → Links pomegranates to beauty, sensuality, and indulgence in Greek and Roman culture—so, more hedonistic pleasure, less tragic metaphor.

Next time someone writes about a pomegranate-stained mouth, ask them if they mean Persephone or Aristophanes’ sex jokes.

How to Write a Pomegranate Poem That Survives Scrutiny

If you must use it, at least be rigorous. If you’re going full Persephone-core, then be specific. Make it about something real.

Tell us if the juice stains the sheets, if the seeds taste like metal, if they stick between your teeth like regret.

Don’t just drop in “pomegranate” and expect us to do the heavy lifting.

Or consider letting the myth go.

There are so many other symbols, so many richer, underused classical references.

And If You’re Tired of the Pomegranate, Try These Instead

there’s a whole world of classical symbols that carry just as much weight—without the overuse. Here are a few:

Chthonic & Underworld Imagery:

• Asphodel – The ghostly, liminal flowers of the underworld in Greek myth, growing where souls linger. Less overdone than pomegranates, just as eerie.

• Lethe – The river of forgetfulness. Its waters erase memory, a far more unsettling metaphor for loss than a single piece of fruit.

• Orphic Gold Leaves – Real funeral tablets placed with the dead, inscribed with guidance for navigating the afterlife. The ultimate memento mori.

• Owls – Athena’s symbol, but also a nocturnal watcher associated with wisdom, death, and the unknown.

Fertility, Desire & Ruin:

• Fig Trees – Symbolizing sensuality, abundance, and decay (the Greeks also had fig-wood coffins).

• Laurel Wreaths – Victory and poetic ambition, but also a crown of temporary glory—since laurel leaves wither fast.

• Myrrh – A resin used for perfume and burial rites, evoking both seduction and decay. (Also linked to Myrrha, who was cursed to fall in love with her own father. Greek myths were wild.)

Dionysian Madness & Ecstasy:

• Thyrsus – A staff tipped with ivy and pinecones, wielded by Dionysus and his followers. Represents intoxication, divine frenzy, and the thin line between revelry and destruction.

• Ivy – Unlike flowers, it never dies in winter. Clings, suffocates, overtakes. A more interesting metaphor for entanglement than Persephone’s six seeds.

If you must use a pomegranate, at least make it bleed. But if you’re ready for something richer—there are so many other symbols waiting.

[the-most-humble-blog]

🛐 HARRY POTTER WAS A GODDAMN FORCE OF NATURE

Harry Potter wasn’t some fragile, "oh look at me, I'm special" storybook cutout.

He was a walking, wand-wielding force of magical goddamn nature.

From boy to man — Behind dusty-ass glasses and trauma-punched eyes — He still moved like the universe had owed him something since birth, and he came to collect.

🧠 People forget:

There was a grown-ass man — a former gifted student — a literal living snake-faced demon, burning his entire middle-aged existence chasing a fucking traumatized teenage boy who had zero business surviving the first ten minutes of Book One — and still kept winning.

🩸 Think About It:

Voldemort was

Older

Stronger

Meaner

Armed with all the dark arts you could beg, borrow, or bleed for.

And still?

Harry Potter dragged that noseless fossil into the dirt anyway.

🔥 Let Me Slow Down.

Harry wasn’t just “brave.”

He wasn’t just “the Chosen One.”

He was a biological middle finger aimed at every law of magical domination the old world thought was untouchable.

He survived:

Curses

Assassination attempts

Betrayals

Systematic psychological warfare

Institutional sabotage

Literal death

AND STILL HAD THE GODDAMN BALLS to stand there in the final breath of their war yank his wand off lock eyes with the ghoul that haunted his entire childhood—

—and try not to let the biggest, well-earned, nuclear-grade shit-eating grin split his goddamn face open.

🛡️ Final Verdict:

Harry Potter wasn’t the Boy Who Lived. That’s too small.

Harry Potter was the Boy Who Refused to Die Out of Spite.

And the wizarding world should’ve thrown a coronation and handed him the keys to the afterlife for that alone.

🤯 TL;DR

Harry Potter made grown men with horcruxes and hit squads sweat bullets.

Survived things that would’ve turned most into footnotes.

Didn't just survive — he finished the job.

And he did it all looking like a half-starved librarian with a scar and a hand-me-down wand.

🧹 Hats off to you, mate.

💣 CALL TO ACTION:

🔁 Reblog if you know Harry didn’t just beat Voldemort — he outlasted a living extinction event. 🧙‍♂️ Save this for the next time someone calls Harry "overrated." ⚡ Send this to the friend who needs to remember that resilience > raw power. 🔥 Bookmark it for every moment you need to remember: You don’t need to look unstoppable. You just need to be too stubborn to quit.

⚖️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER: This post is Blacksite Literature™, mythological cadence commentary, survival psychology, and First Amendment-certified magical war storytelling.

If you're offended: Voldemort was looking for you, not Harry.

🛡️ BLACKSITE POST STATUS: COMPLETE. 🩸 FULL MYTHIC PAYLOAD LOADED.

[theskywithin]

💘 The 7th House Ruler Through the Houses

7th House Ruler in the 1st House

You learned love by becoming what others needed. Somewhere across lifetimes, you absorbed the belief that belonging is earned through disappearance. So now, your identity folds itself around the shape of the other. You call it empathy. You call it connection. But sometimes it’s amnesia. This placement is not about codependency, it’s about forgetting your edges. You don’t fall in love, you merge. And then wonder where you went. The self becomes a suggestion, flickering in someone else’s reflection. You are not the echo of anyone’s desire. You are the original pulse. The face beneath the mask. The soul before it contorted itself into something lovable.

7th House Ruler in the 2nd House

You want to be worth the keeping. Not for what you give, or how you hold, or who you become to stay. Just… worth it. But there is a part of you that doesn't quite believe it. A flicker behind your eyes that still asks: Will I be chosen when I’m not proving anything? You've carried that question for lifetimes, sometimes in silence, sometimes in gold, sometimes in staying too long with someone who never really saw you. You learned to equate closeness with compensation, as if love must be earned through self-erasure. But you're not here to barter with your being. You are not a currency. You are not an apology. You are not something to be deserved. Let love come when you're still. Let it echo back, not because you've become more but because you were always enough.

7th House Ruler in the 3rd House

You know how to mimic connection with words. You’ve spent lifetimes translating emotion into language, writing your longings into poems, answering questions no one asked just to feel close. Conversation became survival. Cleverness became camouflage. And so, you speak beautifully sometimes instead of being known. You are fluent in the dialect of detachment. You can make someone feel seen without ever letting them feel you. Because in some far-off memory, expression led to exposure. Truth led to exile. But your voice wasn’t meant to hide you. It was meant to carry your soul into the open. Let someone hear the words you don’t polish. The ones that tremble. The ones that undo you.

7th House Ruler in the 4th House

You carry the blueprint of love in your nervous system. Not from this life, from the ones where affection was quiet, survival-based, coded into ritual instead of spoken. You remember the sound of withheld tenderness. You remember reading the emotional weather of a room like scripture. Now, connection doesn’t feel safe unless it feels familiar and sometimes, familiarity means walking on eggshells. You don’t trust warmth that comes too easily. You wait for the moment it turns cold. But love is not a reenactment. Home is not supposed to feel like a test. Let yourself be held in a space that doesn’t ask you to monitor your every breath. Let your heart stop bracing. You don’t have to keep building intimacy out of ruins.

7th House Ruler in the 5th House

Your love is laced with longing for something unnamed. Not joy, not romance, something stranger. Something that lived in your chest before you ever touched desire. It’s not about expression. It’s not about passion. It’s about remembering how to feel without bracing. You’ve worn so many versions of beauty you forgot which one was yours. In other lives, you might have been adored for the wrong reasons, or watched as something precious to you was misunderstood, objectified, mythologized. Now, you carry a quiet distance from your own delight, unsure if you can trust it. You don’t want to be consumed. You want to be seen without being taken. There is a deep ache here, not to shine, but to exist in your full texture without being cast into anyone else’s story. Let love arrive as a presence that says: I don’t need you to impress me. I want to know what your heart sounds like when no one is listening.

7th House Ruler in the 6th House

You’ve made love a ritual of endurance. It’s not that you expect to suffer, it’s that you’ve confused suffering with devotion. You offer your time, your labor, your capacity to hold someone else’s chaos. You call it loyalty. But sometimes, it’s penance. In other lives, love was responsibility. Service. A sacred kind of self-abandonment. Now, you measure your worth by how useful you are. You treat your tenderness like a transaction: If I care enough, they’ll stay. If I carry enough, they’ll choose me. But love is not earned through exhaustion. You are not here to be someone's stability while starving for your own. Let someone meet you in your softness, not your sacrifice. Let them stay when you have nothing left to offer.

7th House Ruler in the 7th House

You are made for reflection, but not for erasure. Partnership is stitched into the fabric of your path. You don't just crave connection, you become whole through it. But there is danger in this mirror, too. If you’re not careful, you vanish into the reflection. You’ve spent lifetimes defining yourself through the eyes of another. Becoming their projection. Their dream. Their container. So now, you recognize love as alignment but sometimes forget that alignment requires two whole selves. This is not about attracting love. It's about remembering who you are outside of it. You don’t need to contort yourself to stay in view. You are not a placeholder. You are not a backdrop. You are a world of your own. Let love orbit you, not eclipse you.

7th House Ruler in the 8th House

Love has always been a place of unraveling. You don’t “date.” You initiate. You merge. You descend. Partnership isn’t a bond, it’s a reckoning. A portal. A ritual of shedding skin. You seek out the ones who undress your psyche, who break open the vault, who offer you transformation disguised as intimacy. But be honest, are you letting yourself be met, or are you testing to see who survives you? Somewhere in your past-lives, closeness meant betrayal, or loss, or possession. And now, even when love is safe, you brace. This is a lifetime of rewriting that contract. Of letting someone hold you without having to earn it through blood. Let love be deep without being destructive. Let someone see you without tearing you apart.

7th House Ruler in the 9th House

You remember love as a pilgrimage. In other lives, it began with distance, foreign lands, spiritual longing, shared purpose, far horizons. You didn’t just want a partner. You wanted someone to walk the edge of the world with. Someone whose love cracked you open to the eternal. Now, you still crave expansion. You want love that stretches your beliefs, your borders, your body’s memory of what’s possible. But be careful, you might keep running toward the infinite to avoid being touched in the present. Not every soul encounter comes with a lightning strike. Not every truth needs a telescope. Let love meet you in the now. In the closeness. In the simplicity of being seen on an ordinary afternoon. You’re not here to find heaven through someone else. You’re here to remember it was never separate.

7th House Ruler in the 10th House

You wear your relationships like architecture. You build love into your legacy, shape your partnerships like cathedrals, sacred, structured, high-stakes. In other lives, intimacy was status, strategy, survival. You learned to tie your worth to what was witnessed. To what the world could admire. Now, you still measure the success of love by what it looks like from the outside. You perform stability. You pose in intimacy. You know how to play the role. But love does not require a performance review. You don’t need to be impressive to be chosen. The most meaningful devotion may never make it into the biography. Let yourself be loved in the quiet. In the unposted. In the places where the scaffolding falls away and only the truth remains.

7th House Ruler in the 11th House

You are fluent in potential. You don’t fall for people, you fall for what could be. The version of them you see in their quietest moment, the glimpse they haven’t stepped into yet. You build futures before foundations. You speak to the part of someone they don’t know how to hold and then wonder why you’re left holding it alone. In other lifetimes, your vision was medicine. Now, it’s also a mask. You hide behind ideas. You chase resonance over reality. You long for something collective, but ache in the quiet of what’s personal. It’s not that your love is too big, it’s that it wants to touch the sky before it’s touched the skin. Let someone meet you where your hands are. Let intimacy be the dream you don’t have to explain.

7th House Ruler in the 12th House

You’ve loved in silence. Across lifetimes, you’ve poured yourself into connections no one else could see. Soul bonds that never took shape. Longings that lingered like perfume in an empty room. Now, you still feel people before you know them. You remember them before they arrive. But this sensitivity is both a gift and a ghost. You fall for potential, for psychic proximity, for the ache of what almost was. You grieve what never became, and sometimes, you hide behind the fog so you don’t have to risk being touched. But love is not safer in secrecy. You are not safer in silence. Let yourself be known in the flesh, not just the dream. Let love find you where you are, not only where you’ve been.

My book The Sky Within helps you break down your entire birth chart to better understand yourself and your path:

[artanisansa]

TO SANSA/JON FANDOM!

Hey everyone! I’m not sure how many of you remember this user, but lostlittlesatellites or batterydeaddotdot was a well-known Jonsa meta-writer in our fandom. Sadly, they deactivated, and as far as I know, we don’t really know why. A big chunk of their amazing work seems to have been lost, which was so sad for so many of us.

But here’s the good news: I recently discovered that some of their metas were saved on the "Way Back Machine" site! So, I put together a list of some of their pieces to share with all of you. My aim is to help preserve their contributions, spread the love within our fandom, and celebrate the incredible mind that has helped to shaped our fandom.

Quick disclaimer: I haven’t read every single meta, so I don’t necessarily agree with everything that’s written. My main goal is just to share this with you all. And I skiped GOT-related metas for this list. Enjoy diving into lostlittlesatellites/batterydeaddotdot’s work!

Some of their writings is already saved through some of those accounts: @/jonsameta & @/bookjonsa & @/esther-dot. Y’all can check! Here are the others:

BOOKS:

Sansa Stark: The Princess in the Tower

RLJ & Jonsa Payoff

Dragons, Snow and Armchairs

Can there be ONE ideal ruler?

Trojan War Literature influence on GRRM

The Red Comet: A Closer Look

Grey Dawn: Hour of the Wolf + Nightingale

To go forward you must look back: Dany’s tragic fall

Jon Snow as an Anti Hero

Val: A Subversion of BATB in Jon’s arc? + “something off about Val”

The Resurrection Problem

The Cost of Weaponizing Dragons For a Cause: Doran + Jon

There is Power in Living Wood: Bran’s role in the War

Valar Morghulis: Could Arya kill Dany?: Part 1 & Part 2

Stark Girls’ connections: To go forward you must go back

Fathers and Daughters

Sansa Stark: A Winter Rose?

Sansa Stark: A Girl in Glass

Sansa’s Fairytale and Myth allusions

The Blindspot of FPTP thread: Oversexualisation and overlooking age

Ask: Does “begging for a stranger’s kiss” foreshadow Sansa/Hound?

Deconstruction of BATB figures: He’s even uglier than the Hound

The Unkiss: The War Spilling Inside

Sansa’s repression of Jeyne

Alysanne: Paralleling Sansa + Contrasting Dany foreshadowing

A Song to Dodge A Kiss With a Blade (Part 1): Sansa/Hound and Jon/Ygritte ACOK comparisons

The Innocuous Nature of Jon/Sansa Foreshadowing

Snow: Lover’s Kisses

A Son by Marriage

1. Like a Lover; 2. Like a Kiss; 3. Kissed by Fire; 4. Burning Light and Dark Woods; 5. Intruders in Winterfell; 6. The Heart of Winterfell; 7. Fire: Hearth vs. Weapons

Dance of Dragons + Pact of Ice and Fire

Jonquils and Blue Roses

Horses and Flowers

Some Willowy Creature Who Sits Up in a Tower

A Union of the Old Gods and the New: Importance of understanding the Seven

Ask: Thoughts on Bridge4’s Video “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell”

Theories:

Bran as the Valonqar

History is a Wheel: Jon’s Rebellion

Jon’s Resurrection Repercussions

Dead Man with the Head of a Wolf: A Re-look

The Heart Tree of Winterfell: Tolkien influence

Complicating the Fantasy Battle: War Factions in the War for Dawn

Trail of Scrolls

Lady and the Ghost: Part 1; Part 2; Part 3

Shadowbinders, Death and Sacrifice

Sansa, the Vale and Mountain Clans: Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4

Seasons of My Love

Jon’s Survival: Beginning of Subverting Westerosi Classism

Child of Flame and Shadow: Not a living child but a shadow child?

Shadowbinders, Death and Sacrifice: Dany with Mirri and Melisandre

A Potential Wildcard Advisor: Bronze Yohn Royce and the Importance of the Vale

Why Ghost is unlikely to like Dany: Melisandre and Val in ADWD

Others:

Jonsa: Tolkien influences

Jonsa: A Good Endgame

Jonsa is happening because it's how GRRM's mind works

Jonsa’s Hints: On how antis ignore Jonsa foreshadowing

POV’S: Heros or not

House of the Undying and Quaithe for Dany & Mythology

Dany criticism 

Other links: about asoiaf; asoiaf metas; asoiaf theories + part 2

Anyone who has some of their writing saved can feel free to share! I would be thankful.

[superkooku]

This timeline is absolutely insane 😂. I knew it was from the start but your points really just highlighted everything funny and wrong with this whole idea.

Imagine how family dinners would look like, though. Even without the whole Phaedra and Apollo crackship, it'd be horribly cursed and I think Theseus would want to jump out the window. But if we add THEM into the mix, it's so funny.

Theseus

His wife Phaedra

His son Hippolytus who Phaedra fell in love with

His wife's father and political enemy Minos

His wife's mother and daughter of Helios Pasiphae

Theseus' ex and Phaedra's sister Ariadne

An Olympian god and his ex's husband Dionysus

And if we add Apollo, we have his wife's ex AND his ex fiance's husband's half-brother who's also an Olympian god

Theseus and Phaedra's kids

Dionysus and Ariadne's kids

The ghosts of Ariadne and Phaedra's brothers (including the Minotaur lol). Plus the ghost of Aegeus

Let's just bring Artemis at that point, as if there weren't enough gods. Because Hippolytus really needs the emotional support at this point.

Or Zeus because he's basically connected to everyone in this mess except Pasiphae.

And then the possibility that they had kids 😅. Yes, because if the situation isn't cursed enough, imagine if Phaedra and Apollo had kids.

Also, Apollo's only marriage being THIS mess is the cherry on top.

So much rambling for an impossible crackship, I love it !

I was doing some research on Phaedra and stumbled on this gem. After clicking on the research, I was relieved to realize this isn't about Apollo and Phaedra from mythology but two real-life people. The guy is named Apollo Nida and a woman Phaedra Park. I know nothing about these two btw so the details won't be explained.

But now I'm imagining Phaedra somehow having a thing with Apollo, marrying him, then divorce and be married to Theseus afterwards and THEN fall in love with her stepson. As if Phaedra's love life wasn't already a trainwreck.

Or maybe she thought "If my sister can handle marrying an Olympian god, then so can I >:3" before realizing she can't or smth. With Apollo being confused the whole time. Yet another love story that ends up badly for him...

Going from Apollo to Theseus would be a big downgrade but then again, Coronis DID choose to cheat on this gorgeous deity with Ischys who seems remarkably unremarkable so maybe it could've happened. Even though she did seem to want him, contrary to Daphne or Bolina, so she just made a stupid choice.

(note that ofc there is absolutely zero source neither Greek nor Latin even slightly hinting at anything between these two and it's just me making a joke post about an impossible crackship.)

[writers-potion]

Creating Villains and Monsters (dark fic)

Human Villains

Serial killer, cruel despot, sexual sadist, religious fanatic, playground bully or a hypocritical schemer.

Cliches to Avoid

a villain who is pur evil with no redeeming qualities

the villain who is evil without real reason

hot stinking breath

manical laughter

Motivation

"Because he is evil" is not a sufficient answer.

Give him ambition, a twisted worldview, a twisted past, an obsession that drive him forward with some logic, not blind bloodlust.

Depth

A complex villain adds emotional power and depth to the story.

He has a genuine good side, and may even be up for redemption...but doesn't choose this path.

Draw similarities between the evil and the hero. They may come from the same background, skills or even the same cause - but they have different ethical standards.

Show the hero struggling against the evil streaks in his nature, and the villain fighting the good streak in his.

Describing the Villain

Smiles: make them chilling by using detail. - his lips curved and bared teeth. - the corners of her mouth turned up, but the smile did not reach her eyes.

Voice: compare the voice to something unpleasant. - his voice sounded like a dentist's drill - he spoke with the coldness of a ... - his voice had the ... tone of a ... - his voice was as sharp as a ...

Eyes: compare the color to something unpleasant - as dark and murky as a stagnant pond - as piercing as a pair of daggers - glinting like steel blades - the color of frostbite

Smell: insert a detail about how the villain smells when they approach the POV character - peppermint mouthwash and aftershave - beer and stale sweat - garlic and axle-grease

Hands: describe the texture of this hands, and the shape of their nails.

Monsters

Invite the reader to feel pity for the monster by giving it a motivation that readers can understand on a human level - for example, to protect is young, or break its loneliness.

Reveal Bit By Bit

The issue with inducing horror with monsters is that once the reader has seen it, it no longer has the same chilling effect.

Show a different part each time, and delay the full view for as long as possible. Perhaps it can only be heard first, then the smell.

Keep It Plausible

If the monster is a beast of imagination, plausibility is another challenge.

How did it come into existenc?

A prehistoric animal, survived or recreated.

A mythological creature

A new species from faraway lands

A real animal infected with a new disease

A ruthless government ran a program for new monsters

A mutation occurred, resulting in a monster.

A major plausibility factor is size. Just times 4x a normal animal wouldn't be palusible, since their skeleton won't be able to hold the weight.

Outsize flying creatures are also not likely. Water creates can plausibly have enormous sizes.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* . ───

💎If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 

💎Before you ask, check out my masterpost part 1 and part 2 

💎For early access and prioritized questions, become a Writing Wizard 

[keferon]

Requests are closed

Oh look - My drawings:) And my YouTube

Please don’t re-upload my art on other websites

==================

Mecha au - humans piloting and dating giant robots

Reverse Mecha AU (yes. Really.)

Empurata Prowl AU (JazzProwl) - it is exactly what it sounds like

ꕥ Monster hunter au - Dratchet and weird mythology (Same universe)

ꕥ Spellbound - Shockblurr and weird mythology (Same universe)

ꕥ Mimics au - JazzProwl and weird mythology (Same universe)

Superhero AU - Superhero!Blurr/Swerve

Snow bots AU - humanisations and cozy winter vibes

Death loop AU - Blurr being isekaid every time he dies

How to make friends without making words - Drift, Hot rod and their silent fuckery

How much sass can beat death - shockblurr au

Apocalyptic Ponyo - merfolks and humans surviving the apocalypse (masterpost in progress)

Our language of science - Simpatico..mermaids..yes

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Bonus - me, building a custom Blurr figure☆

And building a custom Drift figure as well☆

If you want to write a fanfic about any of these concepts - feel free to do it, I don't mind. Just please send me the link, so I can read it too. Thanks:)

[achilles-patroclus-comic]

The first 8 pages of Achilles and Patroclus, written by James Washburn & illustrated by Chess Amadé Albaneze, a new queer graphic novel currently in production based on Homer's The Iliad.

Achilles and Patroclus was originally a play by James Washburn of @magpieartistsensemble, but Chess first encountered it as an opera in the Seattle Creation Lab of 2020-21. "I was in love with the text," they said. "The music too, but there was this intimate vulnerability between these characters that survived when blown up to a grand scale. It's hard to write like that. I was in love with the poetry of it all."

When James of Magpie sought to bring the text to visual life in the form of a graphic novel, he noted that "Magpie received a lot of artist applications for Achilles and Patroclus, but once we saw Chess's, there was no question in anyone's mind. Their work is visceral yet elegant - the perfect balance for a story where violence and tenderness intertwine."

For now, only these 8 pages will be made public until the project is finished and in physical print. If you'd like to read the rest of each page as they update, you can subscribe to Magpie Artists Ensemble Ko-Fi or to Chess's Patreon. If you want to peek at the paneling drafts, those are available only on Chess's Patreon.

If you would like to help bring this project to life but can't afford to financially support us, please spread this post around and give this page a follow to keep up with our announcements! Getting this project in front of more eyes is more important than you know, so thank you.

James Washburn (he/him) is a gay, trans, and disabled Storyteller-Activist born and raised in Seattle. His work is predicated on the idea that a story is best told with many voices, and he is deeply influenced by his Queer, artistic, and Polish communities, and his experiences at the intersection of marginalized identities. He takes inspiration from folklore, mythology, and queer history. His work focuses on discovering queerness in traditional stories and reimagining familiar tropes and archetypes through a queer lens.

Washburn is the Founding Artistic Director of @magpieartistsensemble, an artistic collective focused on innovative cross-disciplinary storytelling.

Chess Amadé Albaneze (he/she/they) has been creating comics since 2009, and their current projects other than A&P include the comic @hooffellas and the queer paranormal DND-style podcast @dandiesindanger. They are an American genderfluid trans masc artist, composer, and performer whose music was performed in the SO Creation Lab and whose voice work can be heard in @janellefeng's short film La Mort de Robespierre.

[cynthiav06]

Ok, so I am HOWLING with laughter.

So, have you heard? People are comparing Percy and Annabeth to................Odysseus and Penelope.

When I heard this, you don't know how funny it was to me. I almost choked on my spit. LMAOOOOOOOOOOO

Penelope would NEVER hit or insult Odysseus. She doesn't play mind games with him and they communicate properly.

Odysseus and Penelope are not toxic. Percabeth is.

Also, Rick Riordan is LEAGUES worse than Homer. Like, the guy cannot even compare to the ACTUAL GREEK POET.

And people are actually comparing the two.

Percy Jackson IS good at times, but it will NEVER compare to Homer's compositions. Literally never.

TBH that's just my personal opinion.

Also, Homer actually composed many of the Greek epics that we still read today.

I get why people would want to compare them, but there is no comparison, really. It's so fucking funny to me.

Anyway, what are your thoughts on Percabeth compared to Odysseus and Penelope?

That comparison alone has ruined the New Year for me. It's an insult to the Odyssey. Hell, it's an insult to the recently released Ithaca Saga of Epic the Musical.

But seriously, are these things actually being said? Cause that puts Percabeth stans from delusional category to brain dead.

Homer's Iliad and The Odyssey are one of history's most reputed myths of all time. And the primary source of Greek mythology for many people. I am certain Rick himself referred Homer's works for ideas and references. Even Riordan himself would be ashamed to compare his writing to Homer, in even the slightest manner.

Now to Odysseus and Penelope; the greatest couple of all time, truly and undeniably. The orignal eternal love. Even Hera, the goddess of marriage and family, considers Odysseus and Penelope's marriage bed sacred. Which Odysseus carved out of a living tree as a symbol of their undying love and so that it could never be moved.

Odysseus crawled through hell to get to Penelope and Telemachus. He survived and won the 10 year long Trojan war, defeated/ tricked a Cyclops, countless mythical monsters, Circe, Calypso, and even Zeus himself and at last Poseidon. That alone is beyond comprehension. Because Odysseus isn't a demigod or any specially blessed being. No, he is just an ordinary mortal, a genius mortal, one trained by the wisdom goddess but an ordinary mortal all the same. Yes, he is one of a kind genius, but these are literally eldritch creatures compared to him.

Let me put it this way, Odysseus is the OG Batman. He is who all smart fictional human characters aspire to be.

The Odyssey is literally about the all transcending power of human will. Of Odysseus's sheer fucking will to get back home, to his wife and son. That's it. A common desire of a common man, yet so miraculously burning and indomitable in Odysseus's mind that it alone outshines his extraordinary genius.

He quite literally died on his way there. Had to hitch a ride through the Underworld and then some.

Then he had to sacrifice his ENTIRE CREW, HIS FRIENDS, HIS COMRADES to get back to Ithaca. Mind you, Odysseus had the record of getting every single one of his 600 men alive out of Trojan War. The only one to have done so. And he had to lose some to the tragedies and then WILLINGLY SACRIFICE others to get back to Penelope.

I don't think there are words enough to encapsulate Odysseus's dedication.

Now Penelope. The thing is, she is just as bloody impressive. The Queen of Ithaca and a Spartan Princess, she is also one of a kind. Throughout Odysseus's departure and the suitors' invasion , not five, not ten, 108 SUITORS, Penelope held her own, keeping the castle, her son Telemachus and herself secure. All the while, raising Telemachus and running the kingdom on her own as well.

She tricked the suitors into an eternally futile game of trying to lift Odysseus's bow and shoot with it. Tricked them by telling them she was weaving Odysseus's shroud, which, when finished, would signify that she is picking a new husband. Each day, she would weave for all suitors to see, and each night, she would unravel the shroud. All in an attempt to stall. Among the many other ways, she did so. Including STEADFASTLY DENYING EACH AND EVERY SUITOR CONSTANTLY FOR YEARS AS THEY ASKED FOR HER HAND, NEVER ONCE LOSING HOPE OR FAITH IN ODYSSEUS.

When Odysseus returns, disguised as a beggar, she not only immediately recognizes him but subtly helps him in killing the suitors, which then Odysseus and Telemachus proceed to do.

All 108 suitors dead in a night. Add that to 600 men under Odysseus's command. 708 lives murdered and then some all for Odysseus and Penelope to reunite.

And this is me abridging the whole thing. Imagine the struggle, the suffering, the mental and physical trauma. 20 years straight. You can't fathom it.

I don't think I have words enough to state how repulsively disrespectfully wretched this comparison is. I would use an analogy, but it's so horrendous that I don't think there's one that suffices.

I literally have more than half the posts dedicated to dismantling the delusion of percabeth being a perfect ship, so I won't preach to the choir, but I mean Annabeth's fatal flaw is Hubris and Percy's is Personal Loyalty. Go figure.

If that isn't enough, Percy jumped in Tartarus for Annabeth. She fell, but Percy jumped, among the many other ways he has saved her from countless deaths. And Annabeth offers him what in return? It would have been alright if she gave him nothing in return, but somehow, the situation is EVEN WORSE.

Physical and mental demeaning. Toxic and controlling attitude and of course BLAMING HIM FOR GETTING KIDNAPPED AND HAVING HIS MEMORY WIPED BY A GODDESS. WOW, THAT SOUNDS SO SIMILAR TO PENELOPE AND ODYSSEUS.

Not to mention, Penelope accepted her husband, as he was. Even after being so completely changed by his tragic journey that he was quite literally NO LONGER HIMSELF.

And Percy when had to CHOKE AKHYLS WHO WAS DEFINITELY GOING TO KILL HIM AND ANNABETH, WAS KILLING HIM AND ANNABETH, OUT OF SELF DEFENSE AND SHE BLAMES HIM AND FORCES HIM TO PROMISE NOT TO USE HIS POWERS TO DEFEND HIMSELF???

WHAT THE FUCK??? And sure it would have been ignorable had it not had any long term effects. BUT NO PERCY ALMOST KILLS HIMSELF OUT OF KEEPING HIS PROMISE TO ANNABETH.

Call them whatever the hell you want but DON'T EVER COMPARE THEIR RELATIONSHIP TO ODYSSEUS AND PENELOPE.

PERCY DESERVES INFINITELY BETTER THAN ANNABETH. Enough said, really.

[deepspacenova]

Crimson Destruction

As a war rages on, Sylus finds himself closer to peace than he'd ever been. The start of his plans, his future, it's just one battle away. But fate might have other plans.

➻➻ ABOUT | 4000 words. sylus x fem!reader.

➻➻ TAGS | heavy angst. war and battle. blood/injury. major character death.

NOTE: This draws a lot of parallels with Sylus' myth and portrays a bit of history repeating itself. Apologies in advance for any pain and suffering this might cause, guess this one's for the masochists — so make sure to read those warnings (:

Inspired by this ask and i think i may have... over-delivered? Either way, I hope I did your prompt justice @huachengnism <3

Also, bc no ideas are original, I was half done writing this when I found this post by @relentlessconqueror, who I apparently share at least a few brain cells with when it comes to headcanons so *fist bump*

She struggled to catch her breath, her chest heaving with the exertion of the escape. Her ribs screamed with every inhale, bruised from the last blow she’d taken before breaking free, and every bone in her body ached.

It'd been hours since Mephisto miraculously landed on the bars of her cell in the depths of the Association's intricate Wanderer prison system with an all-access key card. But she — they, she corrected as she felt the reassuring pressure of the crow's talons perch on her shoulder — were alive and unhurt. 

The battle had moved to what little remained of the newest No Hunt Zone: what was once known as Linkon City Centre. The once bustling hub that had been full of people and livelihoods had been reduced to a crater on the planet’s surface, destroyed by violence, explosions, and carnage. Linkon was falling, neighborhood by neighborhood, consumed by chaos orchestrated by the Hunter’s Association. Their relentless pursuit of her — the so-called Traitorous Tenebra — had left a trail of destruction in their wake.

She'd barely survived the Alpha Team's brutal "interrogation," which had brought her to the brink of unconsciousness when they demanded information she refused to give. But it was their arrogance and the surrounding destruction of their crusade to capture the elusive leader of Onychinus that let her slip through their grasp.

Now, she had one goal: find Sylus so they could escape this nightmare.

It was easy to predict how today would go — Ever Group’s unrelenting thirst for domination and the Hunter's Association’s relentless pursuit of Onychinus and aether cores made for a volatile duo. But no one, not even Sylus, who had an uncanny knack for understanding human nature, could have foreseen how they would fuel each other’s chaos, turning the Linkon into a nightmare of their own making.

Bloodthirsty men who called themselves "researchers" with protocore-powered ammunition stormed the streets, piercing through civilians like arrows of death. She'd done all she could to defend the innocents of Linkon from afar with the Hunter weapons she’d swiped on her way out of the Association. But only so many could be saved while it seemed like countless others met their ends.

Of course, the Hunters had their own twisted methods for submission. The few teams she'd spotted were taking protocore-inlaid weapons while Wanderers followed their commands like the puppets Xander Sciences made them to be. The very creatures the Association set out to destroy, now wielded like oversized hellhounds to take down Onychinus' leader, "the harbinger of doomsday in Linkon."

She couldn't help but scoff at their zealous fanaticism. And she was the Tenebra.

Bodies and blood were strewn across the cobblestone and the asphalt, and there were far more dead from their side than she’s sure they had predicted in their arrogance. But the fate of Ever’s defeat loomed over the rubble like the mythological Hades, waiting to collect his souls. 

She watched for a few minutes as the attacks grew more spaced apart, deciding that now was the perfect time to send the signal to Sylus. She’d only had a glimpse of his black-red mist and that was hours ago. All she’d wanted to do was cup the reassuring beat of his heart in her hands, to feel his hand wrap around the back of her head, pressing her nose into the warmth of his neck. 

Now was the time. They were done here. Done with this place. 

She looked at the thunderclouds overhead, swelling with eagerness to spill their deluge of water over the landscape. She removed the dark red gem around her wrist before her hands rose to clasp it over her companion's sturdy neck. Her fingers trailed the cold metal of her crow's studded wing when she murmured, "Keep this safe for me, you big fiend. Now, Mephisto. Go."

His mechanical wings unfolded before he launched into the stormy sky. She watched the crimson glimmer as he soared with a fluid grace and precision that made him as real to her as any other crow.

Sylus would know to meet her now.  

Sylus surveyed the No Hunt Zone from the neighborhood’s tallest building, atop the skeletal remains of empty flats that had somehow stayed standing. He was up there for a better vantage point, sure, but he also had to distance himself from the eye-stinging smoke that had surrounded him below as well as the eerily familiar, nausea-inducing smell of burning flesh. 

But he wasn’t going to think about it. Couldn’t think about it. That was then, this is now. 

He'd purposefully stayed within sight of Linkon's supposed saviors and the battle, moving just enough to keep their attention fixed on him. He darted between buildings, his black-red mist filtering through the haze of smoke, a deliberate lure to give her a chance to make it above ground and send him their signal.

He felt a faint trace of her energy only an hour ago as he moved around, commanding and powerful, the only source of water in a desert of death.

Sylus' heart almost beat out of his chest in anticipation of being with her without time limits, without restraint, and he did his best to tamp down that feeling he forbade himself to feel since he was a dragon with his first love: hope. 

But he couldn’t avoid the promise of their escape. It wrapped around him and took the form of her body, making him feel a longing so fierce, he had to force his feet to stay on the stone until Mephisto arrived. 

The firing shots and pained cries were getting fewer and far between, with no shadows of Wanderers moving within sight. The battle was almost over. 

As Sylus squinted to see if any of his men lay among the dead, his ears caught a rhythmic flapping, prompting him to extend his forearm. When he felt the cold weight of the robot's body land on his arm, two things happened at once.

One, his gaze locked on his bracelet's twin, the garnet-colored gem winking at him as he took it off the crow's neck and clenched his palm around it. Two, at the same time, Mephisto's beak opened to reveal the recording device within and the only voice he ever wanted to hear rang out, "Keep this safe for me, you big fiend."

The sound of the words surrounded him like an embrace. Fiend.

He froze in delighted disbelief and couldn’t help it. He laughed. A loud, genuine laugh. It sounded gravelly and unpracticed, feeling foreign on his battle-hardened cheeks, but he couldn’t contain his relief. 

They were done here. 

Mephisto trailed Sylus like a shadow in the sky as he headed toward the N109 Zone, smirking all the way. Very much the opposite of the expression a man who’d just sacrificed everything he’d built on this planet, whose organization had been disintegrated by the Hunters Association, should be wearing. 

He glanced back every so often at Linkon behind him, a scorched blemish on the landscape. 

Impatient, Sylus tried to seek her out with his evol and swore he could feel her heading his way. He was half-tempted to haul her to him, her complaints of manhandling be damned.

The abandoned buildings in the N109 Zone stood like silent witnesses, their jagged edges silhouetted against the unnaturally bright moon. 

He glanced around and whispered her name a few times. When no one answered back he leaned against a crumbling wall, waiting for her. The moon seemed brighter in the sky.

That was when he saw the sinister glow of emerald eyes in the alley. 

A sharp crack split the air, as Sylus’ power surged forward, barely stopping a metaflux-infused bullet mid-air and disintegrating it into nothing before it pierced his chest. 

"Impressive," a guttural voice growled from the darkness. 

The lead scientist of Xander Sciences emerged and Sylus’ lips twisted into a grimace. The maniac had fused himself with a Wanderer. 

The aether core Ever had attempted to manufacture had done more than just augment him — it had warped him completely. Whatever remained of his humanity was buried under a grotesque amalgamation of man and Wanderer. Ugly green scales shimmered under the moonlight, and claws scraped the concrete as he moved.

"I was wondering when you’d crawl out of your hole," Sylus said, his voice calm and unbothered. 

The monster sneered, revealing his jagged face. "You’ve meddled with us for the last time. This planet is mine to reshape. You won’t stand in our way."

He moved with inhuman speed, closing the distance between them in a blur. He slashed with his claws, but Sylus ducked, releasing a burst of energy that sent him skidding backward. The hybrid roared, firing another shot, but Sylus twisted his hand, bending the energy around him to absorb the bullet’s momentum before redirecting it in a volatile arc that scorched the ground at the monster’s feet.

The battle was a storm of power. The hybrid lunged, his claws tearing through the air, but Sylus met him head-on, energy crackling from his fists as they clashed. Each blow lit up the darkness, casting crimson shadows on the crumbling walls around them.

"You’re nothing but a monster now," Sylus gritted out, his voice strained as he deflected another strike. "Even your own tech couldn’t handle your ambition."

He laughed, the sound a guttural snarl. "Ambition is evolution. And evolution demands sacrifice!"

Sylus wasn’t winning this fight, though. He’d already won. 

The hybrid had definitely been injured in battle, or he might’ve just been drunk on bloodlust, but either way, his attacks were haphazard and sloppy at best. Sylus was just looking for the right opening, baiting him so he could deliver her final strike against him. 

Sylus’ evol surged, spiraling around him in a black-red maelstrom of raw power. He struck the ground with his fist, sending a shockwave that threw the monster off balance. Taking the opening, Sylus launched forward, his fist colliding with its jagged jaw, cracking scales and sending it stumbling.

But he recovered, the gun in his beastly hand raised as he fired a spray of bullets, each one infused with metaflux. Sylus dodged, but one grazed his arm, searing through his jacket and burning his skin.

Gritting his teeth, he channeled his frustration into his power, summoning a massive sphere of energy. "This ends now," Sylus growled.

The sphere expanded, its glow lighting up the area around them. With a roar, Sylus hurled it at his enemy, picturing the faces of the hundreds, thousands of humans and monsters alike who had wronged him. Wronged her.

The hybrid tried to counter, his claws swiping through the air to absorb the energy, but the sheer force of Sylus’s attack overwhelmed him. The explosion rocked the area, sending debris flying and shrouding the battlefield in smoke.

When the dust settled, the brilliant Carter of Xander Sciences lay motionless, his hybrid body cracked and broken. Sylus stood over him, breathing heavily, his evol flickering around him like a lightning storm.

"Evolution demands sacrifice," Sylus echoed, his voice low. "Guess you were right about that."

She sighed as she spotted the outskirts of the N109 Zone and headed toward their spot, toward Sylus. She knew he’d be there waiting for her, knew he'd gotten her signal when she saw the silhouette of a black crow sailing through the sky. 

She couldn’t wait to be with him unreservedly, without ever having to leave his side again. She found herself getting excited, feeling a breathless sort of anticipation. Her body ached, the pain of old wounds and new wounds alike coming together throughout her body. And it took all of her willpower to stay cautious of stragglers, to not to break into a sprint. 

But her willpower was no match for hope. No match for the smile that slowly dominated every inch of her face. 

She’d never been so overjoyed, so relieved. So overcome with the need to see his vermillion-streaked eyes, taste teasing smirk, feel his silver-streaked hair. 

The journey felt endless, like she was the Greek king Sisyphus, eternally destined to never reach her only goal. But finally, finally, she could see the haphazard border of the N109 Zone.

When she was just a few dozen feet away, she spotted him, reclined against a stone wall near a felled wanderer, spotlighted by the moon like her very own star.

She paused to compose herself, holding back her stupid tears of joy, of relief. He hadn’t noticed her yet and she was okay with that, content to steal a moment of gazing at him for herself. 

But then he stirred, his eyes lifting to meet hers, and her breath hitched. A teasing smirk tugged at his lips, but it softened when he noticed the way she looked at him, the way her entire being seemed to collapse with relief.

“You’re late,” he called to her. 

She broke into a run, ignoring the protests of her body, her legs barely able to keep pace with the urgency in her chest. “Sylus!”

He stayed in place, his arms opening as she barreled into him, wrapping herself around him. The warmth of his body and traces of his evol enveloped her, buzzing against her skin like a thousand kisses.

One of his arms slipped down to wrap her leg around his waist and held it there, as if the pressure of her chest against his wasn't nearly enough. She felt the warmth of his lips and the sharpness of his teeth on the space between her neck and shoulder as he tentatively nipped her there, like he was infusing himself into her.

She pulled back with a gasp to look up at him, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. His greedy gaze faltered for a moment, replaced by something softer, something vulnerable, as his eyes searched hers.

And then she kissed him.

Her lips met his in a rush of emotion—relief, joy, desperation—all spilling into that single moment. For a heartbeat, he froze, startled, before his hands moved to cup her face, pulling her closer. His evol flared, an electric hum that danced between them, matching the frantic rhythm of her heart.

When they finally broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest to her palm, which caressed the pulse of his neck.

“Careful, sweetie, I might start thinking you like me,” he rasped, his voice rough and playful as his hand slid to the small of her back, holding her close.

She laughed through the lump in her throat, clinging to him tightly.

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, ruby gaze sparkling with mischief. His brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You look like hell.”

“I’ll live,” she reassured, leaning into his touch. “I just… needed to see you.”

He sighed as if the words were a balm, hand still cradling her face. “Good,” he said, his thumb brushing her cheek. “Because this big fiend will hunt you down if you leave my sight. Or—" he let go of her leg to circle her wrist and fasten her half of their bracelet around her wrist. "—dare to take this off again."

“Not a chance,” she whispered into his throat, wrapping her arms around him to clasp the bracelet with her other palm, as if printing its jagged shape into her wrist. “No matter how many times the world turns its back on us, I’m never leaving your side.”

The moment took up the entire lens of her focus, so she didn’t spot the other silhouette skulking from the entrance of the N109 Zone.

Sylus felt the shift a second too late.

The sharp, metallic click of a gun broke the fragile quiet, the sound slicing through the air like a knife.

She turned toward the sound and Sylus saw her eyes widen, not with fear, but with recognition.

“Jenna,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

From the shadows stepped her former leader, the woman who had once been her mentor. Jenna's presence was a weapon in itself, Sylus knew —steely, unyielding, and absolute. A metaflux-infused dagger was already raised aimed directly at Sylus.

“Did you really think I needed all the prison guards? I knew where he went, you’d follow,” Jenna’s voice sliced through the air, her voice razor-sharp as she spoke to her and aimed a disgusted glance at Sylus. "The perfect bait."

Without hesitation, she threw the blade like a dart.

"No!" she screamed as Sylus pushed her away from him, the blade slicing his cheek and eye, leaving a burning streak of pain and a hazy right field of vision in its wake.

Pain erupted like a white-hot brand as the impact shattered the aether core in his eye. Blood and fragments of glowing green dripped down his face in a torrent, obscuring his vision.

He staggered, his breath hitching as agony lanced through his skull. The disorienting mix of searing pain and the flickering in his right eye overwhelmed him, and he stumbled.

Through the haze of pain, he could feel the core’s fragments still burning into him and the world around him blurred as his mind fought to regain focus.

A frustrated sob behind him made his blood run cold.

Raising his head, his heart dropped as he saw Jenna’s gun aimed not at Sylus but at her aether core. Her heart. Jenna's other hand had forcefully raised her elbow, aiming his beloved's gun at Sylus' chest.

“You had such promise, young Hunter," Jenna continued, her tone lamenting. "But you should’ve known better than to run from your fate.”

“Jenna, please—”

Something sinister flickered across Jenna's face before vanishing into her practiced calm. “I taught you everything. And this… is how you repay me?” Her tone was as merciless and final. "Now you either kill him, or I kill you."

“Don’t touch her,” Sylus growled, his voice low and dangerous. He tried to reach out toward her, tried desperately to yank her back to him and take her away, but his evol didn't respond.

Jenna only smirked, her grip tightening as she tilted her head. “Your fate has always been sealed. But hers… Well, that depends on how obedient she feels.” She shrugged coldly. “Now shoot him."

Sylus' mind raced as his blurry gaze locked onto the watery anger of her eyes, familiar to him for longer than this planet's entire existence.

"Do it." He ignored her cry of indignant fury at his unmistakable command as he spoke cruel words wrapped in a loving tone.

"Sylus, no."

Inhaling through the pain he exhaled a shaky, almost impatient sigh. She had to do this, had to know he was okay with a world without him in it. "You bluffed once before in this position, kitten. Don't let a second chance pass you by."

"Stop!" The hand being forcefully aimed at his heart was shaking.

Suddenly a fierce resolve burned behind her eyes at his words, at the memory.

Her quaking hand suddenly steadied and her fingers adjusted their grip on the gun, and for a moment, relief overcame the pain in Sylus' body when he thought of her shooting him and ending it once and for all.

But — his cunning little kitten — she outmaneuvered them all.

She twisted her wrist, aimed the barrel at her chest, and pulled the trigger.

The deafening crack of the gunshot rang out, the impact jerking her frame as the bullet pierced right through her and struck Jenna, who staggered backward, eyes wide with shock as crimson bloomed on her Hunter's uniform.

Letting her go, Jenna clutched at her chest as she fell to the ground.

And the world slowed to a crawl.

The visceral scream that tore through his throat was a feral sound, an ancient, animalistic roar that was both agonized and shrill enough to become a death knell for every living being in Linkon. In the world.

Sylus’ legs buckled as he caught the weight of her body. His knees hit the concrete, and his arms tightened around her as he laid her trembling form on the ground.

“No, no, no,” he growled, his voice cracking as he pressed his hands against the flickering, shattered aether core in her chest, desperate to stem the flow of blood.

Her face was scrunched up tight in excruciating pain, but she was still alive. He could work with that. He would. 

“Fuck. You’re okay, kitten, you’re okay,” he crooned. He ignored the blood dripping from his eye to her chest and tried linking his hands through hers, tried to get her to resonate with him, to activate either of their evols so he could at least attempt to—

But her hands were bloody and trembling and limp.

"It's okay, Sylus. It's... alright," she soothed, wincing. "There's no choice, if it's between you and me. No choice."

A half-growl, half-sob escaped him. “Yes, and that choice is always you. Now look at me so I can fix your mistake and figure out how to— no, you're not allowed to close your eyes."

He paused during his diatribe, noticing just how much of his blood and hers had pooled beneath them, just how pale her lips were getting.

“There’s no saving this, Sylus.” Her unfocused eyes met his, hand hovering in the air weakly to pull his face down and place a kiss on his forehead.

The familiarity of the feeling overwhelmed him, like a thousand cuts of grief all at once. His groan sounded like a whimper as he pulled back to grab her hand and press it into the ravaged side of his face.

"Jenna was wrong.... about your fate." She inhaled a ragged breath. "We just made sure of it. There's no going back now."

All he could do was shake his head and imprint her hand over his eye, cold reality starting to fall like ashes around him.

When grey wisps started to sprinkle her hair and rest against her eyelashes, he realized it was actual ash. To some, it might’ve been beautiful; to him, it was devastating. Their souls were separating again, except this time, she was the one leaving him.

"If I ever had a soul—" he exhaled a shaky breath, blinked past the wetness that blurred his good eye, "—just know that it was you."

"You'll always be tied to me, Sylus. Forever." Her breaths were faster, shallower.

Her cheek twitched up and her eyelashes fluttered as suddenly, weak little notes squeezed their way out of her chest. His hand tightened around hers as the familiar melody embraced him and finally made the chest-wracking emotions drip salty trails down his cheek.

As the final note of her requiem faded, there was a long silence.

He waited for her voice again, for more words, but when he pulled back her chest was a pool of crimson and her eyes were closed.

She was gone, and he was in agony.

Suffering had long created a hole in his blackened heart. But this pain was unlike anything he’d felt before. It enveloped him, suffocated him.

And that’s when he found it. That small pebble of rage beneath the mountain of anguish. 

He set her on the ground as gently as he could before getting up and sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth, focusing on the anger so he could escape his grief. 

He felt it latch onto faint, flickering traces of his evol and the two powers laced together like two lovers, moving through his body, his fingertips.

He almost felt drunk with it.

He didn't notice it at first, he was still fixated on his beloved's lifeless face, but there was a soft glow radiating from the shattered remnants of their aether cores.

Black-red mist twitched restlessly and began to stretch outward.

“The day of judgment is today. Everyone will pay for this,” said Sylus, his voice utterly calm. “The whole world will burn.”