#tension and resolution

[aventurineswife]

Hi,

This is my first time requesting, but do you think you could do a Wuthering Waves with platonic Firefly!reader? (say that there is a stellaron somewhere on Solaris 3, and it caused The Lament.  Some of the stellaron hunters are looking for it, possibly causing a bit of a mess in the process as they usually do when trying to get the stellaron.)  Eventually reader somehow meets Wuthering wave characters of your choice, and the whole reveal about them being a stellaron hunter is either dramatic where they need to become SAM, or they really trust them and is ready to tell them their story, entropy loss syndrome, all the things that makes Firefly such a tragic character.  How it ends after that, you decide.  I just really like Firefly.  

if you decide you do not want to do this, feel free to ignore.

Echoes of the Lament

Tags: Jiyan x Reader, Xiangli Yao x Reader, Mortefi x Reader, Firefly (Honkai Star: Rail)!Reader, Platonic Relationships, Emotional Conflict, Character Growth, Inner Struggles, Tension and Resolution, Team Dynamics, Betrayal (Mild), Trust and Loyalty, Psychological Struggles.

Warnings: Mentions of War and Conflict, Existential Themes, Emotional Trauma/Inner Struggles, Loss (Personal and Emotional), Psychological Pressure, Heavy Themes of Duty and Sacrifice, Mentions of Death (Implied and Literal), Moral Dilemmas, Complex Characters with Internal Struggles, Some Angst, May have gotten some things wrong.

The air around Jinzhou had grown dense with a kind of tension. The city, usually bustling with life, now seemed eerily still as the Lament cast a shadow over everyone. The Stellaron, hidden somewhere on Solaris 3, was responsible for this unnatural phenomenon. As the Midnight Rangers fortified their defenses, rumors of an unusual team scouring the region for a certain object had reached Jiyan’s ears.

It didn’t take long for you and Jiyan to cross paths, and despite his stoic nature, there was an unspoken understanding between the two of you. The night was thick with the silence that only comes before an imminent storm.

“You’re not from here,” Jiyan remarked quietly, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he observed you. There was no judgment in his tone, just curiosity.

You nodded, knowing the truth would eventually surface. But you weren't ready for the weight of that conversation. You could feel the pull of the mysterious forces at work—the Stellaron, the Lament, everything that threatened to tear apart Jinzhou—and something in your gut told you that speaking to Jiyan might help you unravel the mess you were caught in.

“I’m not,” you said. “I’m... looking for something. And those looking for it are... causing chaos.”

“Chaos that you’re caught in, too,” Jiyan observed, sensing the underlying uncertainty in your words.

You met his eyes, not fully sure of how much to reveal. Jiyan’s eyes softened, though, just a fraction. His experience as the leader of the Midnight Rangers meant he’d seen many in your position—strangers caught between dangerous forces, all with their own battles to fight.

“You’re not alone,” Jiyan said, his voice firm yet reassuring. “We all fight something. But you must decide whether to let the chaos control you or take control of it.”

Your breath hitched. For all his calm exterior, there was a deep well of understanding behind his words. It wasn’t just battle tactics Jiyan knew—it was survival, in all its forms.

“Sometimes, we don’t get to choose,” you murmured.

His gaze lingered for a moment before he spoke again, his tone steady. “Then it’s your choice whether to break or keep fighting. The choice is never easy.”

In that moment, you felt a flicker of something you hadn't realized you had been missing: hope. It wasn’t the kind of hope that promised answers, but the kind that pushed you to keep going. With Jiyan beside you, his unshakable resolve felt like a shield. Perhaps, just perhaps, you could trust him with the truth, the fear, and the pain that had been building inside you.

Jiyan was ready to stand by your side, even without knowing your full story. That, in itself, was an act of leadership. His words weren’t meant to make you feel obligated to share, but the calm assurance in his voice made you realize that you might finally have someone who understood—someone who could help you face the chaos and the dangers ahead.

There was a quiet elegance to the way Mortefi moved, despite the intensity that seemed to emanate from him. His hair shimmered in the soft light of the laboratory as he meticulously examined a series of test results, barely sparing a glance for you. The laboratory’s immaculate order reflected the man’s own obsession with precision.

“Don’t touch anything,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, as he continued his work. “You’ll contaminate the readings.”

You hesitated before speaking, aware of the prickling tension between you. “I’m not here to get in your way. I just need some help.”

Mortefi finally looked up from his work, his piercing eyes narrowing. “Help? You came to me for help?” His voice was laced with skepticism. “You must know the risks of dealing with someone like me.”

You nodded. You’d heard the rumors—Mortefi was an expert, yes, but also a volatile force, his genius often overshadowed by his temper. But you were desperate. The Stellaron that had caused The Lament was too dangerous to ignore, and its power was already starting to fracture Solaris 3. If there was any hope of stopping it, Mortefi’s expertise was your only chance.

“The Stellaron is causing chaos,” you began, cautiously approaching the desk where he worked. “It’s on Solaris 3. I... I need to find it before it’s too late. And I think you can help me.”

For a moment, Mortefi was silent, studying you. His gaze softened, just slightly, before he let out a short sigh. “You’re desperate. I can see that much. But this is no simple task.”

You nodded again, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. You hadn’t come to him lightly, and you didn’t expect him to offer assistance easily.

“I’m not here to waste your time,” you said, hoping he would see the urgency. “I need to stop the Lament from spreading. It’s already beginning to affect everything.”

Mortefi’s face betrayed no emotion, but his eyes flashed with a knowing intensity. “And you think you’ll succeed where others have failed?”

You paused. He was right to question you. After all, you had no idea what you were truly dealing with. But you were tired of the cycle, tired of being dragged into things beyond your control. You wanted to do something that mattered.

“I don’t know if I’ll succeed,” you admitted. “But I know if I don’t try, we’ll all lose.”

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken truths. Finally, Mortefi set aside his work, his demeanor shifting slightly. “Fine,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “I’ll help you. But don’t mistake my assistance for anything beyond this. If you fail...”

He trailed off, but the implication hung in the air. You nodded, knowing that this might be the only chance you had to stop the looming disaster.

In that moment, you both understood the weight of the situation. Mortefi might not show it, but there was a certain gentleness beneath his calculated exterior, a willingness to assist despite his own reservations. The search for the Stellaron wasn’t just about solving the crisis—it was a test of trust. And even if it was a small step, it was enough to make you believe that you weren't facing this challenge alone anymore.

The lab was dimly lit, the quiet hum of machinery and the occasional clink of metal on metal providing a comforting backdrop to Xiangli’s focused work. He had always been a man of logic, precision, and introspection. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t recognize the complexity of human emotions when they walked into his space.

You stepped cautiously into the room, unsure of how to begin. You had heard of Xiangli’s brilliance, but it was his calm demeanor and compassionate presence that had drawn you to him. You needed someone to help you make sense of your circumstances—someone who might understand the tangled threads of your past.

“I didn’t expect visitors,” Xiangli remarked softly, his voice calm, betraying none of the hesitation you felt. His gaze was sharp but warm as he studied you. “What brings you here?”

You hesitated, struggling to find the right words. “I need help,” you said finally. “There’s something I’m looking for, and I think it’s tied to the Stellaron... It’s causing more than just destruction—it’s warping everything. I don’t know who else to turn to.”

Xiangli’s eyes softened as he set aside the tools he was working with. He seemed to sense the gravity in your words, and though his scientific curiosity was piqued, it was the underlying vulnerability that caught his attention.

“The Stellaron,” he repeated quietly, almost as if savoring the word. “It’s more than just a scientific curiosity, isn’t it? It’s tied to something greater.”

You nodded, feeling a weight lift slightly. “Yes. It’s causing... The Lament. The loss.”

“I’ve studied the Court of Savantae,” Xiangli mused, his voice distant as if contemplating the deeper implications. “But I’ve never encountered a force like this. You’re right to be concerned.”

His voice dropped lower. “But we can find it together. There’s truth to be uncovered in this mess. And you’re not alone in seeking it.”

You felt a surge of relief. Xiangli’s response wasn’t just academic—it was deeply personal, grounded in the understanding that some things required more than knowledge to solve. It required trust.

As you revealed your story, the weight of it seemed to lift with each word. Xiangli listened intently, his focus unwavering. And in that moment, you realized that the pursuit of truth didn’t always have to be a lonely journey. With Xiangli by your side, you felt a quiet hope growing in your chest—a belief that the Lament could be stopped, that the Stellaron's secrets could finally be unraveled.

[sixth-light]

Getting in before S3 airs with a stray thought: Moghedien is absolutely gonna murder the hell out of Liandrin because the show is not going to be interested in fucking around with All The Bad Ladies Are Punished With Slavery Forever Because God Forbid We Kill A Woman, but, and this is important, she's going to do it in a way that leaves Nynaeve forever unsure whether Moghedien is now her #1 enemy because she killed Liandrin or because she killed Liandrin before Nynaeve could. Can you imagine the energy that's gonna bring to Moghedien being her secret prisoner in the middle of a town full of Aes Sedai? I can and it's great.

[lyricfulloflight]

There was a lot to love about this episode.

And other 911 fans have articulated much of what made it great.

I just wanted to touch briefly on character development and grief.

A character can grow and change over time and still - in a time of great stress and upheaval like grieving the loss of a very close friend/family member - be a jerk. An ass. The worst version of themselves who falls back on past poor coping techniques and behaviours.

Athena knows she's being a jerk to Chim, she knows her feelings aren't fair - but they are real and she can't get past them easily.

And that's okay. Its part of her grief, her processing of Bobby's death. It doesn't make her a bad person for feeling this way. Could she be treating Chim better? Yes. But people are messy and imperfect and if she handled everything perfectly it would be BORING!

Eddie yells at Buck in his grief. He accuses Buck of making everything about him (which, as an outside viewer, we can see is not true). It's hard to watch at times, but again, its honest and messy and real.

Eddie's hurt, he's grieving Bobby, and he knows Buck is hurting too and he's scared about what might happen - he articulated that clearly with Hen and Karen! That's a lot of emotion and then when he's face to face with Buck and Buck didn't even trust him to pick up groceries like he said he would and Buck is being very unBuck-like in his grief (so small, so flat, keeping everything inside where Eddie can't see what's really going on), Eddie loses it.

And once again, Eddie isn't a bad person for exploding - he's a just a regular old flawed human being. That's good character writing - when someone is stressed and emotional they don't always make good decisions! They fall back on old behaviours!

Eddie's way to cope in the past was to turn to anger to express his emotions, because that was an acceptable emotion for him to show!

Is he really angry? Yes!

But he's also sad, and scared, and grieving, and worried, and terrified.

And he apologizes for his words, his behaviour, pretty quickly. He brings Buck a peace offering the very next day - he brings him Chris and he acknowledges he was a dick (his own words!)

Character growth doesn't mean never screwing up again, or never making the same mistakes again. It means you realize what you've been doing and try your very best to make different choices.

And sometimes that means you're better at apologizing when you mess up, because you see the error of your ways faster.

So, Eddie and Athena are messy in their grief this episode. They don't act like their best selves at all times. But those flaws add conflict and drive the emotional thread of the plot forward by creating and resolving tension between characters.

That is good writing, with the relationships between the characters and each characters own personal emotional journey driving the story, as much as the plot points.

It's 911 at its best, imo.

[natsumiikan]

I just finished the natlan archon quest after putting it off forever and it was mind-blowingly mid but I think I realized what the problem is. There's no Yuri 💔

[itseasierthanithought]

"Why are you so nice even to people who are rude to you?

Because I, too, have been rude to nice people, & I know that rudeness comes from a place of a roaring pain & Only kindness soothes it."

⁃ By The Word

[ahb-writes]

Writing Problem: The Ending Is Completely Anti-Climactic

Problem: The Ending Is Completely Anti-Climactic

Solution: Endings can be dramatic. Endings can be a little ambiguous. Endings can be bittersweet. Endings can be simple surprises. Endings can be unique and unresolved. Endings can reverse motives, reverse perspectives, or reverse fortunes. Endings can be complex webs that tie up every single loose end. Whatever the author's preference, endings shouldn't read as if the last 10 pages were cut off.

But knowing how to end a story is not an isolated challenge. To end a story properly and effectively, the author must know how the story begins, how its characters evolve, and how these dynamics transform over the course of narrative's varying points of tension and conflict. Recall, how does the story begin and why? How, specifically, do the characters evolve? And what compels them to do so? Where and how do the story's internal and external conflicts converge? Endings follow a few essential rules: endings require context, endings must be plausible, and endings must connect to the narrative's key elements.

Writing Resources:

Figuring Out Where to End a Story (Writing Questions Answered)

Writing Great Beginnings and Endings (Writing Questions Answered)

Feeling Overwhelmed by Plot Points (Writing Questions Answered)

What Is the Dénouement of a Story? Your Guide (With Tips) (Jericho Writers)

How to End a Story Perfectly (Jericho Writers)

Story Climax Examples: Writing Gripping Build-Ups (Now Novel)

How to End a Novel: Writing Strong Story Endings (Now Novel)

Tension vs. Conflict (Hint: They Aren't the Same Thing) (September C. Fawkes)

Utilizing 3 Types of Death (September C. Fawkes)

10 Signs Your Plot is Weak (and How to Fix it) (September C. Fawkes)

❯ ❯ Adapted from the writing masterpost series: 19 Things That Are Wrong With Your Novel (and How to Fix Them)

[lurkingshan]

I’m honestly so disappointed with the direction these final COL episodes have taken. Remember when this show had relentless pacing with wacky surprising shit happening all the time? Where did that energy go?

[neofeliis]

Chokehold

Summary: After the coronation, after forging a deceitful pact, after the Steel Watch is destroyed, Durge and her shattered mind return to Wyrm's Rock. She has not slept a single night without being able to see the face of the stranger who looked upon her with nothing short of admiration at their first meeting. She needed answers, with or without the third Netherstone, and somehow she still knows the way to his chambers. She's ready to do whatever she has to, but with nothing but his presence and his words, he's got her in a chokehold.

Characters: Dark Urge/ Enver Gortash

Rating: idk M for violence and death threats.

Notes: Oh hey I wrote the thing the voices have been screaming about.

Read on Ao3

--

Durge hates how naturally this comes to her. She hates how easy it had been to slip out of camp, not just the act itself but the art of leaving her sleeping companions behind. The streets of Baldur’s Gate were wholly unfamiliar to her fractured mind, yet she did not hesitate through its alleys. The way to Wyrm’s rock seemed to sit in her bones, with some nameless guide whispering to her. Turn here. The shadows are thickest here. Cross here. Remember your kill here?

She stops, rather trips over her own boot. Cold dread winds its way up her spine, curling icy digits around her ribs, then makes itself home in her chest. The memory, flashes of carrion, her hands wrist deep, rattled through her thoughts and her stomach twists with the hunger. It would be just as easy as everything else so far to recreate it, to submit, to leave an offering to her father.

With a crack, she snaps her teeth together and pushes forward. She has places to be, and she needed to be there before dawn. This was her only chance to open one more scar on her own time, without the eyes of her companions, who knew no part of the person she was before the nautiloid. No, she was on her way to the one person...correction, the one reasonable person who understood her in the before. There was no talking to Orin, it was clear from the get-go that bloodshed and her devotion to their father was her only purpose but Gortash laid her bare with no pretense in front of her allies. He saw her. Rather, a version of her that she was not acquainted with.

She was eager to leave her urges behind, but to do so she needed to know what he knew. There was more he did not say, which was hard to believe with all he did say to her at his coronation. His assassin, his equal, his partner in their Grand Design. And something else. Something in the way he looked at her.

Durge lingers under a shadowed awning, and eyes up the pathway into Wyrm’s Rock. Where steel watchers once stood guard, Flaming Fist guards linger instead. The tiefling blows out a breath, relieved at the confirmation that their exploits in the day before had paid off.  The Watch was disabled, and her quarry now stood guarded only by flesh and blood. 

Emboldened by this, she moves. To a certain point, there would be little resistance to her. That was their deal after all, his guards would provide no resistance and she would bring him the Netherstone. 

She had come in and out of this crossing so many times before, entered the coronation hall and ascended the stairs. It was habit, and coming in the night to him was commonplace. The guards, at least those at ground level, knew this. Knew her. And only cautious glances came her way.

The tiefling misses a step and stumbles into the wall as the ground suddenly feels unsteady. The space was steeped in memories, and the further in she got, the more they swam to the surface. She had never been up these stairs before. Not prior to this night, not in what she remembers. Nothing here was commonplace or habitual, the guards should not know her, and yet every detail was now so vivid.

The truth, somewhere deep in her mind, whispered to her. She most certainly had. She knew these walls as though she lived here. What she did not know was the man she would find at the top of the stairs.

Not how he knew her.

Durge emerges onto the torchlit terrace, and knows for certain this space would be guarded in a way she could not simply walk past. And even if she could, she needed no witnesses to what she hoped to achieve in his chambers.

The muscle memory that took hold of her now was an icy comfort. Something crawls over her consciousness, whispers gentle encouragement to her, and then she is moving. Her dagger slides across the throat of one man posted outside the doorway she seeks. The other guard, a woman, opens her mouth to call out, and Durge is upon her in a flash.

The tiefling’s hand claps over the woman’s mouth with such force she cracks back into the stone wall behind her. Her hands fumble for her blade, trying to draw it, but Durge is faster, and her knife dives into the soft entryway in the hollow of the guard’s neck. Only a gargle escapes her, and the tiefling eases her down to the ground.

The confrontation lasts all of a minute, with barely a sound. Leaving her with the time to pick the lock. I don’t know why he thinks this will keep me out. She lurches again, nearly dropping her tools. 

Does she know what he thinks?

A soft click, and the knob turns in her hand to reveal the darkened room within.  Only a fireplace lights the room, and at this hour it’s waning. A grandiose chair is positioned in front of the fire, and with a quick scan of the room, she notes that the bed is empty. The shadows cast along the floor give away the body sitting in the chair, a pile of papers discarded on the side table next to them.

Her boots make no sound on the carpeted walkway, and every step brings her deeper into a memory. Of how many times she had entered this space, how many times she had stalked towards the man in the chair.  A memory surfaces, and it’s not a shock to her system.  No, it’s a caress.

She sees her dirty hands glide down the back of the chair and over broad shoulders.  In her dominant hand, she has a lazy grip on the handle of a knife.  A loose threat.

Her free hand comes around his front, and he says something to her, his mouth curled into an easy smile.  An indecipherable murmur of little consequence that she ignores anyway as her fingertips glance over the front of his exposed, vulnerable neck.  Durge pauses just enough to wonder, and instead grasps at a loose thread in his collar that she swiftly cuts with the knife instead. 

Sickening familiarity swirls from deep in her belly and her knuckles go white. A crack in the fireplace brings her back to the present, and the figure in the chair draws a deep breath.

“If you wanted to speak, you needed only knock.”

Durge stops mere feet behind the chair as the lordling turns his head to regard her from the corner of his eye. The dagger rattles in her betraying grip, drawing his attention down to it. 

To her surprise, he smiles. A mocking smile. “Tsk,” he tuts, “You don't look half as excited to use that as you used to.” He sounds disappointed, and just a touch cross. Something in this urges her to move again, and she stalks around the chair in a wide circle to stand in front, the fire at her back.

Gortash watches her, the image of calm patience as he folds his hands over his lap. “So, not only do you arrive to me without Orin’s stone, but you're still broken. Like my Watchers, it would seem.” The corners of his eyes crinkle just so, and he tilts his head at her knowingly.

Her jaw ticks, but words don't come. 

“But if you want to speak, then we will speak. Though it appears you’ve lost your tongue on the way here. No matter, I'm well-accustomed to speaking for us both.” The lord–archduke now, she supposes–gets to his feet and wholly turns his back on her to approach a small shelf full of bottles. “But for god's sake put away the knife if you aren't even going to look happy to use it. It's embarrassing.” She does not realize, not right away, that he is baiting her. That by turning his back, he hopes to draw out the Bhaalspawn he seems to know so well. The only thing that makes it apparent to her, is how loud her heartbeat suddenly is in her ears. 

Durge swallows hard and forces herself to stay put and watch, hands twitching, as he pours two glasses of a dark liquid. He grips both from the top to turn to face her. He pauses, his eyes sweeping over her firelit silhouette, and something unreadable flickers over his face. 

“You know me,” she finally speaks as she stows away her weapon. For now.

Gortash smiles, wide, and bites down a laugh, “A gross oversimplification.” He approaches, but stops a few feet away as he extends a drink to her, just out of reach. It's an awkward distance to offer something for her to take, and the feeling of being toyed with only grows. 

This is a game only he remembers the rules to.

The tiefling narrows her eyes, but holds her ground. “The same way Orin does? The way the fanatics on the nautiloid did?” Kressa flashes through her mind then, and she tenses as old, phantom wounds start to burn.

His offering to her falters in his grip when she doesn't take it. “I certainly hope not,” another conspiratorial smile, “When I said we were equals, I meant it. Orin and her ilk don't know the meaning of the word.”

Durge looks at the drink another moment, then closes the gap, and takes hold of it from the bottom. He does not move away from her, and in fact he seems to preen at their proximity, making infinitesimal changes to his posture. 

“Now, I expected you would come. I'd hoped with a gift of the Netherese variety but beggars, choosers, all that. You have questions, I wager.” Only her cold stare answers him. She doesn't move as he returns to his seat, but tracks his every move. “As it stands, I have answers.”

“Why,” she asks, her tone lacking the bite that she wanted to deliver. Something about the atmosphere–him in the chair, drinks in their hands, meeting near midnight to conspire–took the edge off her nerves. She expected to feel vitriol, hatred. But something in her mind both eased and roiled in equal measure. An odd mix she tries to make sense of, but the memories are beneath a veil she can't lift. 

“Because it has been quite some time since we’ve met, and I'm eager to see how much of you can be rebuilt.” Gortash takes a sip and eases back, eyes flicking to another chair near the fire. “I am nothing, if not selfish. Most of all with your time,” he replies, sliding his gaze back to her, “You used to know that about me.”

Something snaps and in an instant her glass shatters on the stone floor at the same time she all but materializes in front of him. Her left knee impacts his arm, pinning it at his side, the other hits the front edge of the chair hard enough to slide it back several inches. Her left hand braces against the back of the seat, and she drops her snarling face to his as her right wraps around his windpipe. Out of her control, her tail curls around his ankle.

He’s managed to not spill his drink. The panic, the reactive aggression she expects to see isn't there. Only a flash of eagerness.  The face of someone seeing an old friend again; exactly how he looked at her when she entered the hall of his coronation.  “Ah,” he croaks under her grip, “there she is.”

“If you don't,” her words heave out in a snarl she doesn't recognize, “stop toying with me, I’m going to take the leash off my inheritance and tear your throat out, Gortash.” Everyone was so bloody preoccupied with her heritage, and what her cursed blood would do to her.  When she would lose control over the urges and fall to Bhaal’s influence. Gortash is unarmed, his Steel Watch disabled, his guards dead. There's nothing to stop her. 

Except, as they both know perfectly well, the information she wants. 

The archduke does not balk, and grabs her forearm with his free hand, still smiling despite his strained breaths. “Yes, dear, I remember,” he swallows hard, and her grip falters enough for him to draw a greedy breath, “You alone hold the claim to my life.” He says it like he's quoting someone. Quoting her. “Though your heritage has always been the least interesting thing about you.”

She hisses and lurches back off of him, nearly tripping over her feet. Her eyes are wild, hands shaking uselessly at her sides as her tail thrashes behind her.

There’s a flash of disappointment again. “Ah, and there she goes. Off into the wind,” he rubs his stubbled neck, unable to disguise his wince despite how much he appears to be enjoying this, and takes a burning swig of his drink. “Now, let's try this again. The hours tick and I'm sure you wish to return on home before your compatriots know you're lying with the enemy, no?” He levels a swaggering grin at her and thumps back in his seat, “And please, call me Enver.”

[aventurineswife]

Ehh... I hope I can deliver my request clearly...

I want to request pining Moze and Jiaoqiu x oblivious, emotionless reader. So basically, the reader is Feixiao's assistant. The person who organizes her schedule, conveys information, in short, Feixiao's trusted person. But the reader is an emotionless person here, so they're oblivious about Moze and Jiaoqiu's feelings. It can be separate, though. And for the ending... dunno, I think it's better if it'll end with a bad one >:) anyway, stay healthy! >///<

Falling for the Void

Tags: Moze x Reader, Jiaoqiu x Reader, Angst, Unrequited Love, Pining (not mutual), Tragic Romance, Emotionless Reader, Introspection, Slow Burn.

Warnings: Themes of unreciprocated love and emotional detachment, Emotional distress and self-doubt, Minor mentions of battle and injuries, Implied psychological struggles (Moze and Jiaoqiu), No resolution for romantic tension.

Moze’s breath hitched as he stood in the shadows of Feixiao’s war room, hidden behind the thick pillars that lined the space. His eyes trailed after you, the silent assistant who had earned Feixiao’s unwavering trust. He had watched you move with precision, conveying orders and managing chaos with an emotionless efficiency that intrigued and unnerved him.

For someone so deeply entrenched in order and precision, Moze found himself captivated by the way you remained detached, unfazed even by the looming chaos of battle. It wasn’t love at first sight—love wasn’t something he allowed himself to feel. But over time, your presence became a fixation, a tether to something that felt painfully out of reach.

You were speaking to Feixiao now, relaying reports of abomination activity near the southern sector. Your voice was calm, steady, devoid of any emotional inflection. It wasn’t cold, but it lacked warmth—a stark contrast to Feixiao’s fiery charisma. Moze, cloaked in the shadows, gripped the hilt of his blade tightly.

How many times had he stepped into danger, knowing you would never notice? He had taken missions no one else dared to, plunging into darkness and bloodshed, hoping you might look at him the way others looked at Feixiao—with admiration, trust, or even the faintest flicker of recognition.

But you never did.

Later that evening, Moze approached you. The war room was empty now, and you were seated at the large table, organizing battle plans with your usual stoic efficiency. He hesitated at the edge of the room, his usually silent footsteps faltering.

“Assistant.” he said, his voice low, strained.

You looked up, your expression unreadable as always. “Yes, Shadow Guard?”

He clenched his fists, the scarred bandages on his wrist tightening. “Why do you follow her so closely? Feixiao, I mean.”

You tilted your head slightly, as if the question were foreign. “She saved my life. I owe her everything.”

Moze’s chest tightened. “And if someone else saved you? Would you feel the same?”

“Of course,” you replied flatly, returning to the maps. “It’s only logical.”

His heart sank. Your words were a blade, sharper than any he had wielded. He stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t feel anything, do you? For her. For anyone.”

You paused, meeting his gaze for the first time. “I don’t understand what you’re asking, Shadow Guard. Feelings are irrelevant to my duties.”

And with that, you returned to your work, leaving him standing there, his heart heavy with unspoken words. For the first time in years, Moze felt truly powerless. Shadows, he realized, could never touch the sun.

Jiaoqiu watched from the sidelines as you helped Feixiao don her armor, your movements mechanical and precise. Your face was calm, indifferent, as always. He couldn’t understand how you remained so detached, so unaffected by the chaos and bloodshed that surrounded you daily.

For the foxian healer, emotions were a double-edged sword. They drove him to heal, to save lives, but they also tore at his soul when he couldn’t save everyone. Seeing you, someone who seemed immune to such turmoil, was both fascinating and maddening.

“Assistant.” he called softly as you passed by him in the camp.

You turned, your expression blank. “Healer Jiaoqiu. Do you require assistance?”

He hesitated. What could he even say? That he stayed up at night, replaying the brief moments he spent near you? That he had concocted dozens of ways to speak to you, only to falter every time?

“I… wanted to thank you,” he said finally, forcing a smile. “For keeping Feixiao on schedule. Without you, she’d probably never rest.”

You blinked. “It’s my job.”

“Yes, but—” He stopped himself. Of course, you wouldn’t understand. For you, everything was a task, a duty to be fulfilled. “Never mind.”

He turned away, retreating to his makeshift medical tent. Inside, he leaned against the table, his hands trembling. He had saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives, but he couldn’t even make you feel. The healer who couldn’t heal his own heart.

Weeks later, Jiaoqiu found himself treating you. A minor wound, easily stitched, but he couldn’t help but linger.

“You should rest,” he said softly, his fingers brushing against your wrist as he applied the bandage.

You pulled away. “I don’t need rest. There’s work to be done.”

He sighed. “You’re not a machine.”

“No,” you said, standing. “But I was chosen because I act like one. Feixiao trusts me because I’m efficient, not because I feel.”

He stared after you as you left, his heart aching. In that moment, Jiaoqiu realized the truth: he could heal wounds, but he could never mend the hollow space where your heart should have been.

[pizzaboat]

I know it's not entirely the same, but 15 taking Ruby to modern London after it was destroyed to scare her reminds me of when Clara yelled at 12 for scaring her with the whole moon thing

Different episodes and arcs

But it does make me think that different companions would've reacted in different ways to the doctor telling them they're fucked

Like, Ruby eventually recovered, but she did believe 15

I'm sure some past companions would've been pissed at him and been like "this is my world, my life and my planet and you're telling me you've given up?! Wtf!"

15 is way more humbled, specially around all these weird god guys that are popping up. He really doesn't know how to deal with them, so far he's one of the first doctors I've seen not pull out some god complex and time lord victorious his way through a hopeless situation

But it is only ep3 of the season so far, so we'll see how his character evolves. It wouldn't make sense to have him regress backwards, but people are complex. I would like to see him trying to run away less, otherwise each fight/encounter will be "All hope is lost until the doctor gets lucky"

[ghostinthegallery]

(In the tone of somebody who has just read an utterly gut-wrenching but fantastic chapter) I hope you're happy with yourself

Thank you, I am 😊😈😊

[worstloki]

Looking for platonic fics of canonically close rival best friends that keep them that way

[redgoldblue]

Fuck It Friday (also on saturday bc fuck it)

tagged by @itwoodbeprefect ❤️ ❤️ 

I’ve been doing a lot of rereading of the 23k of state of disrepair that’s already written and very little writing of it so here. y’all can join me in that.

------

“Again, I understand why you had to go on this little Eat Pray Love trip.”

Steve looks up, slightly startled, but doesn’t get a chance to say anything before Danny continues.

“And I’m not mad at you about it. But if you ever leave me again, Steven, I will kill you myself.” It doesn’t come out quite as rock-hard as Danny might have liked, softened by a miniscule waver in his voice at the end. Most people wouldn’t even pick it up, but he hears it, so he’s sure Steve does too.

“No vacations without Danny. I’ll write it down.” When Danny looks over at him, he’s looking back, quiet and heavy, solemn enough that Danny knows he understood.

“Exactly,” he replies. “Don’t start taking too long at the store either, or I’ll be heading for the kitchen knives.”

Steve shakes his head. “Of course your murder weapon of choice would be a butcher blade.”

“Don’t demean the classics,” Danny chides. “They got many a housewife out of a bad marriage.”

“You know, I don’t think I like the turn this conversation is taking.”

Danny stops, considers, and frowns. “Me neither. I think I just called myself a housewife.”

“And this a bad marriage,” Steve adds, gesturing between them, an offended emphasis on ‘bad’.

------

tagging @faorism @bookwhimses @osointricate @thomtrebond if any of y’all care to *to the tune of Devo’s Whip It* fuck it

[lizparkcr]

I'm replaying muriels route for whatever reason (delusion that I'll actually write something)

Idk if they were afraid of complaints of the route/romance being too slow or were just too eager to progress things but...they really dropped the ball on what could have been the greatest slow burn of all time

[titsthedamnseason]

i cannot wait to read the ben winona reconciliation in burn bright 😁