#so its utterly unappealing

[ragedagainst]

this is a private headcanon i've had for awhile and i've decided to bite the bullet and finally post it ( and hopefully tag it correctly )

given the opportunity during her time in the partisans or soon after, jyn likely would have medically ensured that she wouldn't be able to have children. i'm not going to go into too much detail because this might be triggering but basically, in any verse where this is possible, she doesn't want biological children or to get pregnant, so she ensures that it won't happen. this is a consensual decision and one she doesn't regret over the course of her lifetime. despite that, in any sexual encounters, she does always use proper contraception.

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Ninety-Seven

The letter was sent the following morning by raven, its black wings cutting through the dawn sky, carrying Maera’s final plea for peace to Kings Landing. Within a few hours, the Black Queen would have received it, the delicate script of Maera’s hand laid bare before her, a final attempt to avoid the horrors of war.

However, two weeks had passed since then, and no reply had come. Each morning, Maera woke with a knot of anticipation in her chest, half expecting some notification, some shred of response, but it never arrived. The silence from the Capital was deafening, and it filled her with a growing anxiety that gnawed at her resolve. The lack of a reply made her question whether she should have attempted this last endeavor for peace at all.

As she sat at the breakfast table one morning, Maera could hardly bring herself to eat. The knot in her stomach made every bite of food unappealing, and she found herself merely picking at her plate, jabbing at the food with her fork. Her green eyes, usually so full of fire and determination, were distant as she stared out of the window across the sea.

She could see Blackwater Bay in the distance, its waters a dark, brooding blue under the morning sky. Somewhere beyond those waters was the towers of the Red Keep, where the Black Queen resided—where Rhaenyra sat, openly ignoring the letter that had cost Maera so much effort, so much hope. The waves crashed rhythmically against the shore, but their soothing sound only served to heighten her unease.

What was Rhaenyra thinking? Was she plotting? Waiting? Or did the letter simply mean nothing to her at all? The uncertainty gnawed at Maera, and she felt a wave of nausea rise within her. This waiting game felt more excruciating than any battle she could have prepared for, and the silence from across the water was becoming unbearable.

“Your fretting with not change the outcome,” a voice interrupted her spiraling thoughts. Maera’s eyes flicked back to the table, where her husband, the King, sat opposite her. On his knee, he bounced Aemara, their daughter, who was utterly fixated on the spoon in her father’s hand as he fed himself. The little girl reached out desperately, tiny fingers grasping at the air, eager to try the oatmeal that Aemond was enjoying.

The Queen couldn’t help but frown slightly at her husband. Aemond attended to his duties as if nothing was amiss, as if the looming silence from Kings Landing wasn’t a dark cloud hanging over them both. He seemed so unbothered, so calm, and it silently annoyed her. How could he carry on as if this unanswered letter didn’t have the potential to alter the course of the war? As if the fate of their future wasn’t hanging in the balance with each passing day?

When no reply came, Aemond spoke again, his voice steady and assured. “We extended the olive branch, Maera. All we can do now is wait.” As if to emphasize his point, Aemara squealed happily on his lap, her impatience finally rewarded as Aemond gave in and offered her a spoonful of oatmeal. She chewed on it with a delighted gurgle, utterly content in her father’s arms.

Maera continued to push the food around her plate, her appetite completely diminished by the gnawing anxiety in her gut. She had requested eggs, but the very sight of them now made her wrinkle her nose in distaste. With a sigh, she finally spoke, her voice tinged with frustration and unease. “I’ve never been good at waiting.”

Aemond glanced at her, his single eye observing her closely. “I know,” he replied softly, his tone holding a hint of understanding. Aemara angrily babbled on Aemond's lap, her small face scrunching up in a display of frustration as she waited for more food. Aemond couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight, and he dutifully gave the baby another spoonful of oatmeal.

He looked over at Maera, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It seems our daughter has inherited your impatience,” he said with a light-hearted tone.

The clatter of Maera’s fork dropping onto her plate broke the brief moment of levity. She snapped at him, her voice sharp, “Better that than inheriting your impulsivity.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. She put her head in her hands, groaning in frustration.

When she finally looked up, she saw Aemond’s reaction—a clenched jaw, his brow raised in surprise at her harsh retort. The silence between them grew thick, and though he didn’t respond, his expression spoke volumes.

Maera shook her head, exhaling deeply to release the tension. She reached across the table, her fingers lightly brushing against his before she squeezed his hand in a gesture of reconciliation. “Sorry,” she muttered quietly, her eyes searching his for forgiveness.

Aemond studied Maera’s face for a long moment, his sharp eye taking in the weariness etched into her features. Without a word, he leaned down and kissed Aemara on the head, the gesture tender and deliberate. Then, with a purposeful grace, he rose from his seat, walked over to Maera, and gently placed their daughter into her arms.

The Queen took the child gladly, holding the small, warm body close to her chest. She nuzzled her nose into the soft, silver hair that mirrored her own, breathing in the sweet, innocent scent of her daughter. The simple act helped to steady her racing thoughts, grounding her in the present moment.

She felt Aemond’s rough hand cup her cheek, his calloused thumb brushing gently over her skin. Maera leaned into the touch, finding comfort in the familiar feel of his hand. When she looked up, her green eyes met his single violet one, searching for reassurance.

“Be patient,” Aemond said, his voice low and steady, a command wrapped in a gentle plea. Maera held his gaze, trying to absorb the calmness he radiated, even as her own anxiety swirled within her.

“Distract yourself,” Aemond continued, his tone softening as he offered her a way to cope with the waiting. He glanced out of the window, where the morning sun glinted off the distant waves of Blackwater Bay. “Patrolling with Ēbrion this afternoon will clear your mind.”

His words carried a quiet wisdom, a suggestion born of understanding. Maera nodded, her resolve strengthening slightly as she considered the familiar routine of flying with her dragon. It was a small solace, but a needed one.

Aemond bent lower, his breath warm against Maera’s ear as he brought his lips close, so close that she could feel the soft graze of his mouth against her skin. His voice dropped to a seductive whisper, a teasing edge to his tone that sent a shiver down her spine.

"And I’ll act as your distraction this evening," he murmured, each word deliberately slow, his intent clear. "Keeping you occupied well into the night."

Maera felt a small smile tugging at her lips, warmth flooding her chest despite the weight of the day’s worries. She tried to suppress the smile, to maintain some semblance of seriousness, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her, curving upwards ever so slightly.

“Ok.” She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief as she brushed her nose against his in a gentle, affectionate gesture. Aemond responded by planting a soft, chaste kiss on her lips, the touch brief but filled with the promise of more to come.

But the kiss didn't last long. Aemara, ever curious and eager for attention, reached up and tugged on her father's silver hair with a determined little fist. The unexpected pull made both Aemond and Maera break apart with a giggle, the sound light and filled with the shared joy of parenthood.

Aemond straightened, his amused eye meeting Maera's as they both chuckled softly at their daughter's interruption. The brief laughter brought a bit of warmth back into the room, a small reminder that even amidst the tension, they could still find moments of happiness together.

As much as Maera adored spending time with her Ladies after breaking her fast, their lighthearted chatter and the comfort of their company did little to ease the gnawing anxiety twisting her stomach into knots. Every smile she forced and every polite response she offered felt hollow, as though her mind was elsewhere. The constant undercurrent of worry, the anticipation of what might come, left her feeling nauseous and on edge. No matter how much she tried to immerse herself in their conversations, her thoughts always drifted back to the unanswered letter and the looming uncertainty.

True relief only came later in the day, during her afternoon patrol on Ēbrion. Aemond had been right; the moment she took to the skies, the weight on her chest lightened, the vast expanse of the world below offering a sense of freedom that nothing else could. As Ēbrion soared across the waters, his powerful wings cutting through the air with effortless grace, Maera felt the tension in her muscles slowly unwind. His black and blue scales shimmered in the sunlight, and his vivid orange eyes gleamed with a predatory sharpness as they scanned the horizon.

From high above, Maera spied boats in the Blackwater, their sails billowing in the wind as they cut through the waves. She kept a careful distance, ensuring that she did not venture too close to the territory controlled by the Blacks. The last thing she wanted was to provoke a reaction, especially in such a delicate time. The sight of the ships, the peaceful ebb and flow of the sea, brought a momentary calm to her restless mind.

After ensuring all was well in the waters, Maera veered her dragon westward, towards the Stormlands. The rugged landscape stretched out before her, a tapestry of rolling hills and dense forests, where the border of the Crownlands met the Stormlands. Ēbrion’s powerful wings beat steadily as they patrolled the area, Maera’s keen eyes scanning the terrain below for any signs of trouble. The wind whipped through her hair, carrying away the remnants of her earlier anxiety.

The weather was as she expected: heavily clouded, with dark, brooding skies that seemed to threaten rain at any moment, but Maera remained undeterred. The tempestuous weather was a familiar comfort to her; after all, she had been born in these lands. The chill in the air and the scent of impending rain brought with them a sense of home, grounding her as she rode her dragon through the turbulent skies.

However, the thick cloud cover made patrolling from a high altitude increasingly difficult. The clouds were dense and unyielding, obscuring her view of the land below.

“Embrot.” Down.

With a firm command, the Queen guided Ēbrion to descend slightly, bringing them closer to the ground where visibility would be clearer. The dragon obeyed, his massive form slicing through the clouds with ease as they descended into the swirling mists.

As Ēbrion leveled out, Maera scanned the terrain below, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. Nothing appeared alarming or out of place. Small encampments dotted the landscape as she ventured south, their banners flapping violently in the wind. The familiar yellow and black colors of House Baratheon were prominent, and beside them, the black banner emblazoned with a green three-headed dragon—the symbol of the Greens—was unmistakable, a clear declaration of allegiance.

From her elevated position, Maera could still make out the movements of the soldiers below. They looked up, their faces a mixture of alarm and awe as they caught sight of the massive dragon circling above them. Despite their apparent unease, the soldiers made no move to attack or flee from their postings, simply observing, seemingly knowing, probably from colour and size, that Ēbrion was of no threat.

The sight brought Maera some reassurance. The Stormlands remained secure, their defenses strong, and no immediate threat loomed on the horizon. With a final glance at the encampments, Maera directed Ēbrion back towards Dragonstone, the beast’s wings carrying them effortlessly through the stormy skies.

The Queen cast a final, sweeping gaze over the border of the Stormlands, her keen eyes taking in the dense forests and rugged terrain below. The trees, thick and ancient, stood like silent sentinels along the edge of the Kingswood, their leaves rustling in the strong winds. The ground was uneven, covered in patches of wild grass and scattered with rocks, the earth beneath them dark and rich.

She was just about to direct Ēbrion to depart when something caught her eye—a sudden glint of metal that flashed briefly through the trees. Furrowing her brow in suspicion, Maera gently pulled on the reins, urging Ēbrion to turn back around for a closer look. The dragon responded immediately, his powerful wings cutting through the air as they circled back and began a gradual descent toward the source of the gleam.

As they swooped near the ground, Maera’s eyes narrowed in focus. She saw a group of knights standing at the edge of the Kingswood, their armor catching the occasional beam of light that pierced through the thick clouds. At first glance, there was nothing particularly unusual about the sight—knights patrolling the borders were common enough in these troubled times. But as she guided Ēbrion even lower, her suspicions grew.

No word had been sent to Maera that the Baratheon forces would be venturing beyond the border into the Crownlands, as Borros Baratheon did not want to incite an attack. The knights’ movements were deliberate, but there was an air of secrecy about them. They seemed to be taking great care to remain unnoticed, their figures half-concealed by the trees as they stood on the edge of the border.

More soldiers emerged from the cover of the trees, their numbers steadily growing as they stepped into the open. Some were mounted on horses, their armor clanking with each movement, while others marched on foot, gripping swords and shields with grim determination. Many carried bows and arrows, their hands poised to strike. The air around them seemed charged with tension, their formations tight and disciplined. Yet, something about them was off—there was no sign of the Baratheon stag, nor the banner of the Greens. There was no display of loyalty, no sigil declaring their allegiance.

Maera’s heart quickened as she scanned the gathering force below, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. It was then that the realization hit her like a cold wave. These soldiers bore no marks of honor, no sigils to indicate their loyalty to any house within the Stormlands. These were not Baratheon soldiers, nor were they allied with the Greens. They were something else entirely—Black soldiers, forces loyal to Rhaenyra, about to invade Green territory.

Before Maera could react, Ēbrion sensed the danger. The dragon let out a fierce, thunderous roar that echoed through the stormy skies, reverberating off the trees and sending waves of terror through the soldiers below. The sudden, deafening sound threw the soldiers into a panic, and chaos erupted in their ranks. Horses reared up, their riders struggling to maintain control, while those on foot scrambled in disarray.

Arrows were loosed in a panicked response, their sharp tips glinting as they shot through the air, aimed desperately at the massive beast above. Maera instinctively flattened herself against the saddle, the cold, hard leather pressing against her as she avoided the deadly projectiles. The arrows zipped past her, some clattering harmlessly against Ēbrion’s thick scales, while others missed entirely, lost to the wind.

“Pālētēs, Ēbrion! Angōs!” Evasive manoeuvres! Attack!

The dragon swooped closer to the treetops, his massive wings beating with terrifying power. The wind from his descent sent leaves and branches whipping through the air, and the closer the dragon came, the more the army below descended into chaos. Panic spread like wildfire; many soldiers, overwhelmed with fear, turned their horses and bolted, fleeing back into the safety of the woods. Others, their courage failing them, simply abandoned their posts and ran on foot, desperate to escape the wrath of the dragon.

But there would be no escape. With a roar that shook the very ground, Ēbrion unleashed a torrent of fire from his maw, the flames bursting forth like a river of molten fury. The searing heat radiated outward as the dragon strafed the ground along the border, his fiery breath scorching the earth in a deadly line of destruction. The flames roared to life, spreading quickly across the grass and dry brush, creating a blazing barrier between the soldiers and the Stormlands beyond.

The fire swept through the ranks of the enemy, and those caught in its path were immediately engulfed. Soldiers screamed in agony, their armor and clothing catching fire as they flailed about in a desperate attempt to extinguish the flames. Some dropped to the ground, rolling and writhing in futile efforts to douse the inferno consuming them. Others ran, their bodies ablaze, only to collapse into lifeless heaps as the fire took them.

The border was transformed into a hellish landscape of smoke and flame, the inferno stretching out like a wall of death, a stark declaration to the enemy forces that any attempt to cross into the Stormlands would be met with fiery devastation.

From her vantage point high above, Maera watched the destruction below with a heart pounding in her chest. Ēbrion’s fire had wrought devastation on the battlefield, the roaring flames consuming the enemy forces and forcing them to retreat. The sight of men burning, screaming in terror, filled her with a strange mix of horror and resolve. It was a terrible thing to witness, yet in her heart, Maera knew it had been necessary. The alternative—an all-out battle, with countless more lives lost—was far worse. The fire had saved the Stormlands from invasion, and in doing so, had perhaps prevented even greater bloodshed. This reasoning, as harsh as it was, brought her a sense of peace amid the chaos.

But that peace was short-lived.

Without warning, a bright fireball streaked through the sky, slamming into Ēbrion’s face with a blinding explosion of light and heat. The dragon let out a thunderous screech, shaking his massive head in pain as the force of the impact rocked them both. Maera’s heart lurched in her chest as she felt the shockwave of the attack vibrate through her entire body.

She frantically looked down at Ēbrion, her eyes wide with fear. Her heart stuttered as she searched for any signs of injury. To her relief, the dragon seemed unharmed—his thick scales had protected him from the worst of the fireball. The rider’s green eyes darted around in alarm, attempting to get her bearings amidst the chaos. A shadow passed over them, blotting out the sun, causing her breath to catch in her throat.

Another dragon, its silhouette dark against the sky, swooped down on them from above. The beast unleashed a torrent of flame, its fiery breath raining down toward them. Instinctively, Maera ducked, flattening herself against the saddle as the flames roared overhead. Her hands gripped the ropes attached to the saddle with all her might, her knuckles turning white. The heat was intense, nearly unbearable, but she forced herself to stay calm.

“Dokimarvose! Geptot jās!” Focus! Move left!

She yanked on the ropes, urging Ēbrion to turn, to catch sight of their assailant. Her heart pounded in her ears as she desperately tried to gain control of the situation, her mind racing to figure out who was trying to kill them.

Ēbrion responded to her commands, his powerful wings beating against the air as he banked sharply, turning to face their attacker. The dragon’s eyes, usually so calm and calculating, were now blazing with fury as he roared in challenge, ready to defend his rider and his territory from this sudden, violent threat.

The beast attacking them was much smaller, a nimble creature that darted through the sky with alarming speed and agility. Its pale green scales shimmered as the sunlight pierced through the clouds, reflecting off its pearlescent horns with an almost ethereal glow. Despite its smaller size, the dragon’s swiftness made it a formidable opponent, weaving through the air with practiced ease.

Maera’s eyes narrowed as she locked onto the rider. The girl was young, her silver hair curly and wild, contrasting starkly with the blood-red cloth she wore. Even from a distance, Maera could see the confidence in the girl’s posture, the way she guided her dragon with practiced precision, clearly experience in the art of dragon riding. As another fireball flew towards them, the Queen was consumed with rage, and had had enough of this dance. A low growl of frustration escaped her lips as she tightened her grip on the reins.

“Naejot!” Forward! She commanded, her voice ringing out through the wind. Ēbrion responded instantly, his powerful wings beating hard as he surged toward the smaller dragon. The air around them whipped into a frenzy as they closed the distance, Maera’s heart pounding with a mix of fear and adrenaline.

But she knew she needed an advantage. The smaller dragon’s speed made it difficult to land a decisive blow, and the rider’s skill only added to the challenge. Maera’s mind raced as she considered her options, and then it came to her—she needed the higher ground.

“Vēzot, Ēbrion!” Up! she shouted, pulling back hard on the reins. Ēbrion roared in response, his muscles straining as he ascended, pushing through the clouds. The air grew thinner and colder as they climbed, but Maera’s resolve only hardened. If she could gain the higher ground, she would have greater control.

They soared higher and higher, the clouds enveloping them in a thick, misty shroud. For a moment, the world below disappeared entirely, leaving only the sound of Ēbrion’s powerful wings beating against the sky and the thudding of Maera’s heart in her ears.

The other rider followed their ascent, her smaller dragon trailing just behind Ēbrion as they climbed higher into the sky. The girl was relentless, her dragon unleashing a volley of fireballs in their wake, but Ēbrion was ready. With a fierce snap of his jaws, he tried to catch the fiery projectiles mid-air, the force of his bite causing the flames to dissipate harmlessly. His massive body twisted in the air, his wings beating with such strength that the gusts sent the smaller dragon spiraling off course, momentarily throwing the rider's aim.

The smaller dragon might have had the advantage of speed, darting through the sky with agility and grace, but Ēbrion had something far more formidable—raw power. His every movement was filled with a force that could shake the very air around them, and Maera used this to her advantage. She held tight to the reins, urging her dragon to keep pushing higher, feeling the wind whipping past her face as they climbed.

As they broke through the top of the clouds, the sunlight burst forth, bathing them in its brilliant light. The smaller dragon had followed them into the sky, but now found itself beneath Ēbrion, perfectly positioned for Maera to strike. The light glinted off the pale green scales of the smaller beast, but it was no match for the massive shadow that loomed above.

"Sīr!" Now! Maera commanded, her voice strong and resolute.

Obeying his rider's command, Ēbrion tucked his wings close to his body and dived straight down, turning their sheer size and power into an unstoppable force. The wind howled in Maera's ears as they plummeted toward the smaller dragon, the air around them roaring with the speed of their descent. The younger dragon, though quick, was not fast enough to evade the gigantic form bearing down on it. It had no choice but to fall with them, trapped by the sheer momentum of Ēbrion's dive.

The ground rushed up to meet them, and Maera's heart pounded in her chest. She could see the landscape below, the trees and hills growing larger with every passing second. She waited until the last possible moment, feeling the adrenaline surge through her veins, before yanking back on the reins with all her might.

Ēbrion responded instantly, his wings snapping open to catch the air and slow their descent. They pulled up just in time, skimming the treetops as they leveled out, the force of their near-fall sending shockwaves through the air. The other rider managed to pull up as well, her dragon narrowly avoiding a crash.

But Maera was not prepared to let them get away.

With a fierce determination burning in her eyes, she urged Ēbrion forward, closing the distance between them. The younger dragon struggled to regain its balance after the sudden dive, but Maera could see the fear in the rider's eyes as she realized she was now at a disadvantage. The smaller dragon's speed was no longer enough to save them.

“Dracarys!”

With a swift, merciless movement, he opened his massive jaws, unleashing a torrent of flame that engulfed the smaller dragon and its rider. The intense heat and blinding light consumed everything in its path, turning the pale green dragon into a writhing silhouette against the backdrop of the sky.

The smaller dragon thrashed desperately within the inferno, its body spinning wildly as it tried to shield its rider from the searing flames. Despite its agility, there was no escaping Ebrion's relentless assault. The green beast roared in pain, its scales glowing with the heat as it turned to face its attacker, trying to protect the young rider on its back. But it was a futile effort.

Sensing his prey's weakness, Ēbrion closed in with predatory precision. His enormous body loomed over the smaller dragon, his eyes burning with a savage intensity.

In one swift, brutal motion, he lunged forward, his powerful jaws clamping down on one of the dragon's wings. There was a sickening crack as bone and sinew gave way under the force of his bite, followed by a spray of blood that stained the air. With a mighty pull, Ebrion tore the wing clean off, the shredded membrane trailing in the wind like a tattered flag.

The smaller dragon's anguished roar split the sky as it hurtled uncontrollably toward the ground, spinning out of control as it bled profusely. It spiraled downward, a helpless, flailing mass of green scales and flames. The rider clung desperately to its back, but there was no saving the beast now. The ground rushed up to meet them, the once-majestic dragon now a broken, burning wreck.

With a thunderous crash, the dragon slammed into the earth, its body crumpling near the flaming line Maera had previously drawn along the border. The impact sent a shockwave through the ground, scattering debris and sending up a plume of smoke and ash.

The forest smoldered with a grim intensity, the once-vibrant trees now reduced to blackened husks. Smoke curled lazily upward, hanging heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of burning wood and charred earth. The undergrowth, once thick and green, was now a sea of ash and embers, glowing faintly in the dim light that filtered through the canopy above. Here and there, small fires crackled and sputtered, struggling to cling to life as they consumed what little fuel remained.

The devastation was absolute, a stark reminder of the destructive power of dragons. The ground beneath Maera’s feet was uneven, pockmarked with deep gouges where the flames had seared through the soil. Every step she took stirred up a cloud of ash, the fine particles clinging to the hem of her leather skirt and the soles of her boots.

She had dismounted from Ēbrion, leaving the massive dragon to stand guard nearby, his eyes still blazing with the remnants of battle. The beast’s immense form cast a long shadow over the desolate landscape, his chest rising and falling with each slow, measured breath. Though the flames had died down, the air still buzzed with residual heat, causing Maera’s skin to prickle beneath the leather of her attire.

As she walked through the devastation, Maera’s eyes scanned the ground, searching for any sign of the fallen dragon and its rider. The trees, once towering sentinels of the forest, now stood as little more than skeletal remains, their branches twisted and gnarled, reaching up to the sky in silent agony. Patches of scorched earth crunched underfoot, each step bringing her closer to the site of the crash.

The silence was broken only by the distant sound of yelling from the Black army, their voices carrying faintly through the smoke-filled air. But Maera was not deterred. She knew that no matter how many soldiers might come, none would dare challenge her, not with Ēbrion standing just beyond the tree line. The dragon’s presence was a deterrent stronger than any fortress, a reminder of the raw power she commanded.

The forest had fallen into an eerie stillness, an unnatural quiet that pressed heavily on Maera as she moved deeper into the woods. The devastation around her seemed to muffle all sound, the crackle of dying flames and the rustling of her own footsteps the only noises that broke the oppressive silence. The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and charred wood, making each breath feel heavy and strained.

As Maera pressed forward, she stumbled upon a clearing, where the destruction was at its most profound. The trees surrounding the open space were broken and splintered, their trunks shattered by the force of the dragon's fall. The ground was scorched, blackened earth stretching out in every direction, littered with fragments of wood and stone that had been torn apart by the impact.

In the center of the clearing lay a pile of twisted remains-the body of the smaller dragon. Barely visible beneath a thick layer of soot and debris, the creature's once-lustrous green scales had been dulled and cracked by the searing heat. Its body was contorted in death, limbs bent at unnatural angles, the remaining wing torn and shredded beyond recognition. The sight was a tragic one, the majestic beast reduced to a lifeless heap, a testament to the horrors of the war that pitted dragon against dragon.

Maera felt a pang of guilt twist in her chest as she gazed upon the fallen creature. Dragons were rare enough as it was, half the eggs laid never hatching. To know that they were now being forced to kill one another, to tear each other apart in the name of war, filled her with a deep sadness.

But it was not just the dragon that caught Maera's attention. In the middle of the carcass, amid the wreckage of scales and broken bones, lay the rider. The young woman was barely moving, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Her silver curls, once bright and shining, were now matted with blood, the vibrant strands darkened by the grime of battle. Her rider's attire, once a bold red like fresh blood, was now filthy and tattered, smeared with soot and ash.

Maera stood frozen for a moment, staring down at the girl who had moments ago been her enemy, now broken and vulnerable on the scorched earth. The contrast between the violence that had brought them to this moment and the fragility of the life before her was stark.

The Queen carefully climbed over the remains of the dragon, the heat from the smoldering scales seeping into her boots as she navigated the twisted mass of flesh and bone. The ground beneath her was unsteady, each step a precarious balancing act as she moved closer to the fallen rider. Her breath was shallow, both from the physical exertion and the tension coiled tight in her chest. As she neared the young woman, she could see her more clearly-lying on her stomach, her head pulled forward, her entire body shaking

"Can you hear me?" Maera called out softly, her voice low and unthreatening, doing her best to temper any menace. "It’s over now." But just as the words left her lips, she gasped as a force suddenly shoved her backward.

“Fuck!” The world tilted as pain exploded through her chest. Staggering, Maera looked down to see an arrow lodged deep below her collarbone, its shaft quivering with the force of the impact. Blood spilled from the wound, warm and sticky as it ran down the black leather of her attire.

Her gaze snapped back up, and she saw the broken rider, bruised, bloodied, but with a crossbow in her trembling hands, aimed squarely at Maera. Despite the woman's fragile state, her aim had been true, and her resolve hadn't wavered.

With a groan, Maera reached up and snapped the arrow, leaving the metal head embedded in her flesh, a flare of pain scorching through her as she tossed the broken shaft aside. Determination fueled her as she stalked forward, unsheathing her sword with a fluid motion. The rider's eyes widened in fear as she struggled to reload the crossbow, her movements desperate and frantic.

But Maera was quicker. With a swift, powerful kick, she sent the crossbow skittering across the scorched earth, far out of the rider's reach. The young woman barely had time to react before Maera had her sword at her throat, the blade pressing against her skin with a cold, unyielding pressure. The rider's breath hitched, her eyes locked on Maera's, wide with terror but still burning with defiance.

The Queen pressed the edge of her sword against the rider’s throat, the blade’s cold steel glinting ominously as she moved it from side to side, studying the young woman’s face. Though battered and burned beyond easy recognition, there was something unmistakable about her features—this was no mere Dragonseed. The realization settled in Maera’s mind, her heart sinking with the weight of the conclusion

“Lady Baela, I presume?” Maera remarked, her tone measured, though she couldn’t suppress the tension underlying it. The thought of facing Daemon’s daughter, one of the Blacks’ most renowned dragonriders, only added to the gravity of the moment.

Lady Baela bared her teeth in a defiant growl, her voice raw and ragged as she spat back, “Lady Maera.” There was no honorific, no acknowledgment of Maera’s title as queen, just a name spat with all the venom Baela could muster.

Maera sighed, noting the lack of respect but choosing not to dwell on it. She was not prideful, and in this moment, titles and formalities felt irrelevant. “It seems you’ve inherited your father’s skill as a dragonrider,” Maera said, a sly smile curving her lips despite the pain radiating from her wound. Her gaze flicked briefly to the twisted, smoldering remains of the smaller dragon. “It’s a shame your beast was caught in the crossfire. A tragic loss, truly.”

Baela’s face twisted with anger as she spat out a mouthful of blood, the dark red liquid staining her lips. “You must get along well with your husband,” she sneered, her voice dripping with bitterness. Maera’s brow furrowed in confusion, but before she could ask what Baela meant, the young woman continued, her words cutting like a knife. “Seems like you both enjoy slaughtering your own kin.”

The accusation hung in the air between them, sharp and piercing. Maera’s grip on her sword tightened, her expression hardening as the full weight of Baela’s words sank in. Her gaze remained fixed on the dragon rider, her voice steady as she asked, “Is that what you think I want to do?”

Baela laughed, a harsh sound that echoed through the smoldering remains of the forest. Despite her swollen eye, barely able to open, there was a gleam of defiant joy in the other, a fire that hadn’t been extinguished by the brutal clash. “Just get on with it,” Baela rasped, her tone laced with mockery and resignation.

For a moment, Maera hesitated, the sharp edge of her sword still pressed firmly against Baela’s throat. The heat of the nearby flames mixed with the smell of charred earth and blood, thick in the air, but Maera’s mind was elsewhere, weighed down by the heavy burden of choice. So many had already been lost in this relentless war. She stared down at Baela, her expression hardening, yet something within her softened. Baela’s dragon was dead, her strength sapped. She was no longer a threat, just another casualty of this endless, merciless conflict.

A different path presented itself to Maera, one that hadn’t seemed possible until this very moment. The Mother had shown her a path of mercy, one where no more blood need be spilled today.

Maera slowly shook her head, the decision made in her heart before her hand followed. She sheathed her sword with a resolute click, stepping back. “Too many of us are dead already,” she murmured, the weight of the conflict visible in the way her shoulders sagged slightly.

Baela’s expression flickered from defiance to confusion, even surprise. The grip of death that she had been bracing for did not come, and she remained breathing, albeit heavily, battered but alive.

Maera’s voice grew firmer, more determined, as she continued, “I sent your Queen a letter, a chance for peace, but she has not replied. Tell her that we expect a response by the turn of the moon. Before she loses any more dragons or riders.” Her words were laced with the authority of her position, leaving no room for negotiation.

She watched as the realization dawned in Baela’s eyes, the younger woman’s defiance dimming slightly as she understood that she had been spared, though the reason why was something she might never grasp fully. Finally, she nodded, the fight in her eyes dimming into something more resigned, her earlier defiance replaced by a reluctant acceptance.

The Queen watched as she tried to stand, the effort drawing a wince from the young woman. Her clothes, torn and charred, revealed patches of burnt and bloodied skin beneath. Baela’s movements were awkward and pained, and it didn’t take long for Maera to notice the unnatural angle of one leg, likely broken from the fall.

Maera huffed softly, her frustration tempered by a sense of duty. She stepped forward, extending a hand to Baela. "Come now. Let me get you back to the border," she offered, her voice even, almost kind.

But Baela recoiled, yanking her hand away as if Maera’s touch burned her. "I don’t need your help," she spat, her voice thick with stubborn pride despite her evident pain.

Maera stood there, watching as Baela limped away into the undergrowth, her steps slow and labored, each movement a struggle. The girl was fiery, just like her father, and Maera couldn’t help but respect that tenacity, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

The sound of large footsteps crunching through the scorched earth drew Maera’s attention. She turned to see Ēbrion approaching, his massive form looming over her as he let out a soft growl, a low, comforting rumble. But as she moved, a sharp pain flared in her shoulder, forcing a gasp from her lips. Maera pressed a hand to the wound just below her collarbone, feeling the warm stickiness of blood seeping through her fingers, the arrowhead still buried deep within her muscles.

She winced, leaning slightly against Ēbrion’s side, his warmth offering a small comfort against the pain. Her mind raced, the events of the past moments replaying themselves as she looked out at the smoldering forest, knowing that whilst mercy seemed to be the right path, it had its own price.

Notes: oooooh we got some dragon battle, shiiiittt 😱😳

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[eldritch-spouse]

Can we get a description of Rudy’s “project”??

H̶i̶s̶ r̶o̶b̶o̶ d̶i̶c̶k̶

Oh he thought about it.

Of course Rudy would spend a lot of time thinking about it. It felt romantic. This wasn't just going to be his first foray into the world of physical pleasures, the translation of his erotic thoughts into sensation- This was for you.

Rudy would be content with keeping his lust as mere fruits of imagination, desires of the mind alone, if not for the push that meeting you gave him. Because now, now his fantasies were right in front of him. Corporeal and alluring, so close he could touch them almost... Naturally, one of the things the synth imagined was himself having sex with you. He conjured the faces of delight you'd make, the giggles and whines and cries, the way your skin would glisten with sweat and goosebumps would cover it. He pictured himself above you, beneath you, behind you, holding you up- There was no shortage of inspiration, given his knowledge of the crew's poorly hidden pornographic material.

Throughout all that painfully detailed rendering of his fabricated scenarios, Rudy had always been so focused on creating a perfect image of you, that he failed to even conceptualize his own imaginary genitals beyond a basic phallic shape. He would need something to penetrate you with, certainly. Not having anything to show would be quite the predicament, and a vaginal opening didn't really feel appealing to the synthetic.

He would ignore this for a while, until it was brought up.

In the most joking manner. He hated that habit his crewmates had, to speak of Rudy as if he wasn't present in the same room, to put him in theoretical scenarios wherein they feel he shouldn't belong- But he does!

Inebriated and barely dignified, they'd began joking about the concept of the synthetic xenomorph ever being intimate with someone. You seemed uncomfortable as well, and for that, Rudy is both glad and worried- Because it can imply you'd really find such a possibility unappealing. Hopefully not, right? Nevertheless, Gordon claimed that it would only make sense for Rudy to have "whatever those damn bugs sport", while Sidney seemed convinced that a human package would be more adequate.

Gordon argues such a sight would be ridiculous and creepy, Sidney's rebuttal is that no one would want to touch whatever alien genitals are out there.

The conversation proceeded to delve into territory Rudy no longer found relevant, because he was too busy considering the points either human had made.

No doubt, creating a standard human phallus would look exceptionally strange when paired with his utterly inhuman visage. But the familiarity of it might make intercourse more natural to you. He also had to ponder on his own preferences, as muddled as they still were. Rudy thought long and hard about what he was. A synthetic, wearing both the skin of a xenomorph and human, something stuck between both worlds, belonging to neither.

Perhaps, even his intimate zones should showcase that.

And so, he starts drafting. Modeling. A shape similar to what you know but just unique enough to be his as well. Something you would like, because even if its' appearance is odd, it'll make you feel good, it'll surprise you in unexpected ways.

Just like him, right?

Of course, he'll leave room for improvements, suggestions, maybe even design more than one if need be. Only the future will tell.

The synth took every precaution under the sun to make sure no one would ever find this project -Or so he thinks- Until its completion, wherein all related files would be stored only within him. The first time Rudy "equips" his new attachment, he studies himself in front of the mirror in his rather minimalist room.

It fits well, strangely enough.

His enthusiasm only heightens once he places an alien hand upon it, testing it, the texture, the strength, the weight. The give and the hardness- Fucking Hell he's going to have to rework the sensitivity settings later...

You'll like this, won't you? Rudy smiles inwardly.

As he stands there, thinking, idly stroking his cock -Growing ever fond of the sensation- Another conundrum names itself.

What is he going to ejaculate?

Rudy supposes his crewmates won't be having a conversation about that anytime soon.

[natasha-in-space]

All Good Things Must End

Ray/gn!reader;

From the beginning, you trusted Ray with all your heart. He was the embodiment of your fairytale dream come to life. Your respite from all the unappealing troubles of the outside world. But all fairytales have an ending to them. And yours is not as happy as you expected.

CW: brief mention of violence, erratic behavior, depiction of a codependent relationship. This is a Danger Ray fic! Set during V's route. Loosely based on the 7th day outgoing call to V (11:51 AM, after the 'Provoke' chatroom).

Lovely dividers by @/saradika-graphics!

Ray was a good man. A kind man. A fragile man, even. His entire appearance would remind you of a beautiful but delicate flower. So starved for love and warmth, yet so sensitive to every harsh touch of the wind, even the slightest of pushes against its soft petals would make it start to wilt. A flower that needed nothing but some gentle care and love for it to come into bloom. And, of course, you were willing to give him just that. After all, why wouldn't you be? Ray has been nothing but kind and caring towards you, ever since you stepped foot into this strange place, guiding you along the way while holding your hand and not minding any of your clumsy mistakes. He was understanding. Attentive. Curious. Always checking in with you and eager to hear about your day. Never ignoring you or making you feel stupid if you didn't understand a thing or two.

No wonder you found it so easy to open up to him in your short time here. You trusted that he would do no wrong by you. Just as he promised.

At least... that's what you thought. And appearances can be deceiving. Oh, so very deceiving. Now, it felt downright humiliating just how much of a blind fool you really were. How stupidly determined you were to deny and rebuke anyone daring to challenge your views on Ray.

You loyally refused to trust Rika's musings about Ray's 'darkness' during your brief stay with her, dismissing them as nothing but her twisted philosophy that you couldn't even begin to comprehend. You impulsively denied V's numerous warnings not to trust in Ray's sugary words, reassuring yourself over and over again that surely his affections for you must be true and earnest. You turned your back on every nagging suspicion buzzing at the back of your mind during short moments of unrest. You knew in your heart that Ray was a kind, tender boy. He was simply confined to an environment that would exacerbate his worst traits.

And he was only human, right? No one is immune to harmful outside influences being forced down upon them. Anyone could end up in his place one day, even you. It was no reason for you to be hostile and distrustful of him.

Then again, maybe that was just your mind trying desperately to keep you calm in the midst of a horrible storm you found yourself being forcibly thrust into. After all, accepting just how truly bad and out of your control things truly were here... How utterly helpless and vulnerable you were, with no one there to come save you if you needed it... How trapped and isolated you were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but miles and miles of lush mountain forests, with no civilization in sight...

Just the thought of it would make a heavy lump of acidic bile rise up to your throat. The sad truth is... Ray simply provided you with feelings of solace and comfort that some deeper, weaker part of you was so desperate for. Losing that was something you were not ready to face yet. He was there by your side from day one. He had a better understanding of you than anyone else did. Of course you would cling to his familiar presence for this brief feeling of stability you yearned for so gravely.

In retrospect, it was always a losing battle for you to try and win. You could have done better. You really, really could have done so much better. Yet it still hit you harder than a sledgehammer to the back of your skull, when the bitter reality has finally reared its ugly head to you, without any regard for your fragile heart.

You resent yourself for hitting that call button despite your gut screaming at you not to. You were already well aware that you would regret doing that, somewhere on the back of your mind. But, in the moment, your worry for your friend overpowered your lingering anxiety. Maybe out of some sense of duty. V made it all the way here, just to save you. You played a big role in his capture, in a way. If it wasn't for you, he wouldn't be in danger. And not knowing a single thing about his whereabouts or even his state was... daunting.

So, you dialed his phone number.

You anticipated that he wouldn't pick up. Maybe you would receive a very brief phone call with him begging you to keep yourself safe, like he always would. Or even just a quick exchange of words between you two that would maybe give you even the tiniest of clues on his whereabouts. Something you could then relay to Seven. Make yourself useful. Actually do something, instead of just sitting there and driving yourself mad with dozens upon dozens of anxious thoughts clouding your mind.

What you received was worse than you could have ever imagined.

It was one thing to hear pained groans, gasps, and raspy coughing on the other end of the line. You already had an expectation that V would not be okay when you hear his voice. It still left your knees feeling weak and your heart lurching in your chest with a dizzying intensity, but you could handle that, to an extent. What you couldn't handle was also hearing a familiar soft-spoken voice that has become an unstated but undeniable source of comfort for you. A voice that was now sounding so cold and angry, that your brain had a hard time comprehending what was happening, seemingly shutting down completely, as you remained deathly quiet for the whole duration of that cursed call.

Ray just was not supposed to be there.

You have heard him get angry before. You have heard him lose his grip on reality before. You have heard him say things you couldn't truly agree with, despite you still going along with them regardless, to avoid causing him any disturbance. Those were all aspects of him you were not blind to. You just actively chose to overlook them whenever they would come up. Something that you probably shouldn't have done.

-But you never heard him be so downright cruel and vicious before. Seemingly not at all disturbed by the very real sounds of suffering from the other living person there with him. Even getting angrier at them.

Like it was something completely normal. Not at all worth getting upset or worried over.

You couldn't wrap your head around the fact that this was the same man that worried himself sick over you simply scraping a knee. He was so caring, so empathetic to you back then... over a small cut, of all things. And now, that very same man was not at all disturbed by such grave suffering happening right in front of him.

No, by the sounds of it... he was actively causing it.

And that's not something you could live in peace with.

The call lasted for a maximum of two minutes. That's the time that your phone would display to you whenever you mindlessly return to it, anyway. But it felt way longer than that. For those two horrible minutes, your ears were ruthlessly subjected to the merciless reality you were so desperate to avoid facing up until that very moment.

The bitter truth was that Ray is not a fragile flower. Nor is he a prince from a fairytale. For, fairytales are not reality. No matter how much you want them to be. He was a man, a human being, just like you. Just like every other person in this building. And much like any human being, he was more than capable of causing harm by his own two hands if he so chooses. In fact, he would do so purposefully. And a victim of his spiraling wrath was no longer some faceless unlucky believer that you could forget about in a matter of hours, despite you genuinely feeling bad for them. No, it was your friend. A friend who fought so desperately to save you, even at the cost of his own safety. A friend you have come to care for in the short time you have known each other.

A friend, you knew for sure didn't deserve to be suffering in the way that he was. By the hands of your other friend you cared for just as deeply.

Such reality was just too cruel for you to bear.

So, you do the most foolish thing of all.

You confront Ray head-on.

"-Y/N, you must be confused... I've done no wrong. I do admit that I... did loose myself for a moment there, but- but it was his own fault! If he just kept quiet and drank the elixir like my Savior has instructed, I wouldn't get so upset with him. And he kept saying his stupid lies... He wouldn't shut up. My head hurt so bad... You have no idea."

You are left feeling sick to your very core by the soft apologetic smile reflected on Ray's face, once you do have a chance to finally face him again. No matter what you say, how hard you try to show him how wrong and cruel his actions really were, it was all completely pointless. For someone so seemingly skittish and subservient, Ray was frustratingly stubborn in his beliefs. It was like throwing a tennis ball at a wall. The more force you put into your throw to get your point across, the harder it just bounces right back into your face, leaving you with the painful sting of your failure.

You shake your head, an ugly mess of emotions steadily clouding your sense of judgment. At some point, you lose track of your location and position. All caution goes out the window. All that remains is a debilitating feeling of betrayal, clutching at your insides like metal rods slowly puncturing your very heart. "It is still wrong, Ray! How can you not see that!? He was suffering, and you just- just-"

The words don't come out of your mouth, obstructed by the suffocating lump stuck in the middle of your throat. You were going in circles now. You have been trying to get through to him for almost ten minutes straight, and still no results. You have to take a moment to try and regain your breathing. A soft glowed hand rests gently upon your chin, causing you to tilt your head to meet Ray's gaze instead.

You are disgusted by the genuine concern etched onto his delicate features. By the unfeigned emotions of nothing but genuine care and affection swimming in his eyes as he looks at you. By the tender touch warming up your clammy skin. All of it is sincere. You know he is not lying to you. Not right now, at least. And that is a sickening realization to come to.

More than anything, you are disgusted by the simple fact that you cannot perceive him as a monster or an angel. Ray is no perfect prince from a fairytale, no matter how hard he may try and appear to you as such.

He's a human.

Just like you.

And this implies that he is capable of all the atrocities that any human being is capable of. As much as he is kind to you, he can also be cruel to others. As much as his hands soothe and tremble when they brush up against yours, they can also hurt and sully those he harbors hatred for. It's not all black and white, as you would like to delude yourself into thinking.

And his actions were truly appalling to you. You couldn't live in your fantasy world anymore. It was sullied. Destroyed beyond repair. Your Wonderland has been corrupted from the start, and you just denied each and every sign of it, until it was too late.

"My prince/ss... It pains me to see you in such distress. Though, your tender heart is another trait of you that I adore," Ray whispers to you softly, his thumb lightly brushing over your cheekbone. He was touching you so gently, it's almost like you were made out of glass. And yet, just a few hours earlier, these exact hands were causing so much suffering to someone you care so deeply about. The thought prompts you to swallow hard and clutch your hands together as they start to shake. He continues, seemingly undisturbed by your lack of a positive response. "-But believe me when I say that that villain is not deserving of your compassion. He tried to take you away from me... To ruin what you and I have built together. I cannot stand by and watch him do that to us. What if you got hurt because of him? I would never forgive myself, if that were to happen."

You shut your eyes, refusing to accept the reality unfolding before you. Everything was wrong. So very wrong. One part of you wanted to scream and shout at him, to make him see the twisted nature of his words by pure unrelenting force if you have to. But there was another part of you that contemplated just giving up and concluding this interaction altogether. The debilitating feeling of helplessness was just too much for you to handle.

You are not allowed to do either of those things, however. Instead, another hand lightly rests on the small of your back, pulling you in towards the source of your distress. And you don't fight it. You feel your forehead come in contact with Ray's chest, his flowery scent filling your senses, as both of his arms are now circling around you. You hear a happy sigh fall from his lips. It all seemed like a very cruel joke on you. A moment that seemed so sweet and touching, bringing you nothing but more hurt and anguish.

Did he really not see anything amiss with any of this?

"I missed you so much, my flower... You know, when I heard that liar try and talk to me like he knew you better than I do, I felt like I might just strangle him right then and there. Make sure he never utters your lovely name ever again." Ray's voice is slightly gruff from how quiet it is against the side of your head. A low hum vibrates in his throat as he nuzzles into your hair like an affectionate cat would, breathing in your scent with all the longing you could possibly ask for. Though, the only thing that comes from his affections is a sickening feeling of dread for you.

"-But I thought of you. I thought of your lovely smile... Your eyes, your voice. I know I shouldn't think like this, but... You gave me more strength than my Savior's words ever did. What I did... I did for you. For us, Y/N." He continues, taking a step back from the hug to look at you. Your gaze is cast low, as you don't reciprocate the gesture. You can't bring yourself to look at him right now. It's hard to even keep yourself from putting your hands over your ears to avoid hearing it all. He gently tilts your head up, however, making it clear that he wants you to look at him. "Please don't be upset... It breaks my heart to see you sad because of that villain."

That's when the dam inside of you finally shatters, all repressed emotions spilling out in a violent wave of hopelessness you cannot bring yourself to stop. You wrench yourself away from Ray's arms, your own hands now clenched into tight fists as you look him directly in the eyes. There's a fire burning ever hotter inside of your chest, and you make no attempt to put it out. You let it take over you completely, consequences be damned.

"Villain?Villain!? Ray, he did all he could to save me! And you locked him up and tortured him for that!"

Your mind is screaming at you to stop. To stop and fix things before they spiral too out of your control.

You're being too aggressive. Too blunt. Too disobedient. Staying safe requires you to be both calm and smart about this. And you are neither of those things right now.

But you don't care.

Even as you see the emotions in Ray's eyes shift from that suffocating affection to a mix of desperation and frustration you know well. He makes a step towards you. You make two steps back. This makes his brows furrow in what you could only assume was dissatisfaction.

You never backed away from him before.

"Save you...? No. No. Y/N, he tried to steal you from me. Poison you with his lies, like he has done to my Savior. He did it to me, too! I'm the one who saved you. I did what had to be done to protect you!" You can actively hear his voice changing from the shaky disbelief at your denial of him to rough desperation to prove you wrong. It's borderline scary how quick those changes are occurring right in front of your eyes. Almost in a blink of an eye. It's yet another blaring warning for you to stop.

One that you ignore.

Instead, your frustration boils up inside of you, making you sneer at his stubborn refusal to see reason: "By hurting him!? By making him choke and gag in pain? What was the point of-"

Your angry line of thought is instantaneously interrupted by a small yeep that slips past your lips, as Ray closes in on you in just a couple of quick steps, grabbing at your wrists with a tight grip. Tight enough to cause you some discomfort. His eyes are wide, and his breathing is noticeably shaky. Like he's fighting to get enough air into his lungs and failing miserably. He yanks you close, making you stumble into him without much time for you to struggle or push back against him. Mostly due to your state of pure disbelief. You never expected Ray to actually do anything to you. And while he wasn't actively hurting you, this was still shattering your perception of him to bits and pieces. Or, what remained of it.

"That was nothing, Y/N. He deserved all of that. He deserved that and more. You feel sad for him? You wish mercy on him?" You are suddenly pushed back against the wall, and Ray's slim form keeps you trapped in this makeshift cage you created for yourself with your reckless actions. Ray's voice grows shakier, yet also significantly lower. It sounded dangerous. Angry. His nose brushes up against yours, as he's leaning so close to you, you can't focus on anything but him. Your breath hitches as you instinctively press yourself up against the wall, the panicked pounding of your heart echoing in your temples. "You have no idea how badly he hurt me. What pain I went through because of that- that-"

You can't help but wince in pain as his grip on you tightens. An action that seems to immediately shake Ray out of his temporary fit of anger, as he gasps and quickly lets go of you, stumbling backwards with a frightened expression painted over his features. You don't even have to look at him to know that he is probably in a less than stable state of mind. You are left staggered, betrayed and confused, as you stand there, eyes cast low, rubbing at your wrists. They didn't hurt. Not much, at least. It's the psychological aspect of it that left an impact of you.

Ray's voice feels muffled as it reaches your ears through the constant flow of thought in your head.

"I- N-No, Y/N, I'm sorry, I didn't want to- Are you hurt?" You can see him taking a step back towards you, hand reaching out for yours, probably to check on your wrists. You can tell he's scared. And upset. Probably guilty. Which makes this even harder for you to grapple with.

Either way, you cut him off, not wanting to hear any more of this. Partially because you understand that staying to listen will only cause you to break further, if it was even possible at this point. Because he sounds so genuine, nervous, and miserable, it makes your heart ache for him despite yourself. Makes you want to look up, smile, and say that you're okay. That you two can figure it out together.

And you don't want to repeat the same mistake twice.

"Just... Leave, Ray." You mutter out quietly, not raising your eyes at him. You sound a bit too soft for your liking, but it'll do. Swallowing, you repeat yourself for good measure. "Please. Leave."

There is a prolonged pause between the two of you. It's almost too lengthy for comfort. Neither of you say anything for a while. But the tension in the air is thick, and it does not fade with time. It only grows. Crawling over you like snakes. There is a fear within you that prevents you from looking at him. A fear of seeing the pain in his eyes. Or, instead, to come face to face with that same anger that felt so alien to you.

Ray finally speaks up. His voice is barely audible.

"...N-No..."

He moves closer to you still. For the second time today, you are finding yourself backing away. But now, you turn your back on him and keep your hands locked where you can see them. You can feel them shaking. With a sigh, you repeat: "Leave."

And, as you soon learn, that was not a very wise choice for you to make.

You're quickly spun around before you can think to act, and Ray's fingers are digging into your shoulders with a disturbing intensity, leaving you little time to react. He's observing you as if you were a wounded animal that was left behind after being hit by a car. Like you're the saddest creature he had ever seen. And, for some reason, that look scares you more than the previous anger he showed you.

"I can't believe this..." He murmurs under his breath, his eyes darting over your figure, almost like he was searching for something physical on you that could be visible to the human eye. But he doesn't find it, and that seems to upset him further. You try to pull away from him, only to get jerked back in again, his hold on you tightening.

Only this time, he does not pay any attention to your visible discomfort. He was too occupied with his own thoughts that you were not aware of. It's like he doesn't even see you. Not fully, anyways.

He holds your chin and tilts your face to examine you more closely. As he does, his shaky breath sneaks over your cheek and causes you to shiver in place.

"He... He poisoned you, didn't he...?"

The hushed murmur sounds so utterly ridiculous that it almost makes you forget about the disturbing nature of this situation for a good moment. Yet, he was completely serious. And he wasn't even talking to you, by the looks of it.

"What? Ray, I-"

"-That's why you are saying all these things to me... That's why you don't trust me anymore." Ray cuts you off as if you were not there, his brows furrowing into a deep scowl, but not one aimed directly at you. One of his hands grips onto your chin, while the other finds your hand and takes it into his own, his fingers sliding between yours. He grasps it tight, in a hold that would feel reassuring, if it wasn't for the circumstances. "My Y/N wouldn't tell me to leave. I should've guessed..."

A shiver of fear runs down your spine. As your outburst of frustration subsides, you slowly start to realize the seriousness of this situation for you, as the fire of anger and betrayal subsides. Now you wish Ray was angry again. At least then he still listened to you. But how can you fix things when he doesn't even acknowledge you?

"-Don't worry," You are brought back to reality by a warm and assuring smile on Ray's face. One that only makes you feel nauseous. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, making your breath hitch. Staying there, he whispers onto your skin, like a secret promise only for your ears to hear. "I will fix it, my prince/ss. I shouldn't have been away from you for this long in the first place... My Savior is far too busy to give you the care and attention you need. But now, I'm here. And I'm not leaving your side again. I promise. I'll make sure you are smiling again."

He does not let go of you again. While your fairytale might have been broken, his has only begun its story. And his happily ever after is not something he will give up on. Even if you did.

[llycaons]

hl really is so boring. like it was fun in the moment when reading the novel for the first time but then there’s a post-novel clarity where its like huh the relationship is actually so shallow. idk how ppl can compare hl and wx and think hl is better (even tho novel wx has major issues too). but comparing it to cql wx? its not even a competition, cql wx wins by far 💀

for REAL. hualian's big strength is that they have fabulous chemistry. every scene with them together is genuinely really fun and silly and I can tell very easily how much they care about each other, which is why despite my griping I actually do enjoy a lot of the romance scenes in the book. but if you're looking for something deeper, or even something real....it's just not there. it's all fantasy and idealization and hyper-devotion to the point where you have literally nothing else in your life that you care about or think makes life worth living. hc giving xl his ashes and saying essentially 'if you die, there's no point to me living' is actually really sad. xl inspired a traumatized child to live and then instead of actually living his life that child just devoted himself to xl utterly...it's just a self-fulfilling loop. hc never found anything else that he cared about or loved or was passionate about to really live for. he died for xl MULTIPLE times and he never appreciated his existence beyond xl's presence, which is honestly one of the most depressing endings a traumatized child can have

also you're so right when you say it's shallow. hc like 'gege is absolutely perfect and beyond reproach' and xl is like 'hc is so funny and we get along so well' and sure you have the dramatic "I saved your life/I'll kill for you' backstory but that didn't make it more interesting, it's just made it more dramatic. their principles, their morals, their life experiences, their perspectives and goals and respective places in life - it's not that those things are incompatible in the relationship, they're just irrelevant to the relationship. so like...what does any of this matter besides 'well they're happy now!' I personally like when characters care about each other for actual reasons that tie into the themes of the stoy

and yeah, despite its issues novel wx was extremely compelling and their dynamic for the most part made sense bc they complemented each other rly well and there were such good romantic scenes in the book i shan't lie. and like if two characters have never actually had to deal with genuine issues in their relationship because they just accept the other as perfect the way they are, its a very fragile and unstable dynamic because they have no idea how to resolve conflict or come to terms with being angry at each other. yet another reason wangxian is so much more stable and rewarding than hualian. they know what it's like to truly be opposed to each other, disagree with each other, hurt each other, and they found a resolution to that. not that they're perfect but in comparison, they've put in the work

and comparing hl to cql wx is really funny to me actually. real hydrogen bomb vs coughing baby situation in terms of like...themes...knowing each other...growing as people together...living meaningful lives...yeah idk how mdzs/cql fans moved on the tgcf and got into the romance because it's so much more simplistic and, imo, unappealing

ty for the ask!

[bec-son]

Ive recently learned that they did a playtest for Marathon the game based off of the same series from the 90s.

and i gotta say, im so over bungie trying to do sleek stuff. ever since destiny 1 i really disliked what they did with it and how they turned all the dlcs into live service vaulting as well as just making every dlc expensive as hell.

my BIGGEST gripes?

theyre turning a campaign focused game with a side of multiplayer into an extraction shooter

and they completely turned the art style into some basic cyber corpo vibe.

Game genre matters - extraction shooters are limited severally by their game genre, you can only have so much going on in it. Maps are constrained by locations, gameplay and balance is utterly important because 1. you dont want snipers across the map 2. you gotta have a game flow around it and you have to direct it to an end point. 3. story CANNOT take place in it at all, if you do youll end up having players be in positions they cannot be in or interrupt the entire flow of the game for story.

Originally Marathon was a campaign game with multiplayer thrown in on the side, which has far more freedom in how it can approach things because it can control flow, story, and atmosphere way more easier.

they turned a full meal into a scavenger hunt that you must grind through to get a fry which shouldve come with your burger but they said you gotta work for it. Where a campaign means you can go through it getting the meal at a steady pace then after it you can get dessert on the side (multiplayer).

Art style from older years strike more than modernization -

during the development of Marathon 2024 they decided to redo the art style, but completely lost the idea the original was going for.

these are from the Marathon 2024 trailers

the last image is of the S'pht which are aliens from the original series, which is shrouded in darkness, which sucks because its legitimately the only thing you can fully recognize from the first 3 games.

theyve changed the art style so much this is supposed to be a cyborg but lacks the brutal designs of the original

its too sleek, its too modern

now here is art by Craig Mullins (original site which the art is from https://marathon.bungie.org/story/CM_history.html and https://marathon.bungie.org/story/CM_blake.html)

Each of these images have so much style, so much care, and so much design to it the announcement trailer makes it look so unappealing, its too formulaic with the colors being just entirely one uniform color, how the robotic people just look like theyre japanese synths/just synths from fallout 4.

entirely missing the point of it all, *honestly looks way too similar to Brink*

a quote from a review of the first marathon game by Mandaloregaming (please watch these, these show how much the games look amazing https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H9rMu1XYB98 )

"its like you have all these enemy types with bright colors variations and they look cartoony, but in a stylistic way thats very appealing to the eyes"

Now you may be wondering why I'm even talking about this at all, well recently Bungie laid off a lot of staff, and I think its important that we talk about the amount of work that goes into these games.

reinventing the wheel shouldnt be your go to answer when coming back to a series, all the work the devs who worked on Marathon 1 to Infinity shouldn't be just a note in a devs log.

*it should never be taylor swifts cover of september by earth wind and fire* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KnDnphYTb0Q

[aislamxnto]

for: @daimonas

location: edric's quarters

"To think my victory had begun to make my head grow to biblical proportions, only for me to be utterly deflated in a few days time -- I feel near foolish having been so happy." Their meeting had been crafted on the premise of tea and delicacies, but Edric could not remain within the confines of the chair he had been occupying beside Waylon. He had taken to pacing, to staring at the sunshine which settled upon the Kings Landing, its merry sheen an insult to the events which shook them all. His tea lay abandoned, long since cold and unappealing in a silver cup. Waylon would always be a figure whose wisdom would draw Edric near; the North laid claim to his heart, and all who had grown within the arms of winter, would be brothers to him. Save, for a select assemble, whose misdeeds would carry through his family, as songs of snakes. "What shall come next, Waylon? I know you cannot divulge the secrets of the council -- but do you look upon our new age with hope?

[astrxlfinale]

Fingers twirl spirals of hair needlessly, nervously. Nervous? Why would March 7th, the galaxy's cutest girl, be nervous? Upon a time, she had many, many suitors toss themselves her way, bouquet in hand, chocolates in the other, and they all wore a similar confidence (one that she never held back a scoff at). Now, when placed at the opposite side, she found herself stammering over rehearsed words (rehearsed? Who was she?!), palms warm to the touch as they cradled a heart-shaped box, brimming with homemade goodies. Caelus wasn't picky. If anything, his inability to be picky made finding the perfect sweet more difficult, more taxing, especially given March's… somewhat unimpressive cooking skills. What? Himeko had taught her a thing or two! … Dan Heng, however, proposed her beyond teaching, and with a huff, March had spared a day in favor of whipping up the best Valentine's Day treats this world, that world, had to offer! … What sat within her carefully picked, painted, polished and decorated box was every "surviving" member; ones deemed okay enough to eat, fully cooked, and didn't wind up as… visually unappealing as most of the batch. Blissfully, Caelus wasn't picky. Not blissfully, he was known for teasing. With one knock, louder than the thrum of her heartbeat, March held forward the treasure trove of sugary goods with eyes squeezed shut. "Here you go. Try not to eat them all in one gulp!"

It wouldn't be too long before there's an answer. The abrupt, sharp wrap startling him from the spread of mechanical work littered across his desk. "Ah, hold up a hot sec! Lemme just.. Not bust my own face tripping!" He gritted out as a few knickknacks were brushed to the side. The vibrant rock music was dwindled down a bit, enough for voices to take the front stage as within moments, that click of the door signified his arrival as it peeks open, his heart giving a joyful beat at the flowing pink that caught his eyes first thing.

March 7th was here, a welcomed face, one that managed to blossom her brand of magic that's made their history woven ever closer. What that didn't answer was the arrival of what's tucked within her hands. The box itself was enriched with her figure sake color, settled in a glossy ribbon and tethered together in a way that made the clues gradually click in his mind.

For the most part, even as she sputtered forth the bravery within her words, the utterly cute nature of seeing her now managed to kick a fresh burst of power in his head. "What's this, a certain special day lottery I've lucked out on?" So Caelus says, intentionally intending to heighten the weight upon this very moment. If life had taught him anything, with all its new whimsical highs and lows, March was a romantic down at the center of her diamond pure heart. To think that such an upstart of a demon would be the one receiving such a blessing. There's an intentional fashion that his hands glide over the box, skimming along her fingertips in a way that meshes slowly and comforting, a personalized and private warmth that only she'd find familiarity in. "So that's why you were wagging your finger and sayin' not hanging out today. To think you were out here on a little warpath no less."

Thus he wouldn't hesitate to take and gradually unearth the box. That once errant eagerness that usually compels him to tear through any fine packing relents, a sense of care drawn in how the treats are inevitably unearthed to the eyes of the waking world once again. Capturing the sight of misshapen harms, nearly curled up cookie men, to what looks like a few 'screaming' figures of Clockie's face, it's clear there's no small amount of effort were applied to these.

Wonder, confusion, and this innate sense of adventure flourished as a cocktail of fireworks within his chest. If this was March's gift..!

Then it's only natural that the mind, body and soul unite as one in order to let the truth be unveiled!

Thus Clockie and one of those cookie men were swept up, immediately taken between his lips in a brazen bite down! The crunch was entirely audible, leading to him curiously chewing on the most asinine combination of sweet, burnt.. a touch sour (Yet it amplified the sweet) brand? Caelus's eyes had widened, only for that inquisitive stare to begin.

Was there roughness to these? Absolutely. It's clear that the path to baked confections had their ways to travel with March, but! For her oddball of an adventuring boyfriend, this in itself was a form of Trailblaze.

"Yo, I gotta say that these are pretty crunchy! Sweet n' fried, like a super cookie.. but, there's something."

While the idle wonders would continue, his own true opinion seemingly hard to discern despite his reaction. March would find any rebuttal or surprised quote immediately silenced with a private scene at the doorway. The way he'd proceed to close the distance between them, allowing a dose of cotton candy sweet to bless his lips as the warmth between melded pressure was shared. A low, soft hum edging from him as he'd allow it to prolong, to let the delight and butterflies dance before he parts.

Only for an impish smile to spawn once they part.

"Don't even think about takin' these away from a re-do either. A pirate plays for keep with his hoard!"

And in kind? He'll devour this hard work of her's.

@ofhope

[noxianwilled]

[ TOUCHED ]  for receiver to trace one of sender’s scars

always accepting memes!

— @acherys

Everything about the Deathlord should be taken as a warning to stay away. The Ebon Blade is infamous, and everyone knows the carnage Death Knights can wreak. As if undeath alone would not be a deterrent for most, Zoen warns to steer clear as much with attitude as with gloomy armor, the danger she poses no empty threat — but when had the prospect of danger ever made anything unappealing to Katarina?

He may succeed in placing a wall between herself and the easily frightened, but the attempts do naught but intrigue her. She is tempted closer, drawn in, enticed by each stutter in the effort to drive her away. There is pleasure to be found in a hard-won victory, in the cut of a well-placed dagger, in the spilled blood of the assigned mark; she finds a different form of it in how utterly disarmed the Wraith sometimes is at the prospect of contact or an attempt at being charming. A small delight, to see one so fearsome stumble with something so simple.

The Uncrowned are not strangers to death, even those still with a heartbeat. Undeath is not enough to push her away any more than the warning signs are; in her line of work, there is no room to be squeamish, and she had known naught but the life of an assassin from childhood. Perhaps what they say is true, and this is but like calling to like; she has witnessed her brutality firsthand, but so had he seen how Katarina thrived in bloodshed, after all. Or perhaps it is simple curiosity getting the best of her, that and the lingering high of battle, of having her life on the line.

Green eyes linger upon the Death Knight, a brief study of fine features, hair no more disheveled after battle than before, seeming almost joyous after the confrontation. Katarina wonders briefly how the other would react to contact, and before the thought receives due consideration, already her hand has reached for the ice-cold skin. Fingertips clean a stray drop of blood, unlike to be more significant than the stains upon her own skin; and though her gaze does not remain upon the scars for long, contact follows their shape, leaving its original purpose to touch the raised skin (featherlight, barely there; it is not a touch meant to bruise, but one of gentleness, and one so distant as to be the wordless question on whether the touch would be allowed at all). She knows from her own experience how much of a nuisance it can be, to carry a scar so visible; yet it is not morbid curiosity for the tale behind it that moves her. Katarina does not know what it is, exactly, but she knows no question about it will follow — a scar is a scar. Something hurt the Deathlord, and yet she survived. There is no need to know more.

"Does it still hurt?" The question ought to have been made before, though impulsiveness leaves little room for consideration until the thought occurs to her, and Katarina withdraws her hand entirely. She doesn't care about the story, she won't speculate the tale behind it, but she finds it does matter what he feels, and it is that, not the unsurprising icy feel of her skin, that causes her to withdraw. "Sorry — I should have asked that first."

[ossified-hypothesis]

How to fail miserably at making pancakes: a comprehensive guide by yours truly

Step one: Be me! (0/10, would not recommend)

Step two: Overhear someone mention pancakes, and remember how much you enjoy them. Huh, it’s kinda weird that you haven’t eaten them in a while!

Step three: Remember that it is Shrove Tuesday aka Pancake Day today - the perfect opportunity to make some pancakes if ever there was one. What could possibly go wrong?

Step four: Conveniently forget that all your previous attempts to make pancakes have ranged from mediocre to outright disastrous. The tragedy of your repeated failures is a yearly leitmotif in the symphony that is your life but, alas, you’ve mangled the lyrics into nonsensical mondegreens.

Step five: Look up a recipe! It’s important that you don’t use the same recipe twice for that all-important unfamiliarity with what you’re doing. Bonus points if it only has the absolute bare minimum of instructions!

Step six: Despite being the sort of person who is, ordinarily, a measure-out-the-ingredients-exactly-to-the-gram, any-deviation-from-the-recipe-is-sacrilege type of baker, decide to use the recipe merely as inspiration rather than following it faithfully. It makes sense to you that pancakes should be measured by what feels right in your heart, and not by the dry, lifeless words of someone who has taken the time to perfect a recipe and post it on the internet. Besides, why would the measurements be in cups if precision was important?

Step seven: Realise that you are using self-raising flour instead of the plain/all-purpose flour the recipe probably intended. Unsure whether to still add the stated amount of baking powder or to omit it entirely, you reach an unhappy compromise whereby you add an arbitrary amount that is between these two extremes. On a whim you also add some cocoa powder. Chocolate can make anything better, right?

Step eight: Notice that, on mixing the ingredients together, it is somewhat runnier than anticipated, and sprinkle in some extra flour; it’s not important how much. The mixture now has unappealing lumps in it. At this stage the alarm bells have begun to ring, but you are ignoring them with all the zeal you usually reserve for procrastinating important life stuff in the naive hope that this will magically result in delicious pancakes (it will not).

Step nine: Time to start cooking! You break out your special tiny pancake-sized frying pan and, after heating a little oil, scoop a dollop of pancake mixture into the pan in eager anticipation. It sizzles and bubbles enticingly. Is this what success looks like?

Step ten: One side successfully cooked, it is time to flip the pancake! It is now that a crucial piece of information finally makes it to the forefront of your brain: you are utterly incompetent at pancake flipping. You’re (rather ironically) a total flop. If someone put a gun to your head and told you to perfectly (or even adequately) flip this pancake on pain of death, the resulting splatter of brains against the kitchen wall would be significantly less messy than the carnage resulting from what you are about to do next. You tentatively lift the edge of the pancake with the spatula and, buoyed by its apparent solidity, attempt to cleanly lift it off of the pan. It instantly crumples like an accordion. It takes several more attempts to turn it over.

Step eleven: Congrats, you’ve cooked your first pancake! You warily take a bite and discover it’s only edible with the addition of copious amounts of golden syrup. You can live with that. It’s disappointingly flat though, and you wanted really fluffy pancakes. Maybe you should have added the rest of the baking powder? You add the extra baking powder to the remaining mixture. It’s even lumpier now.

Step twelve: Time to make pancake number two! The first one was just a practice so this next one can only be better. At the last minute you add extra pancake batter to the pan in the hope of getting that additional height on the pancake. A foolproof strategy, you think to yourself. You flip the pancake. A tsunami of pancake mixture sloshes over the edge of the pan, while the cooked side is busy drowning itself in the excess batter that remains. You utter a small, sad sigh of defeat and transfer the cooked pancake to your plate.

Step thirteen: Third time lucky? you find yourself thinking. Surely you’ve got the hang of it by now, or at the very least learnt from your mistakes. You add a reasonable amount of batter, wait for it to cook, and flip it with more confidence than you have any right to possess given your previous two attempts. The pancake promptly lands half out of the pan, forcing you to corral the wayward mixture back in. Most of the outside of the pan is now coated in pancake batter.

Step fourteen: Internally weeping at the knowledge you’ll have to scrub both the frying pan and the hob later, you attempt to save time by scraping the worst of the batter off the pan while the pancake finishes cooking. You’re using a gas hob. Pancake mixture, as it turns out, works quite well as the fuel for a fire, and instantly catches alight when brought into the proximity of the naked flame. You stare at the flaming batter on the edge of the spatula and debate the respective merits of using the fire blanket versus letting the inferno erase all evidence of your pancake-related crimes.

Step fifteen: Wanting neither the hassle of walking across the room to fetch fire safety equipment nor having to explain to your flatmates why you burnt the flat down, you instead decide to gently decant the batter onto the metal of the hob next to the one you’re using and let the fire burn itself out. You find it nostalgically reminiscent of all the times you used to torch random objects in the Bunsen burner at school. Ah, science.

Step sixteen: You suddenly remember that, this whole time, your final pancake was still cooking, and transfer it to the plate with the others. The bottom of it is, of course, rather burnt. You are glad that pancakes are unable to render judgement, as you are certain that if they could this malformed stack would wholeheartedly condemn you.

Step seventeen: Now to consume the efforts of your labour! In the interests of your limited budget and minimising food waste, you resolve yourself to eating the entire thing in a state of misery and despair. You take a bite. They taste of baking powder and regret.

Step eighteen: Vow to never make pancakes again. You definitely won’t forget this time! (You definitely will)

[selachiixiv]

Reticent

He is not a man prone to being reticent. The very concept is at odds with his entire being, as can be seen so well in this current form, with its fine porcelain and gilded joints, clad in the most provocative little outfits he could find.

About the closest Narciso has ever gotten has been in communication, and that is different. Rare is the voidsent who will just spill their entire truth everywhere, and more the fool them. Even now, it is still an unnecessary risk. Might get a man eaten.

Narciso has not survived this long by being edible. He has, in fact, spent an awful lot of time doing his best to be completely unappealing for the purpose of devouring. Even this form looks like it would be unpleasant to consume, porcelain not being especially well-flavoured and rather sharp when crunched.

In his proper form, of course, some forms of consumption could be allowed, but those were rather specific circumstances and he was not presently looking for those circumstances. There were bigger fish to try.

The fractured world remained fractured; rebuilding it would take time if everyone was on board, and he is certainly not on board. It will be so boring if that happens. What's next? Permanent death? Normal bodies? Terrible. Awful. How utterly unaesthetic.

He is certainly not reticent in his opposition to this mistake.

[trouticecream]

[          Low to the ground–practically flattened against the dry dirt padding the surface–with his face practically smushed into the conventionally unappealing matter, dark blue voids unblinkingly stare straight ahead at none other than a spider, rat-like tail flicking from side to side with definite intrigue.  Quite the sizable one by the standards of the species, at that.  He appears to be engaged in a staring contest.

Or so it seems for a few minutes too long in most life-forms.

Soon enough, eventually he shifts up and onto his elbows before sticking out a hand for the arachnid to crawl onto, as if relenting upon concluding some kind silent debate over it before.  Something feels vaguely queasy about the action though.  As if something is twisting and churning in ways that only entities with internal organs could experience, but behind the impermeable walls of a safe.  Felt.  But utterly untouchable.  A phantom sensation felt through the missing pieces somehow?  Or genuine unease?

He gently raises each leg up and down, the arachnid remarkably calm for such a blatant invasion of its personal space, before he sets it down, permitting for it to re-orient itself before it scurries away.

The Psion stares for no more than a second or two… before levitating off the ground and after it.  Despite the unease from before, he is in fact, genuinely curious.  What kind of life does it lead?  How does it experience the world?  ]

[yaksha-garden]

[RAMSAY]: after the receiver commits a culinary crime, the sender presses two slices of bread against either side of their face, cupping their face to hold the bread in place, and calls them an idiot sandwich. //since you sent this one to me i think it's only fitting <3

[from reasons to cup a face]

Eden's eyes went as wide as a fish's, and they couldn't help but think they looked like one too, what with their face smushed between two slices of bread, and Salvatore looking at them like they'd committed high treason against the sacred act of cooking -since when did a tough guy like him care about that so much? How did they get here?

Well...

It all started when Eden went grocery shopping for themselves and Vayu, earlier that day. Something they caught sight of in the aisles made them double back, and stare in disbelief: vanilla powder.

Vanilla was an incredibly rare flavour back home, and Eden hadn't tasted it in a long, long time - if they ever did at all. They might have been imagining the deep, rich flavours that danced on their tongue when they thought of vanilla.

Eden looked around a few times, just to make sure they hadn't stepped into some fantastical pantry where they might also steal a golden apple, but no. They were in an unassuming grocery store surrounded mostly by beleaguered, dupatta-shrouded mothers, and yet there it was. They picked up the box, checked it over at least three times. This was really it, that spice of merchants successful and well-traveled beyond their wildest dreams and particularly cosmopolitan emperors. They checked the price at least seven times. It was even in their budget. This was nothing short of a miracle.

And a miracle was what they'd need to make a kale smoothie taste good, right? It looked and tasted so utterly unappealing whenever they tried to make it. Then again, the cookbooks of old only wrote down a third of their instructions (if that), so Eden was absolutely sure they were missing some vital common knowledge that explained the concoction's popularity...

...Salvatore's reaction to their little experiment proved that vanilla, for all its glitz and glamour, was not it.

They were starting to regret inviting him into their home, and they weren't sure if it was for their own failures as a host, or his... attitude as a guest (however warranted).

[bukuoshin]

Kids doing self insert quizzes on quotev are better at making quizzes than almost every single person who uses uquiz.

[teamfreewill56-blog]

Tengen is the Squad’s Dad

So what I was not prepared for was Uzui Tengen showing how utterly prepared for fatherhood he is. Like, yes I knew he was really caring and mindful and all that but this man at only 23 is already SO SET to be a dad! The first like ten minutes of the episode is literally him just wrangling his children in and he does it so expertly even though he’s freaking out. Look at this! 

Dad says stay in the car. They immediately jump out. Dad gets mad and goes into round up mode. 

You have the good oldest child staying with you, just trying to help. Tengen is over here yelling at one child to stay where they are and not wander off but they’re distracted and not listening and one of the other ones runs off so he has to leave the other two to go get that one. Comes back to the “oldest” and middle child is gone! 

And look at how panicked he is that Zenitsu is gone, that is 100% “WHERE IS YOUR BROTHER!” Face! Finds him, sees what's going on and just hits him, literally a “DON’T WANDER AROUND!” and drags him back with a “You’re too young for this”. Kyojuro adopted them as his little siblings, Tengen adopted them as his kids, even if he won’t admit it. And Tengen takes full on responsibility of them like a proper guardian. He intentionally makes their makeup ridiculously ugly so that patrons won’t approach them, he asks the women in charge to put them in manual labor positions which would keep them out of eyesight most of the time or make them unappealing because then they’re implied to be “beefy like a man”. When Zenitsu doesn’t show up we get this:

 Tengen admits that he has made a mistake and has put them in real danger and takes ownership of that, he admits that the desire to find his wives led to bad choices, namely he let three young boys come into a place far too dangerous for them for multiple reasons. He doesn’t blame anybody for it and completely owns that wrong choice as the adult of this group. And he still puts their safety first, “You two need to leave immediately, it’s not safe for you. I’ll handle this”. Because he is the adult and recognizes them as the young children that they are. For Tengen it doesn’t matter that they’re Demon Slayers or what rank they are. They are children and this is an Upper Rank demon. They also lost Kyojuro only a few months ago, Tengen hasn’t forgotten that. And someone who was also younger than Tengen. So here I honestly think Tengen is remembering that as well, Kyojuro protected the boys from an Upper Rank demon at the cost of his life, of course Tengen wouldn’t want to put them in that same situation, because if he fails to protect them they might actually die to this demon they haven’t even seen yet. For Tengen it’s not an issue of “can they fight” it’s the fact that they shouldn’t have to face an Upper Rank and shouldn’t be in that situation so he is very beautifully continuing to fulfill a guardian role of taking the responsibility and removing the boys from the risk. They end up getting involved anyway but Tengen didn’t want that, and through the whole arc, even during the fighting Tengen responsibly puts their safety first.    I appreciate so much that Tengen never tries to “hide” that he cares either, or hide that he feels responsible, he owns these things and its just really fun to see evidence that yeah, when he has his own kids, he is going to be a flamboyantly amazing father.

[heliads]

Some Small Comfort

Based on this request: “reader is having a really bad day for no reason and Draco comforts her and one of the ways he does is kissing her forehead and wrapping his arms around her so she can bury herself into his chest”

masterlist

The wind is wild around you. It’s a cold, blustery day, and anyone in their right minds would have stayed firmly indoors, bodies turned instinctively towards a roaring fire in their common rooms. However, you are decidedly mad, and instead perch here in the creaking wooden stands, green and silver scarf wrapped around your neck as if the few feet of woven yarn will do anything to keep you warm.

It’s not like you’re alone, though. Hundreds of students are packed in around you, banners of emerald and sapphire being waved frantically through the air at opposite sides of the stands. It’s time for a Quidditch match, the semifinals of the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup. Your own beloved Slytherin is playing against Ravenclaw, who despite being stronger than the past couple of years is being steadily crushed by the swooping and soaring forms of seven green-cloaked players. Your cheers are ripped from your throat by the wind, joining the collective cacophony of the school as you all watch in awe.

“They’re going to win. No doubt about it.” You glance over your shoulder to see Pansy Parkinson. You and Pansy have not always been close friends, and the most you have in common with her is the house you share. She’s overly critical of the fact that you’ve been known to hang around with Potter, Weasley, and Granger. You’re a touch too haughty when you compare yourself with her. If you’re supposed to spend time with people who make you a better person, you’re not entirely sure you’ll find that same company with Pansy. That being said, there is a certain rush in being able to say what you want about whoever you want and share gloating laughs with another girl clad in viridian. It’s always a little more fun to pretend to be the villain, isn’t it?

You flash Pansy a grin. “As if there was a chance they wouldn’t. Slytherin is Ravenclaw but with muscle. It’s easy to see that those blue prats wouldn’t last ten minutes.” Pansy smirks at that. “Besides, it’s easy to cheer them on when you’ve got your star seeker boyfriend, don’t you? I hate to say it, but the two of you are cute together.” You feel your cheeks heat up as she says it, even as you know Pansy only speaks to get a rise out of you. “I’m glad you approve of our relationship. I would be utterly devastated if you didn’t.”

Pansy turns her attention back to the game. “Speaking of which, Malfoy would be utterly devastated if you don’t start paying attention. I think he’s about to win.” You tear your gaze away from your friend to stare excitedly back at the pitch. Sure enough, Draco has spun his broom into a deep dive, plunging farther and farther through the air until at last he snatches at something and rights himself, arm held triumphantly up. Even from this distance, you can see the victorious look on his face and the small golden sphere trapped in his hand, white wings beating uselessly against his palm.

Your shout of triumph is drowned out by Lee Jordan’s voice, which echoes across the Quidditch pitch. “And that’s it- Malfoy has caught the snitch- Slytherin has won. I hate to say it, but it was a good performance from Slytherin all around. We all know we’ll thrash you at the championships, though, you can count on that-” Lee’s hurried speech is cut off by the sound of Professor McGonagall chastising him for a certain lack of impartial commentating. You and the rest of the Slytherins rise up in boos against Lee, although you can’t stay angry for long. Draco has won, what more could you care about?

You rush down through the stands to the grounds below, feeling your heels fly across the packed earth. Draco’s already waiting for you outside of the locker rooms. His face, which you can tell he’s trying his hardest to keep neutral and unimpressed, breaks into a smile when he sees you. You run over to him and he picks you up, wrapping his arms around your waist. You beam up at him. “You were amazing, Draco. Honestly. That last catch was fantastic.” Draco shrugs as if it’s nothing, but you can tell that he’s secretly thrilled himself.

“It was fairly easy against Ravenclaw. Gryffindor’s next, though, in a couple of weeks. They’ll be the actual competition.” You scoff. “Gryffindor is nothing. You’ll handle them just fine, I promise.” Draco leans forward to kiss you. Even despite the bite of the wind, you can still feel a sudden burst of heat radiating through you. “Well, as long as I’ve got you I know I’ll be fine. I looked for you in the stands, you know.” You smile up at him. “I was there. Always am.”

The whole castle is in a buzz over the game. The Ravenclaw team has been training nonstop in preparation, but Slytherin still beat them easily. At this rate, the Hogwarts final will be a walk in the park. Draco still heads out to the pitch all the time, broom in hand and ready to practice, but you can tell by the ease in his shoulders that he’s ready to win. 

Your footsteps echo through the stone corridors, joining the storm of chatter that bounds off of the arched hallways. You doubt Hogwarts has ever been quiet in its long history- too many students, too many spells, never enough time for silence to draw a breath. As you round a corner, though, you’re struck by a sudden lull in the hubbub that surrounds you. It’s brief, but just enough that you recognize a few voices. Hermione, Ron, and a few others.

You pause. You were intending to go back to your common room and finish up a few essays, but you’ve got no actual plans to fill your time. Why not go chat with your friends? You switch directions, crossing over the hallway to turn around a bend and rejoin the Gryffindors. You’re hidden from them by the stone corner of the wall, and you’re almost about to catch up to them when you hear more of their conversation. With a sinking feeling, you realize you know exactly what they’re talking about.

Ron is speaking now. “-and that’s what I was talking about. Quidditch tryouts are going to be opening up next year, and a lot of the oldest members of the team will be leaving. I’d go out and practice, but the field’s swamped with everyone trying to do the same thing I am and learn broom skills before the summer.” Hermione clicks her tongue understandingly. “I have the same issue around exam season. All I want to do is go to the library in peace, and then it’s swarmed with all the kids doing their best not to fail.”

She hesitates a second. “Actually, remind me if you’ve got any brooms to spare. Y/N and I were talking about going over some Quidditch skills. Everyone around us plays the sport, and all flying lessons stopped after the first year. We were thinking it would do some good to have a refresher on the finer points of broomstick flying.” Ron laughs, muttering something about the finer points of broomstick flying, really, Hermione, you’re making it sound so dull under his breath. However, a new voice rings out beside them, and you realize that you recognize it. It’s Oliver Wood, captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He must still be anxious over the recent Slytherin victory and the upcoming crushing defeat awaiting the Gryffindors, because his voice is cold.

“The Slytherin? Why the hell would you want that?” It’s not just the fact that he didn’t say your name, or the way you can practically see him turning to Hermione in shock. It’s the disgust in his voice, the sheer revulsion in his voice at the thought of ever speaking to you. He says Slytherin in the same way you might say vermin or dementor, and it cuts you to the core. You’re remembering key facets of Oliver Wood now, the way he clings to the Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry with as much fervor as he does to his broom. He would never see you as anything more than a snake, and to be honest, the same is likely true with Ron and Hermione. They’re not defending you right now, are they? No, they’re just continuing on with the conversation.

You feel sick to your stomach. You had considered them friends, people you could talk with and not regret a thing. Did they see you as anything more than the one average Slytherin, someone they would tolerate to your face and loathe behind your back? You turn away from them, shouldering your bag and walking hurriedly back down the hall so they can’t see you. You head straight down towards the Slytherin common rooms, but with every step you can feel your spirits sinking. One of the worst hurts is when a friend insults you, but this is worse. They don’t even think of you as a friend, and they would have no problems with tossing you aside.

Finally, you reach the seemingly innocuous stretch of stone wall that marks the entrance to the Slytherin common room. You stand before it, muttering the password under your breath. “Hemlock.” The wall slides away, revealing the long-awaited common room. Usually, your eye would be drawn to the intricately carved stone ceiling and columns, the tall bookcases of dark wood that house every manuscript you can think of, but not today. Even the roaring fire in its wrought iron gate seems cold, the emerald-cushioned chairs unappealing. You feel like you have a lump in your throat that seems to choke you if you even think of straying by the other students, and so you hurry on your way to your dorm. You’re not sure you want to be alone right now, but it’s better than having to force yourself to speak to anyone else.

However, it doesn’t look like you’ll get the opportunity to finally escape. A voice calls out to you as you cross the common room, and you groan inwardly as you realize it’s Draco. His tone is light, unburdened, but it hesitates with worry as he takes in your twisted face. He walks over to you, taking your hand in his. “Are you alright?” You try to tell him that you’re fine, cook up some lie that you’re just tired, but your tongue doesn’t seem to want to move. His eyes glance over the students clustered around the fire and chairs, unwanted ears that could hear your conversation, and an understanding seems to dawn on him.

Instead, he guides you over to the window seat on the far side of the common room, the one that holds the swirling waters of the lake behind it instead of a view of the grounds. He sits down, reaching out for you. He pulls you close, letting your head rest against his chest. Your legs stretch out over the window seat, and you watch as the shifting lights of the lake tint the air around you a comforting green. Draco’s voice is quiet when he finally speaks. 

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” You sigh. “It’s nothing, just- Well, I was walking back here and I heard Ron, Hermione, and a couple of other Gryffindors talking. My name came up, and one of them seemed so disapproving, like he hated me just because of my house. I know we do the same thing to them, probably worse, but it still hurt in the moment.” You can feel him tensing underneath you, head tilting slightly in anger. You look up at him, shaking your head slightly. “Don’t do anything. I don’t even think they thought about it much. It’s not worth it to get a detention so close to the game.”

Draco presses a kiss to your forehead. “You’re too nice to them. They don’t deserve to be around you, and if they can’t see that, then I pity them. You’re far better than any of them, and they know it. They’re probably scared.” You chuckle quietly. “Only you could turn an insult into a compliment. I’m not sure they’re scared of me, I’m not very threatening.” Draco runs his fingers absentmindedly over your arm, tracing invisible patterns into your skin. “Maybe you’re not looking hard enough. I think you could hex any one of them into the hospital wing if you tried.”

You laugh in spite of yourself. “I think you just want me to hex them.” Draco smiles. “What’s wrong with that?” You roll your eyes, but you can already feel your mood lightening. “Thank you for listening.” Draco pulls you closer to him, nestling your head against his heart. “I’d do it any day you ask. You know that.” And you do.