#the consequences of that failure would be bloody

[lightdancer1]

I mean if we really want to go there

Canon makes a single exception for 'Zuko the true root of all morality and being nice to Zuko makes you too pure and perfect and good for this world.' That would be the point where his little sister overheard his father and his grandfather plotting his murder, warned him, warned his mother, and saved his life.

She is given a perfect license to kill him with the full sanction of her state and culture, brings him back in honor. She is rewarded for this with the loss of her friendship, her family, and her sanity.

Anyone with a halfway functional logical approach, post recovery to the breakdown, would reason that the one thing not to do under any circumstances is to repeat something that backfires on them this badly, in this specific way.

I do not understand how ATLA fanon convinced itself Azulon, the guy who perpetrated a second genocide, was just bluffing on the 'kill the kid' bit. The canon openly shows that he wasn't in the show. For the sake of her brother his sister saves his life and the comics demonize her and the show demonizes her for the heinous offense of......not letting daddy and grandpa kill her brother.

The second time she helps him, it goes from bad to worse.

Any post-canon Azula written like an actual human being would go full Diogenes and let Zuko alone to the mess he inherited and have a very deep fear that doing anything good for Zuko from past escalation would end in him rewarding her with actual death because how dare she do anything for him at all.

That is the logic of a show and a fanon where an empire unleashes a century of genocidal war but the true evil is not the army on the speartip of the genocide, nor the autocrats who set all this into motion and run it for all the same reasons as their real life counterparts...but instead it's a 14 year old who was mean to her brother a few times and halfway killed a physical god who got better.

So you tell me, why would anyone halfway human or logical, let alone fully so, operate on that basis postwar to go 'doing nice things for my brother has worked out so well for me before that clearly I should do more of it'.

Zuko has plenty of valid reasons to dislike Azula but she wasn't punished for any of those reasons, she was punished for DOING GOOD THINGS for him. Twice. That would be the major barrier to any postwar reconciliation and as written in the show, let alone the comics, it is by design nearly insuperable unless Zuko somehow finds in himself a self-awareness that his youth and reality rewarding him at every possible level and evading any actual facing of his own bad actions makes, shall we say, somewhat unlikely.

Autocrats who take thrones as teenagers and got away with attempted murder do not learn from this that this is bad, and they are surrounded by courtiers and the trappings of power in a way that would be hard to resist. The basis from here of 'family reconciliation' runs very hard into Zuko's hunger for throne and power in the actuals how, and it is something that would only change if given a sufficiently big hammer.

And that, in short, is why my post-canon scenarios have his rule of the Fire Nation blow up in his face in a decade as he's sixteen at the time he takes power and facing a situation an omniscient deity would find challenging and he's.....Zuko. Literally nothing about that postwar situation is sustainable and the way it would be all too probable to explode in everyone's faces would finally force Zuko to realize there is more to the universe than his own personal self-gratification and to examine everything canon shied away from because the ball of rage and resentment has become a singularity drowning the entire series in a paen to the redditbro mindset.

[cripplecharacters]

(2/3)

The second character is the MC's father and he is the one i am moderately worried about

Bit of info:

His parents where high nobility, they where also perfectionist, violent narcisissts obsesesd with their bloodline who belived themself above all other humans, and where up to their neck in the more unsavory parts of organized crime. This leads to him being obssesed with being the best possible father to his son and a good husband to his wife. He also uses his influence as a duke to benefit and protect the common people as much as he can since the servants of his parents did their best to protect him and give him a better childhod when he was still living and he holds commoners in a high regard because of this among other things.

So for the bad part:

He does his best to do good lawfuly but he has no problem with using violent and/or unlawful methods to protect the vulnerabel. Whic most sane person wouldn't consider a bad thing, i know, but its still moraly ambiguos. especialy He also manipulates other nobels and uses bribery when things call for it (most nobels in his kingdom do the same, but coruption is coruption.) He also strugels with anger isuess and has a tendency to violently lose his temper if someone threthens or insults his son or wife even in the slightest. He mellows out a lot as the story progreses and eventualy completely stops with any unlawful activities or bribery and his temper improves a lot but his last, and most severe outburst and its consequences lead to him losing an eye and suffering several moderately sized second and tird degrre burns on his back, shoulders, feet and on the front of his lower legs.

A quick run down of that: the crown prince beats up the MC, breaking his nose and causing him a concusion, cuts his face with a dagger and trys to stab him in the neck. Dear old dad arives on the scene, loses his mind, and beats the crown prince into a pile of bloody mush ( the Prince lives, i am on the fence of giving him a disability especialy a facial difference due to the injuries he suffers. It would be realistic since MC's dad fully intended to murder him there and only stoped because his son called out to him. But even if he improves criticaly once his dad is put out of comision and attacking the MC was not his idea, he is still not a great guy at this point and i would like to avoid unfortunate implications of him deserving what he got / impliying that disability is a punishment that some people deserve instead of something that just is/ perpetuating the bad-old trope of bad or moraly grey character with a facial difference. Is there any way i could do this while avoiding these things or should i find a way for him to fully heal from his injuries? It can be done, but it would be convoluted)

Back to bussines. This performance earns the MC's father several things

His son's survival of the encounter with the prince.

The king's unbribeled attention and anger aimed at his family.

A nice indefinite stay in the deepest cell of the castle dungeon

A bat- shit insane offer from the king to save his own life at the price of the MC being executed in his place (MC has a claim to the trone, its stronger than the princes, he has no intention of ever claiming the throne, the king doesn't care) This is on the basis of "eye for an eye tooth for a tooth, heir for a heir" (even if the prince recovers completely he would still find him uselessafter the public humiliation, his failure to make the MC "unfit to rule" and the mental trauma he suffered due to the incident. ). The MC's father finds this repulsive

The first treason charge in a century after he unsuprisingly refuses said offer.

What transpires at his execution is what leads to his scars. There is a law i made up for this fantasy country that a man executed for threason shall be publicly hanged and left hanging untill the ravens gouge out their eyes and then whatever remains of them shall be burned ( i did this partialy because of a saying in my mother tongue i found a great potential in for being even harsher an insult and partialy becasue it makes for great horror pushed either way. If its a problem i am willing to change it ) One of the gods decide to interveen. Fyi: They are the god of death,the dead, the afterlife and rebirth. And he is the most unanbiolugusly good character among the few gods who are mentioned by name and given any amount of "page-time."They are also much more eager to help humans directly since he adores them. The gods also have a rule that each time they interween and change fate it leaves a permanent impact on the world, the bigger the change the bigger the impact. Revealing himself to a populace whose greatest contact with gods in the last milenia was recently meeting their curent envoy to declare his intentions has a significantly higher cost on the world-changing scale than sending a raven to remove one of his eyes and pinch a piece out of his face near enoug the other to conceal it and then putting out the pire with a thunder storm before their newly minted charge burns to a crisp. Also it still gets the divine intention across nicely.

The MC's father is actualy pretty positive about his situation and he actualy likes the scars since his parents would absolutely loath that he isn't "perfect" anymore and also considers them a a badge of honor since he saved his with gaining them. The only reason he dislikes them beside the pain is because he is incapabel of filling his position as the leader of the army and on field comander of the branch of the army responsible the magical fires and the king forces his son to take it and leave the one he curently fills as the leader of the other branch.

To clear some things up related to the previous ask: He did manage to escape from joining the militia when he was younger.

The millitia in this world is used against monsters and not rival kingdoms, and joining it is not mandatory for any member of the populace.

Leadership is suposed to be based on merit not bloodline.

He ended up in the position he is in along with his son as leaders of the army against both of their will due to a deal he made to ensure steady dose of medication the MC's mother needs to survive.

By this point in the story (post "execution") she no longer needs it because the other MC and her family helped treat the injury so it was not life threatening anymore and it requers medication she can easily make herself.

The king has other things to blackmail the family with that are more than enough to jerk them around.

Is this aceptabel as it is? Is there a way i could make it better? Is there anything i must change no matter what?

I am worried about the two implications i mentioned with the prince, but also the story takes a turn for the worse for a good whileafter this happens and that could be another can of worms i dont want to imply . And honestly there could be things that completely slipped my attention. How can i avoide those? I am unsure if this character is someone who would even make for good representation instead of harmful but its important plot-vise that he is incapacitated after this and this is the thing i been planing on using for a while and it fits his story but i am wiling to change this if it would cause harm.

Thank you in advance.

Hi again!

Before I get to the actual ask - please don't equate violence to "narcissism". Narcissism is a mental health term (Narcissistic Personality Disorder) and it doesn't cause a person to be violent or abusive. Same for the use of "sane/insane" later in the ask - please try to look for a different word in the future.

I don't think that being morally ambiguous is necessarily a bad thing, but being violent does encroach on the ableist stereotype territory. It would be a good idea to expand on how his family's values have affected him, rather than just to put the Aggressive Man character on the pipeline of ending up with a facial difference as if it's some kind of natural progression (because it's not).

As for the villain becoming disabled - I mean, if he was almost killed then it makes sense, but does it have to be a facial difference? Maybe instead he gets his legs broken and has chronic pain afterward, or gets double vision from being hit on the head (two random things that I also have, and in my opinion they would cause way less tropey connotations?). And if he has to have something happen to his face, why not nerve pain or trouble breathing through his nose, or something? Try to think of other injuries than just FD if that's what you're specifically (and reasonably) worried about.

Re: healing his injuries - sometimes people heal, sometimes not, often they heal some but not all. It all depends on the specific injuries and what you decide would make sense to happen with them. Just don't cure permanent disabilities that don't get better; stick to injuries that could be improved with things like physical therapy or medication.

I'm not particularly worried about "disability as punishment" here because it's more of a "fuck around and find out" or "foreseeable consequences" event rather than if, e.g. God cursed him for his actions and the curse was that he was disabled or something.

The scenario of him being burnt seems actually fine to me. Normally I would be iffy on a character being well, literally punished for something he has done with a disability, but here it's pretty clear that coming out of that with a disability is the better option (as opposed to being dead). Pushing this point would be a great subversion of the dreaded "better dead than disabled" trope that gets used way too often. I do like that he doesn't mind his scars (being bothered by pain is completely normal), and it seems that it would make sense for his backstory to feel like that about them. I presume that his parents' beliefs are framed as unquestionably ableist, so I won't dwell on that.

I'm not sure about the second reason he dislikes them though - apologies if I'm just misunderstanding - but why would his scars make him unable to be an army commander as opposed to being charged with treason? It would be good to make it clear in the story because I feel like his scars are probably irrelevant here, unless there's some sort of law against disabled people being in a position of power (?).

My general recommendations would be:

Have characters without disabilities/facial differences that are violent, or have anger issues, etc.

Have more characters with facial differences who don't fall into the tropes at all - non-aggressive, non-fighter characters even. I'm sure there are nobles or servants who are mostly occupied with boring stuff who could have facial differences while popping up in a chapter or two?

There's a difference between one character existing and that one character going into ableist territory, versus five characters existing out of which only one goes into that. 20% is a coincidence that doesn't mean much, 100% is a pattern that's hard to not notice.

For including more characters with FD "naturally", I will try to write a longer piece in the third part - for disabled characters in general, I recommend this post!

I hope this helps, and that I understood all the questions correctly!

mod Sasza

[loki-cees-all]

Blessings {Prince!Loki x Female Reader One-Shot}

Cee's Loki Fic Masterlist / A03 Link

Pairing : Prince!Loki x Female Reader

Summary : Loki has an incredibly difficult day, and when he returns to the palace, he just wants to worship you.

W/c : 3.4k

Content / Warnings : Healing Smut, Oral Sex (fem receiving), angst, hurt/comfort

18+ Only - Minors DNI

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Rain was pooling on the balcony of the flat when he finally reappeared, and the howling wind outside masked the sound of his green magic whooshing him back home. He stumbled as he landed, just barely catching himself before he could fall. It was long after midnight, and he knew you would be asleep by now.

Loki let himself fall backwards to silently slide down to the floor. He was still trying to catch his breath, still waiting for the adrenaline to fade out of his bloodstream. The meeting had not gone according to plan, but this time it hadn’t been his fault. It had turned bloody so suddenly and without warning that he wasn’t sure how he was going to explain it. There would be a whirlwind of discussions, envoys and war when the news of the battle reached his father, and he could already feel the anger and disappointment about to come down on him.

He had tried his best, really he had. Loki was a married man of the royal Asgardian family now, and this was what was expected of him. But diplomacy — truly honest diplomacy — had never been his strong suit; it seemed like he would never be able to outrun his favorite pastimes of trickery and manipulation, like his mere presence was enough to send the simplest of tasks sideways, as if he was always doomed to be a failure.

He had changed after you came into his life, and he didn’t want to revert back to being the villain in someone else’s story. He didn’t want them to drag you down to his level of social status, or for you to hear them laughing behind your back. He believed that you deserved a respectable husband, and perhaps his arrogance had convinced him that he could be that man for you. But now his self-loathing was starting to convince him that perhaps change was impossible for him after all.

His gaze traveled over to you on the bed, watching you slowly breathing in and out in even motions. A smile crept across his bloodied and sweaty face as he studied you, nestled underneath the stark white sheets, your beautiful face resting gently on the clean pillows. 

He felt a desperate need to touch you, hold you, consume you — but he couldn’t let you see him so rattled and shaken, so tainted with destruction. He feared you’d never be able to look at him the same way, and to him that was a pain far worse than any battle could ever be. You were his rock, his safety net, the air he breathed – he’d be truly lost if he ever lost you. 

A low rumble of thunder echoed off in the distance, and its accompanying lightning strikes illuminated his hands for the first time. Covered in dirt and the blood of other men, he let out a sigh and clenched his fists as he attempted to control the shaking. The outward silence was now engulfing him, but the memories of the screaming and clashing of metal were still threatening to tear him apart. He steeled his jaw and closed his eyes, trying to force away the flashes of green and gold that had highlighted every horrifying second of the battle.

He cursed himself as he struggled to get his mind back under control. The consequences of the battle were far from over yet, and he knew there would still be hell to pay. The diplomatic missions had undoubtedly been his mother’s idea, and he suspected that the only reason his father had gone along with it was to watch Loki fail again. He had to clear his mind; perhaps there was still a chance to correct the course. He couldn’t bear the thought of Odin being proven right again. 

Loki slowly pushed himself to standing, taking care not to wake you just yet. It would be so much easier to wash away his sins with a flick of his wrist, but he decided that wouldn’t quite do the trick this time. He quietly made his way to the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Exhaustion was beginning to overtake him now, and he needed to move quickly. 

He shed his tattered, stained clothing and stepped under the running water. The trail of muck and blood slowly slid down the drain, taunting him, as he willed his heart to come back to life. He washed himself thoroughly and quickly, desperate to stay in front of his mounting need for you. The stain on his soul was growing, and he was aching for your touch, for the way your pupils dilated when you looked at him, to know that he was still good. The shower could cleanse his body but it couldn’t cleanse his soul; only you could do that. 

He stepped out of the shower and dried himself off, leaving the golden towel wrapped around his waist. Deciding that the mirror was still pure enough, he magicked the steam away from the room and gazed upon himself. He had luckily managed to escape with only minor cuts and bruises; the real damage had only occurred to his psyche. 

As he examined himself with deep, measured breaths, his eyes caught the reflection of a small, dark bottle on the counter. It was your favorite cologne for him to wear, the bottle you had given him as a wedding day present. He smirked to himself, remembering your wedding night together, as he applied little drops of the scent on his neck, chest and wrists. You both had been so insatiable that night, even though it hadn’t been the first or even the twentieth time you had made love together. 

The love you made together made him feel alive, wanted, needed, cared for. Sometimes he still had to pinch himself afterwards, to see if he was still real. And everytime he pinched himself, everytime he felt that sting of pressure, he’d let out a sigh of relief. He didn’t believe in karma because of you, because there was no way you would be there otherwise, but he did believe that everything would work out with you by his side.

Loki cautiously opened the door and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness for a moment before silently stepping out of the room. You were awake now, sitting on the edge of the king sized bed, with an assortment of candles flickering on the nightstand. He smiled at you as he watched the lights dancing across your peaceful face, and his heart broke as your peaceful face changed into concern. 

“It’s so late,” you mumbled sleepily, beckoning him to come to you. “How did it go?”

At first he didn’t move, he was lost in a trance at the sight of you. Your tousled hair cascaded down your shoulders and the stark white of the thin satin nightdress you wore reflected the glow of the candlelight, causing him to wonder whether you were an actual angel or not. But a massive roll of thunder crackled through the night sky, bringing him back to reality. 

“Well, my dear— it’s the damnedest thing!” he replied with a shrug, donning his signature cheeky grin. “They all took a vote, and decided I should be made their King! And that you…”

His voice trailed off when he saw you shaking your head at him. It was a terrible lie, and you both knew that he didn’t have the energy for mystery tonight. 

“I’ll take that to mean that the visit didn’t go well…” you said softly, patting the mattress next to you. 

Ordinarily you found his jokes to be so amusing. You loved watching him chat with strangers, listening to he little tricks and fabrications and plays on words fly over their heads. Not once had you ever felt yourself becoming bored with his conversation or the little inside jokes kept between the two of you. He was so knowledgeable about so many niche things, and given the right audience he could easily spend hours passionately discussing anything. 

He took defeated steps towards you with a solemn expression. It broke your heart to see him like this. You could tell that his confidence had been shaken, a side of him that he never let anyone see. You weren’t sure exactly what had gone wrong, but you were sure that it wasn’t his fault. He was never given a proper chance; he was sent down the wrong path and then punished for not having the right directions. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

He chuckled lightly and collapsed down on the bed next to you, bringing his elbows to his knees and burying his face in his hands. 

He knew that you could see right through him, and while that was a terrifying concept for him at first – it turned out you loved everything you saw in him, a feat no one else had ever managed to do with him. There was nothing but truth and honesty between you, a kind of safety that usually only ever existed in stories and legends. But you knew that his instinct to run still floated around in there, the fear that it would all come crashing down on him without warning.

“Not at the moment…” he finally sighed through his clasped hands.

You reached over to rub his back, and a small smile drifted across your face. His skin was still warm from the shower, and the familiar scent of your favorite cologne awakened the butterflies in your belly. Maybe he would be interested in discussing the meeting in the morning, but first he probably needed a clear head.

You brushed the damp hair behind his ear, letting your fingertips trace across his jawline. “Are you…tired?”

You were not unfamiliar with men or Gods salivating at the sight of you. It seemed like every being in this realm had made a pass at you at some point or another, but the misunderstood God before you was the only one who could see into your soul, who could understand the feeling of sadness and pain that lingered within you because they all lingered within him too. The mutual understanding between you was so precious, intimate, priceless.

Loki pulled his face from his hands and turned to you, his icy blue eyes warm with need. “No…” he murmured. “I need…”

Your lips parted and your heart began to pump just a little bit faster. The building blocks of your own need began to take shape as you watched the candlelight dance across his face, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

He reached out to cup your cheek, gazing deep into your eyes and sending your belly into somersaults. He licked his lips before gently brushing them against yours. He paused there for a moment, waiting to see how you would respond, as if there was anything else you would rather be doing at that moment. You returned the caress, upping the ante of his intensity just a touch. 

The kisses turned deep and intimate as you climbed into his lap. Loki ran his hands up into your hair as you gasped into his mouth. He took the opportunity to suck on your bottom lip ever so slightly, running his tongue across it, as you rocked against the hardness forming in his lap. Your need for him was increasing, but you wanted him to cross the finish line first; he needed soothing reassurance, and you wanted to provide it.

Your hands found their way to his waist, preparing to unwrap the towel he wore, eager to soothe him. But Loki reached down, gripping your hands with loving authority, before pulling them away and placing them around his neck. You were about to return for his towel when his mouth left yours and latched onto your neck, sucking the skin into his mouth. 

It was one of your weaknesses, an instant pause button that turned you into putty in his lap. You gasped and locked your arms around him, holding on for dear life, as he kissed and sucked on yours. Any intentions of pleasing him first had gone out the window, and you realized he didn’t need comfort – he needed to prove he was still capable, as if anyone else had ever had this kind of effect on you.

You sank into him as he moaned against your collarbone, sliding his hands down to the outsides of your thighs. Suddenly your back was on the bed and he was lowering himself down on top of you. You let out a gasp of surprise as he pinned your arms to the mattress and gazed down at you, his eyes wild and hungry. 

He placed another gentle kiss on your lips, much like the first, before his lips traveled across your flushed cheek to your ear. You let out a pleasured sigh, letting your legs drift around his waist as he nibbled on the lobe. 

“I need…,” he teased into your ear as the fingertips of his right hand traced the veins of your forearm back to your pounding heart. “...to taste you…”

You responded with a wordless moan and arched your back into him, letting him know that you were ready as he left a trail of kisses down to your chest. Your nipples stood erect from underneath the satin nightdress, begging for his attention. He ran his palms down over your clothing, caressing and cupping you while avoiding the sensitive peaks in an effort to tease you. 

He continued his way down to your hips as you squirmed beneath him, trying to push the length of your dress up even higher. Finally getting the hint, his hands moved down to your thighs and hooked his thumbs around the hem of your dress, before slowly and agonizingly sliding it up past your hips. 

His breath hitched as he gazed down at you, and the aching inside you was growing. He leaned down and continued his path of kisses, picking up where he left off on your abdomen. Each one was kind and cruel, a tease and a promise. 

His touch is trapping you, consuming you, threatening to dissolve you as he takes his exquisite time. He wants you to cry out, to beg for it – a reassurance that he’s still desirable. You want to cry out, to let him know how much you want him, because the praise and promises both drive him wild, and he’s so eager to please. But it’s a delicate line you both walk – too little and your cries are too much, too much and all you can do is try to keep remembering to inhale. He wants the reassurance and you want to give it, and damn everything else. 

“Loki…” you breathed. 

The words were lost as he let out a hum that vibrated out from deep in his throat, and finally his lips lightly brushed against yours once again. The contact was electric and you sucked in a sharp breath. His hands, splayed wide, roamed up either side of your waist as he pressed delicate kisses against your most sensitive parts. His breath was warm against your skin, and your thighs quivered as he continued teasing.

“Loki, please…” you begged, writhing beneath him.

He looked up into your eyes and his expression had changed from passionate to devilish. He pushed himself up to his knees on the mattress with a wicked grin on his face. Your eyes locked on to him, desperate to see his next move. He flicked his wrist and your dress disappeared, leaving you bare and open for him. 

He slowly lowered himself to his knees again, this time on the floor. He gave you a wink before reaching out to grab ahold of your hips with authority and insistence. His hands were so warm against your bare skin, their size comforting and commanding, as he dragged your body to the edge of the bed before him. 

Before you could even react he was burying his face between your legs, and you let out a gasp of surprise and relief. What a glorious evening it was whenever his mouth made love to you. It was different every time with him, you never know when the teasing will end and when you will finally come, but he never failed to deliver or follow-through. There was no one you could depend on more than him.

He began to devour you, as if he were starving, as if you were his last meal and tomorrow was execution day. His eager tongue swam against you, caressing and petting you, as his lips kissed and sucked your most precious parts. Your eyes drifted closed, and in your mind you pictured…nothing. There was nothing better than this, no fantasy could compare to the God between your legs attempting to devour you whole. 

Your head fell backwards onto the bed, and your mouth curved into an open smile. “Oh, my God…”

The words fell out of your mouth in a desperate tumble, and Loki hummed his approval into you, the vibration performing a delicate tease against your flesh. He was your God, and you were his; every movement was an act of worship and the reward of a generous deity. 

His large hands, possessive and inviting, roamed around your hips, then down your thighs and back again. His tongue alternated between skimming and stroking, long and slow, short and quick. And the noises coming from him — the feral growl of a being finally catching its prey — were so obscene and so exquisite. 

Your breath fell ragged as his mouth worked on you, and soon that beautiful sensation began to creep upon you. All of your muscles were clenched, and you clutched onto the sheets as it approached. 

“Please, I –” you cried out as the pressure in your core mounted. 

His hands slipped down underneath your thighs to lift them to his shoulders, and your ankles locked around him, begging him to go faster and deeper. His hands returned to your hips, gripping them in anticipation of what was coming as his tongue fucked and tasted you. 

The way he knew what you wanted without having to speak was a true blessing. The God of Mischief? No, he was the God of Blessings, and he was eager for his offering. The build-up, the dedication he had was unparalleled. There was no comparison to his worshiping, and nowhere else he’d rather be. The palace could be crumbling, but Loki would die happy if he was between your thighs.

You began to roll your hips against his face, and his grip on your hips softened, allowing you full control of your movements. The lapping of his tongue synchronized with the grinding of your hips, and your back arched and stretched into him. 

Your vision began to blur and the room started to spin. Your climax was quickly approaching, and your hands hooked themselves inside his dark curls to hold on for dear life, to beg him not to stop. He hummed his approval again – such a beautifully frenzied sound – as if he was saying “Yes, my darling - deliver your precious offering to me.”

Any remaining thoughts floated away as every muscle of yours stretched and released simultaneously and desperately. Incomplete cries rose up to your throat as he pushed you over the edge, his tongue and mouth continuing to work on you as you writhed and convulsed, his pace only slowing as your orgasm finally faded away. 

Your limbs gave way with a shudder and fell open against the bed, and you could feel him kiss his way back up your body. Your eyes remained closed as you tried to calm your breathing, but your lungs weren’t cooperating. The hard reset had been so intense — your skin was hot and flushed and littered with goosebumps.

You shuddered as he lowered himself on top of you, nuzzling his face against you. His hair was almost dry now as you threaded your fingers through his dark, soft curls again. You giggled as he pressed his lips into gentle kisses against your skin. 

“What’s so funny, love?” he murmured, pressing his smile against your neck.

“It’s nothing…” you replied breathlessly. “It’s just — that’s what I was going to do to help you feel better…”

He chuckled. “Well, now that you’ve mentioned it…”

A hand drifted over your chin, tilting your face towards him. 

“…I am still quite sad that they didn’t vote for me to be their king…” he whispered. 

You pressed your lips against his as your hands slid out of his hair down to his waist, but this time he didn’t stop you. 

Perhaps he was still the God of Mischief after all.

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[itsclydebitches]

Okay so, just to recap:

Ruby drives away Little, which works. That's a classic "I hate myself and am being cruel in order to supposedly protect you, but you'll still follow me out of love anyway" situation.

Neo's semblance has evolved to the point where she can keep multiple, independent copies going at once, all of which have a different veneer, as well as a whole-ass mansion for them to play in. Sure! Why not! We're well past the point of power scaling jumping the shark.

All these copies can talk. I don't care if this is some Ever After magic, Neo is mute! Let her be mute!!

The story straight up forgot what information Neo has. Does she know anything about Ruby and Penny's friendship? Is she aware that Clover died out in the snow? Is mind-reading a part of her semblance now too?

How come everyone else hasn't gotten insane semblance power ups? Jaune must feel so cheated after spending a whole lifetime here...

Ruby defends herself against this horrific onslaught despite JUST being unable to fight against more garden-variety baddies. Is she having a crippling aversion to Crescent Rose or not?

Ruby is physically and psychologically tortured which, while compelling, means that every criticism we're shown is easily dismissed. The question of whether Ruby has caused more harm than good isn't really something to grapple with, it's a horrific lie told by the villain that Ruby needs to be rescued from. It's the Caterpillar situation on steroids and the extreme nature of the scenario just makes the viewer uncomfortable (understandably!), rather than allowing space to acknowledge, "The dead allies she's at times had a hand in getting killed have a point about Ruby's consequence-laden failures."

This includes images of the adults in her life - notably adults that the show has demonized - beating her to a bloody pulp to the point where we're shown rare injuries. Great! Love watching my discourse-laden faves choking a teen against the wall and beating her with a cane /s

This culminates in Ruby slicing "Oscar" in half, the kid who previously underwent torture too. This guy just can't catch a break.

Also love the implication that seeing Oscar cut in half is psychologically damaging, but if the copy had stayed as Ozpin it would have been fine. Or at least far less impactful. Why would Ruby care about her old headmaster who remains a current ally in this fight? Seeing HIM dead, even if it's a fake currently attacking her, just doesn't mean much emotionally.

Little is dead. I mean, they'll probably resurrect them somehow, or reveal that they were just badly injured, but Neo was grinding her heel. The tiny mouse should be a goner.

Yang is pissed at her little sister for having a breakdown after she spent the last two days flirting with her girlfriend instead of acknowledging the horrors they've all been through. Sibling of the year.

Then all of them just STAND THERE while Ruby, injured and lying on the ground, surrounded by enemies, sloooooooowly drinks the clearly messed-up tea. Hey, at least the sisters are even now? Ruby just stood there while Yang fell and Yang just stood there while Ruby killed herself. Great job, girls.

Oh yeah, hey, RT? It's called "themes of suicide," not just "distressing themes." Kudos for having our protagonist make a huge mistake that's FRAMED as a mistake and should have an interesting impact on the story... but warn appropriately for it, yeah?

Why does Neo want Ruby to be remade via the tree instead of just killing her? Idk idk.

Then she immediately goes comatose because apparently killing Ruby was the only thing keeping her going. There's no interest in ruling the Ever After. No temptation to spend all her time with this fake Roman that can, apparently, hold independent conversations with her and generally act like the real Roman did. Like, tell me this isn't a Neo falling hard into her fantasy, content to have "Roman" again in this magical world:

No desire either to go get revenge on Cinder for dropping her here in the first place. Neo is just done now that Ruby has fallen into a root-covered void. 10/10 great character depth.

Love the insanely evil Cat but... what's is their actual goal? Something about curiosity, something about being left by their creators, something about needing a host, something about broken hearts?? This would all be far more compelling to me if I had a better handle on what exactly they wanted.

Preview of next episode: Yang, Weiss, and Blake are totally fine with Ruby's choice. I mean, why wouldn't they be? It's not death! The Paper Pleasers promised! It's her right to go to the tree if that's what she wants and you need to rethink your narrow perspective if you're going to be upset about that choice. This is a totally fine outcome and they can just go find this new, definitely improved Ruby to take back to Remnant. No reason to be sad about it. Right, Jaune? :)))

Oh, and there's only two episodes left to do [gestures] everything.

[peachym00]

Vegas isn’t used to what soft touches feel like. Giving them is one thing. But receiving them is a different matter entirely.  Or Vegas deals with the affliction of affection.  (or, Vegas deals with being in love and everything that comes with it.)

Not all hands seek to destroy everything that they touch. Or at least that’s what some of the bullshit psychology/self-help books Vegas had taken to reading said. He hated every word, but he continued to read them anyway.

For the entirety of his life, Vegas has been surrounded by people who sought to destroy what they touched. They sought to hurt, maim, and possess what they were owed. Pa had taught him very early on that if he got hit, it was because he deserved it. The consequence of his failure was always pain.

Ninety-eight per cent of his life was spent feeling hurt, misery, adrenaline, power and exhaustion (in that order). Over and over and over and over–

The other two per cent was a tiny spark of warmth in the coldness surrounding him. A feeling of tenderness and touches that did not hurt. It was for Macau. Because he was the only person in his life that did not hurt him. The only one that he would die to protect.

Until Pa died. Until he was suddenly left with nothing and no one to break his nose every time he failed.

Until Pete.

He wanted to hurt Pete as much as he wanted to hold him. And that was an extremely foreign feeling for Vegas. His past lovers were nothing. Hurting them was easy, and touching them softly was an ulterior motive for something else. He never cared about them. Some of them he never even wanted in the first place.

But Pete, Pete was different.

Pete was a deity he never thought he’d be blessed with. He was the rope Vegas clung to when he fell over the edge. He was the most important person in Vegas’s life. And in all his lives thereafter.

Loving Pete, and touching him with gentleness, with reverence was something that did not come easy. Vegas couldn’t differentiate between the hands he wrapped around Pete’s neck, bruising and vicious, with the hands that ran down lightly down his spine, causing goosebumps along Pete’s skin. Both acts were intertwined with the same deep emotions of love. And it wasn’t like he’d grown up with any good points of reference. Although having Macau meant he was at least attuned to comfort, to soothing someone when they were upset.

It was a constant learning curve. (He was dealing with it.)

What he found he couldn’t deal with, however, was when the gentle touches were instead turned on him. Vegas had never lived in a world where doing something wrong hadn’t ended in a cracked rib or a slap to the face. Where malicious words weren’t hurled at him for just existing. No one, Macau excluded, had ever offered him tenderness just because they wanted to.

Until Pete.

There were days that he could barely make it out of bed after being shot. His mind was a dark and never-ending pit of his father’s voice. And some days were louder than others.

Dealing with the cesspit that was his mind made it all the more easier when he had something physical to focus on, like shattering everything in his sight. Like breaking every morsel he could get his hands on so the voice would just quiet for a few moments. So he could get some peace.

And when he was done, the room a wreck, his hands bloody and raw, he never felt better. With the sweat pooling in the uncomfortable crevices of his skin and his breathing harsh, he would close his eyes and wait for what he deserved. Wait for Pete to find him, see what a vile monster he was, what a failure he was, and realise he could do so much better. And when the door would creak open, and Pete’s footsteps would approach, hesitant but steady, he would wait for the hit.

But it would never come. Even when he hoped it would.

Instead, careful hands would cup his face, and he would see the look of concern on Pete’s face. It was devastating. Not only because Vegas didn’t deserve it but because he was the cause.

Pete would quietly observe his injuries and remove him from the wreckage he’d caused. He would tweeze the glass from his hands and bandage his cuts whilst Vegas would sit there sniffling miserably like a toddler who didn’t know how to regulate his emotions. And after he was done, he wouldn’t yell or tell Vegas he was a failure; sometimes, he wouldn’t say anything at all. Instead of words, he would rub his shoulder, hold his hand, or hug him. And it would frustrate Vegas to no end because it didn’t make sense.

Why did he deserve to be embraced after destroying all the plates in the kitchen cupboard? The worst Pete would ever do was make him clean it up, which he would have done anyway (because he weirdly enjoyed cleaning).

(And Pete never stacked things the way he liked.)

Vegas asked him once if he would ever punch him again like he did in the main family parking garage. And his answer was surprisingly unsurprising.

He said No, Vegas. You’d have to break my heart for me to hurt you like that again. And I know you won’t.

And that, well. Pete held his bare, beating heart every moment they were together. And Vegas liked to think he held Petes too, hot and heavy in the cradle of his hands. But there wasn’t a moment that went by where he didn’t worry he would damage it. Worry that he would break it beyond repair.

He would try to placate his worries by proving to himself that he could love Pete properly. Vegas could love him and treat him the way he deserved. Vegas would worship the ground that Pete would walk on, and his heart would be safe, still beating and bloody in the palm of his hand.

But what stopped him in his tracks, what he honestly couldn’t deal with, was when Pete would love him the same way.

When Pete would offer him tenderness, or affection out of the blue, Vegas did not understand. And it wasn’t just the act itself; it was the fact that there was no reason for it. Pete just wanted to.

And thus, the affliction of affection sent him spiralling into frightening oblivion.

Pete had been confused when he asked why he was hugging him or kissing him or doing anything when Vegas didn’t see a reason for it. A voice was screaming in his head that he didn’t deserve it. That he had inflicted pain on Pete that was edging the line of being unforgivable.

And what made it worse was that he liked it. He liked it when Pete lightly scratched his scalp as he ran his hand through his hair. He liked it when he would wake up to Pete pressed against his back, his body curving around Vegas’s like he was trying to protect him from harm.

His mind was at war, constantly battling with itself. There was no reprieve until (ironically) Pete would hold him in his arms in a way that Vegas had never been held before. Like he was something precious. And day after day, he would ask himself how he would be reduced to this. He had grown up in the mafia, committed violent, repulsive acts in the name of fun, and this was what played on his mind? Being in love?

And as he spiralled, a daily activity at this point, Pete would smile that knowing smile. Like he knew what was going through Vegas’s head. But the joke was on him because Vegas knew he did the same. Pete had his own tornado causing disaster through his mind. And, though sick and twisted it may be, it made him feel better that he wasn’t alone. They would suffer through the mortifying ordeal of falling in love together.

Through every lifetime.

[targcrazies]

Moonless, Dark Night. Pt. 4

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC!Strong (half Targaryen) Words: 5.0k+ Warnings: SPOILER FROM THE ACTUAL STORYLINE, Violence and Graphic Descriptions, Emotional Distress, Mature (ish) themes, Mentions of Self-Harm and Su*cide, Adult Language, Incest.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Sansa was with child, quite a long way through her term, trapped in a dark, bleak castle. Despite the shame associated with her being so heavily with child and being well aware that were situations better, she’d have more assistance; she gritted her teeth through it all. Aemond had taken over the Riverlands with Criston Cole five months ago, leaving King’s Landing unattended. He hadn’t for once envisioned the outcome of his unprompted, thoughtless action. Not only had he underestimated his older sister, he had also taken the cunning of his uncle for hearsay. The Protector of the Realm had failed to protect the Realm. The hilarity of it was at its utmost peak.

When the Small Council surrendered, dragging her, the Dowager Queen, and Helaena to Queen Rhaenyra; Sansa had to close her eyes at her cousin and slightly shake her head. She did not want Rhaenyra to reveal her affections for her at an hour so tense, allowing herself to get locked in her bedchamber. She only heard later that Otto Hightower had been beheaded on the grounds of treason, and Sansa’s heart jolted in pain. The man had been nothing but kind toward her, but she knew well that he was deserving of no less.

She spent a night on her own, wondering what aftermath there would be to all this. She remembered her failures all the more now that she had voluntarily taken up confinement. 

“Aemond, I saw a raven from Uncle Daemon. I couldn’t read all of it, Rhaenyra hid it quickly. But, it clearly said, “An eye for an eye, a son for a son.” You must be careful and implement increased security for the Holdfast.”

“The Holdfast is already secure. No one knows the innards of this castle.”

“Uncle Daemon does.” She reminded, “And it is certainly not you he would pass this knowledge to.”

“You are stressing too much, dearest. That old man wouldn’t dare come anywhere near us, with Vhagar and Sunfyre. You mustn’t worry.”

They must have.

Helaena had always been indulged in her own eccentricities. However, not for once one could have thought it could get any more convoluted. Losing her first-born son, Helaena lost every bit of sanity she might have had in her bones. The loss was felt by the whole realm, however, one could not negate the role the one-eyed prince played in the consequences they all suffered. A Westerosi society that made peace with kinslaying was a Westerosi society lost to depravity, one of the septons opined. 

Aegon’s blood fumed in anger, and it took everyone by surprise because no one had ever seen Aegon this infuriated, a scavenger for bloody, brutal vengeance. Finding his grandsire ineffective, he named Criston Cole his Hand. Cole decided the sacking of Duskendale and Rook’s Nest would be a course of action that’d trigger alarm among the Lords of the realm who supported Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne. It is said that Aegon was a beast in the sacking, merciless and vicious. Loss does incomprehensible things to people. Aegon and Helaena had lost their minds in distinct ways.

Rhaenys Targaryen was dead, Meleys was dead with her. Rhaenyra had lost two dragons but had somehow managed to redeem her position by promising ennoblement to Targaryen bastards. Four of the Dragons were claimed by the said bastards, and whilst it was a brilliant effort on their part, Sansa wondered how they could find it within themselves to trust anyone. The moment these dragonseeds found a better offer, they’d pounce on it, even if it meant betraying the Blacks.

A week passed, Cole had made his way South and Aemond had ravaged the Riverlands. Rhaenyra was clever, for she did not send a dragon after Aemond’s Vhagar. She had already lost Rhaenys this way, and Sansa knew that Rhaenyra was not one to repeat her mistakes. She wished that Verasys was present at Court then, more than ever. Only if she had pleaded to her husband to spare the commonfolks, he might have paid heed and relented.

Joffrey had paid her multiple visits, hoping to keep her company. Whilst she had the liberty to roam the palaces as she wished, she chose to keep herself confined. She had missed her bleedings the months earlier, and part of her knew that she must be with child. She was tired of mourning; First Luke, then Jaehaerys, then Viserys, then Jace. There had been too many losses for her to keep count. She had stopped responding to such news, only nodding at the message and walking away before having to let it dawn upon her.

On the tenth day of Rhaenyra’s reign, along with Sansa’s supper, Rhaenyra herself entered. “You’ve been supping on your own for a while now. I wanted to keep you company for once.”

Rhaenyra had become quieter, the sparkle in her eyes long lost. Losing three sons in less than two years must have taken a toll on her. 

“Your husband is burning Riverlands to the ground. What do you have to say about that?” The Queen eyed Sansa closely and she realised that she was then under scrutiny as well.

“It’s horrendous. The commonfolks play no part in this, they mustn’t be punished.” Sansa answered honestly, because she was appalled by her husband's inclination toward such inhumane violence. 

“I intended to spare him after your appeal on behalf of him, but now, his crimes are insurmountably unimpeachable. I believe the only way to do justice here is to flail him to death.” 

Sansa did not meet Rhaenyra’s eyes, securing the flesh of the fish off its bones. The fish was cooked to perfection, which was a relief because even the slightest portion remaining under-heated could cause her to become sick. “As you see fit, my Queen.”

Rhaenyra smiled, “You have always been the dearest in this family. I wish your mother were here now, I’d have felt so much stronger if she were.” 

Sansa smiled, turning the fish to the other side. As she dug her finger to pull out a generous amount of flesh, he saw that the meat was still red and raw. Sansa could not bear the sight of it, however, she was afraid that if she were to throw up in front of the Queen, she would reveal her pregnancy. She pushed the plate away and took a large sip of water. “Are you alright, dearest?” The Queen asked, seeming visibly concerned for the girl’s health.

“Yes, your Grace, I just have been feeling slightly queasy. That is all.” Sansa was having a hard time trying to gulp the bile inward. The Queen, whilst inquiring regarding her recent diet, pulled up her left sleeve, scratching the humongous scar. The Queen had taken to scratching her wrist bloody where the blade had cut her, making it bleed and scar worse. She kept scratching, incessantly, and Sansa could not tear her eyes off it. “Your Grace, you will bleed.”

“It’s alright, dear, you must be used to the sight.” Sansa was, yes, before the seed planted itself in her womb. The moment blood oozed from the Queen’s wrist, Sansa’s stomach churned, and the bile spilled through her mouth and nostrils onto the ground. 

The Queen left her place and rushed to Sansa's side. She wretched her guts out, at one point, fearing she might be retching the clump of cells growing within her. The Queen cooed Sansa gently, using the fingers of one hand to support her temples, the other to restrain her hair back. 

What felt like a torturous eternity after, Sansa sat back, resting against her bed. The insides of her threat felt scorched, her mouth scalded by the fire in her biles. The Queen handed her a goblet, “Drink, my dearest. Poor child!”

The goblet handed to Sansa had sweetened wine, the Princess had only taken sips of it along with her meal. Sansa noticed her own goblet on the ground, surmising she must’ve shoved it off the table when she threw herself on the ground retching. She took a big chug of the wine, the honey swirling in her mouth. However, there was a taste, so faint that it would be amiss upon anyone in such a brief moment. Removing the goblet from her lips, she swirled the wine with her tongue. Before Rhaenyra, she worked to seem nauseous, which seemed to have worked as the Queen repositioned herself behind Sansa. “Wormwood, tansy… honey, too much honey. Mint and… pennyroyal.” She spat out the wine, “There was moon tea in the goblet.” The realisation dawned upon her how bricks descend on the totalled, “The Queen knows.” She thought to herself, looking up at the Queen. The Queen looked at her with concern so feigned that Sansa felt foolish for not having spotted it earlier. The parted lips, the overly-furrowed brows, her blank eyes – the Queen wanted to kill Aemond’s child.

“Too sweet,” Sansa finally muttered, weakly, “It’s too sweet, your Grace. Might Dyanna fetch me some water?” Sansa could not bring herself to look the Queen in the eyes. While she did not disapprove the usage of Moon Tea on moral grounds, she did not want to kill her unborn child. She wanted Aemond to know that life grew within her, wanted to see his face as she announced the news to him. She had, for all this time, been foolishly hopeful of the war ending in peace, of telling Aemond the news as he’d help her climb upon Vhagar. However, it seemed reckless to pin hopes upon an expectation that became obsolete the moment Luke died.  

When her water arrived, she took a large sip of it and gargled, “Nothing, plain water.” she swirled the water in her mouth, gargled intensely, before spitting it all out in her chamberpot, spitting to make sure not a drop of moon tea remained within her. The Queen walked to Sansa as she drank the rest of it. 

“You must rest, I will let you be. Would you like to break your fast at the ballroom? Joffrey would benefit from your company, he’s always had his meals so much better with you.” The Queen asked affectionately, tucking her younger cousin’s hair behind her ear.

“I cannot tell for certain, your Grace. I might skip the morn altogether. I have not eaten well lately.” Sansa took the Queen’s hand, smiling with her eyes, “I shall see you after luncheon, we could take a walk in the Godswood, if you desire.”

Rhaenyra watched the girl intently, “Alright, I suppose I can spare my afternoon for my dearest cousin.” Her bedchamber had been well taken care of, the retch wiped off and the spot sterilised, incense all over the bedchamber. The sweet smell of rosemary wafted in the air as everyone left. As soon as the footsteps on the other side of the door disappeared, she barred it, falling to the ground. She had never thought such a day would come when her own dearest cousin, who’s been like her own sister and even motherly toward her, would look for ways to kill her child. Sansa shed confused tears, angry and incensed. She sat there, quietly, contemplating ways to escape the Red Keep. The thought broke her heart, Red Keep had been her home for her whole life. She was born there, she grew up there. The annual respites at Dragonstone were alleviating of her pains and heartbreaks, but the Red Keep was where she always believed to have belonged. Leaving behind what she considered to be her home was a troublesome thought, her heart broke, she grieved even the notion of having to desert her home. There was little choice though, and if it weren’t her who understood this well, who would?

Suddenly, she heard soft taps on the door. The taps were so soft that were she not so helplessly placed against the door, she never would have heard it. She gently cleared her throat, “Who is it?”

“Lady Strong,” The gentle voice of a woman spoke, all too familiar, “The strong tides have come for you.”

Sansa’s eyes widened as she slowly, but surely, processed what she had heard. “Dearest, if I have come to rescue you from a tiresome situation, you’ll be told that the ‘Strong tides have come for you’. If I need you, you’ll be told, ‘Strong tides are needed.’ And if the former isn’t possible and the latter won’t help, you’ll be told, ‘Strong tides have waned.’” Sansa jerked up straight, carefully unbarring the door. Outside, stood Dyanna.

“Have this, my lady.” Dyanna mumbled under her breath, handing her a piece of paper and a small jute bag, before running off. Sansa closed the door, barring it tighter then. She unfolded the paper to find a rough map of what looked like the Red Keep drawn on it. She was to arrive at the pigsty. When she rummaged the bag in her hold, she found brown garbs to wear. She was to disguise herself as a swineherd.

She took a few essentials with her before she quietly left her chamber. She was an adept climber, a skill that she had learned from Aemond right after they had wed. It resembled what many might call a bonding activity. Despite its queerness, to them, it made all the sense. As she tied the small bag on her back, praying to the Sevens as she identified the small ridges and holes that accommodated her small hands and feet, she remembered how Aemond had congratulated her on her smallness, saying that it benefited climbers more than one realised. She also remembered the threat she had made to Aemond in anger after Luke’s death, saying that she’d jump. Aemond had trained Sansa well enough to be a climber who could grab onto anything with the slightest asymmetry if thrown off anywhere. She sighed softly, wishing she could have him beside her right away.

She jumped off the small gap between her and the ground, running through the lower courtyard, weakly crossing the winding case of stairs, before arriving at a guarded gate. From there, she’d have to bypass Gold Cloaks’ barrack, before finding her way to the pigsty.

“Oh, let me through, respectable Ser, I’ve to get to the pigsty.”

“Why so late at night, lady? What’s the business?” The boy at the gate inquired. He must have been no more than fifteen, his voice yet high, deliberately deepened for impact.

“I’ve to grab some pig-shit, Ser, for the compost bin. There’s not enough and the old crone gardener will not let me sleep unless I grab some for her right away!” 

The boy looked at the man who sat in the chair, relaxed and ready to doze off. The man weakly shrugged, “Let the girl go, Podrick.” Sansa remembered that the fourth son of Lord Podrick had arrived at King's Landing to serve as squire. “It must take nerves,” Sansa thought, “To serve in such turbulent times.”

“I thank you, kind Ser.” Sansa gently bowed, securing the cloak further to cover her eyes, as she ran off. When she entered the pigsty, she was thoroughly surprised by the strong smell that slammed in her face. She had never had to come to the pigsty, and was unaware of how it was run. She noticed a big window at the back of the establishment. She wondered how she could climb out that window, for that seemed to be the only feasible option for her. She found barrels stacked, figured out whichever one was empty, and gently began to roll it toward the window. She could climb upon it and jump. She hoped to land on both her feet and somehow bear the impact. Her heart jumped to her throat when someone held her shoulders, “This was a trap,” she thought, “Rhaenyra knew of the cryptics, she’s used them to test me. I am dead.”

“Sansa!” the voice turned her toward himself, hugging her with all his might. It took her a while to realise that it was Larys, her brother. She exhaled deeply in relief, hugging him back. “We’ve no time,” he whispered, dragging her by her arm to the window. Pushing the barrel closer, he helped her climb, climbing next as she sat on the edge of the window. His hands supported her in softening the landing before he made the jump himself. “I have a carriage here, it’s a sturdy one, Sansa. I will escort you to Harrenhal. You can stay with your husband until things simmer down.”

Before she even had realised, he had already helped her get on the carriage. Looking back at the Red Keep, the grandiosity of it, her heart sank. What she thought of as her home might be the place she'd never return to. She had never wanted to leave the place, and it had little to do with being the finest castle in the Seven Kingdoms. Whilst she appreciated the history and culture attached to it, the boasting of her Targaryen blood, her whole life had been clinging on to the core of this place. She had lost home in ways she may never know home again, the grim realisation made her wish she could cry aloud. Closing the drapes, she turned to sit straight, her eyes foggy. There were three other men and two women. She recognised one of them from the Kitchens, comforted by the remnant of home.

She sat by herself quietly for a moment, hoping to register everything that had transpired in one evening before she finally spoke, “How do you know the cryptics?”

Larys laughed, “Those used to be our cryptics, mine and Harwin’s, when we were younger. You may not believe it, but we were closer until the King named Father as Hand, and our loyalties… split.”

“Hmm,” she leaned closer to her brother, “Thank you for saving me.”

“I just had to ensure that the King was put in a safe place.” He noted, “I’m glad you’re safe. The King was doubtful of your loyalty, but your accepting to escape proves that your allegiance lies here.”

Sansa sighed heavily, “It does not matter. I think Rhaenyra has soured toward me.”

Larys laughed, “I wouldn’t be surprised, but what made you think that?”

“She tried to trick me into drinking moon tea.” Sansa muttered, “I am with child, and somehow, she found out.”

Larys turned to face her, aghast, “But, I thought you weren’t allowing him to your bed.”

Sansa laughed, if it were some other time, she’d have inquired how he knew about her internal affairs. Then, she couldn’t care less. “I slipped.” 

Larys wrapped his arm around her shoulder, “That is great news, sister. I am sure Aemond shall be incredibly pleased.”

–

She slept through most of the journey, only being awoken for meals. Surprisingly, they reached Harrenhal much faster than she had realised. Larys knew pathways through Brindlewood and the villages that helped them get there faster. When they arrived, Sansa’s heart swelled with joy. Whilst she still felt rather disgruntled by Aemond’s acts ever since Rhaenyra ascended the throne, she felt immensely excited by the prospect of telling him.

When the gates opened and she was escorted in, she found herself enthralled by her ancestral seat. Larys went straight to his chamber to freshen up, and the ladies that had arrived with her had taken it upon themselves to freshen hers. She was given the chamber that belonged to the late Lady Strong, her father’s first spouse, she was told. Instinctively, she wandered to the chamber her mother stayed in whenever she visited Harrenhal. Sansa remembered the ornate gate, the beautiful tapestries decorating the walls, and the intricate woodwork her father had arranged for. She turned the knob of the door, expecting to find a dusty old chamber that had been left unattended for years. Instead, she found it barred. She was taken aback, calling out to the Maester Gladwyn, the Regent here, to present her with the keys to the chamber. Soon after, the door opened from within.

Sansa found a woman of significant beauty standing before her. She was rather tall, her black mane covering much of her bosom. Her long face was pale, her dark eyes sharp and striking. Her thin lips spread wide in a smile and it was only then Sansa realised who it was. “Alys?”

The woman spread her arms, before wrapping them around Sansa. Sansa had seen her, perhaps twice before. Alys bore no significance to her, or to anybody. She was only a serving maid for the House Strong, a woman who had remained with the family for years. “Lady Strong, how lovely it is to see how you’ve grown! You look lovely.”

“Thank you, how have you been, Alys?” She couldn’t help but look inside the chambers, that not only looked well-maintained, but lived in. “I believe I might have interrupted your work. Who stays in Mother’s old bedchamber now?” 

Alys’s smile assuaged suddenly, she wet her lips, “I have, my lady.”

Sansa’s brows furrowed in confusion, “How- how come, Alys? This is my late Mother’s old bedchamber. How come you’ve made home here of all the bedchambers there are here?”

Alys looked to the ground, “It was the Prince’s order, my lady.”

“Oh…” Sansa’s heart sank, “Take your belongings and move to the chamber they’re preparing for me. Have my ladies bring my belongings here. This is my Mother’s bedchamber. I am to stay here.”

“Yes, my lady.” Alys nodded, walking past Sansa. Before she could have gone too far, Sansa turned, “Alys, I would request that you tell the other maids and servants to conceal my return to the Prince. I would like to surprise him. Inform my brother of my request as well. Is that clear? Afterward, I would like you to meet me right after, I will provide you with a list and some gold dragons that you will ride out with to Lake Town. Do not speak to anybody, provide the folded paper to the sellers. I repeat, Alys, do not speak to anybody. My brother’s ears here are mine, and I will know if you do. Is that clear?” 

“Yes, my lady.” She did not turn to look at Sansa, quickening her footsteps this time and leaving abruptly.

—

Sansa had the worst doubts in her mind, however, she decided to test out her suspicions before acting in accordance. She turned out every lantern and candle in the bedchamber, put on a comfortable slip after a warm bath. She had handed Alys a paper that would make her wander the Lake Town for a while, hopefully to return late at night and after Aemond. She did not want Aemond to be made aware of her presence at any cost.

Sansa had almost snoozed off when the door opened. She could recognise Aemond’s smell anywhere, like sandalwood and ash. The Prince sat by the edge of the bed, “Alys, are you awake?”

Sansa stayed quiet, hoping for Aemond to have more to say. She watched him discreetly, her eyes making little of him in the dark. He was sitting with his elbows on his thighs, his form so bent that it didn’t even seem like him anymore.

“I did everything you asked, but that bitch queen refuses to waver.” He whispered, “I have committed the great blunder in the history of Valyria and Westeros. People will only remember me as Aemond the Foolish. If my wife was here, she’d have jeered at my failure to protect the realm, despite being the Protector of it.” He laughed sadly. His hand snaked its way through the cover and before Sansa realised, his fingers were engulfing hers. “I need you, Alys-” he stopped, when he felt the ring on her finger. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, her lips bunching up in failure. He quickly removed the quilt from her form, rising from the bed, “Who is this?” he menacingly whispered.

“Husband, needn’t be alarmed.” She quietly replied, accepting failure. She sat up, lighting up a lantern by the bed, holding it close to her face, “I apologise that it is I that you have to meet, when you need somebody else entirely.”

Aemond stared at her agape, “What are you doing here?”

Sansa threw her head back in laughter, “What am I doing here? I am Lady Sansa Strong and I have come to my brother’s fortress. I am his heir.”

“That’s not what I meant-”

“I understand, you meant to find Alys Rivers here.”

“No, Sansa, you are misunderstanding-”

“Oh of course, I am so foolish.” She spat, “You give your whore my late Mother’s bedchamber and have the audacity to complain when I turn up here instead.”

“Sansa, I know what it sounded like, but Alys and I are only friendly companions. She’s kept me company all these weeks, helping me decide what I must do next-”

“And what did the intricate webweaver have to recommend? Laying waste of villages, pillaging and plundering the commonfolks? How astute!”

“She and I thought it’d make Rhaenyra get here on Syrax-”

“YOU KEEP UNDERESTIMATING THEM!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, getting out of bed, standing tall in her feet, “YOU FOOLISH MAN! RHAENYRA ALMOST KILLED YOUR SEED, AND YOU THINK SHE CANNOT TELL A PLOY FROM AN ACTUAL THREAT?”

Aemond’s eye widened, “What…” He walked closer to her, “Are you with child?”

“Unfortunately, or I’D NEVER HAVE RISKED MY LIFE TO FIND YOU HERE.” She threw the lantern across the large chamber. “You disgusting, disgusting man. You disgust me so, very much. I can’t bring myself to look at you, to hear your voice, your presence-”

Loud rammings were heard on the door, “What on earth is going on in there?” It was Larys, who had arrived to assuage the situation, perhaps he had made it clear to the servants and ensured that he was notified straight away if things between them got heated. 

Aemond seemed relieved, rushing through the dark straight to the door. “He knows this chamber so well, walks so swiftly through in the dark,” she thought, “He’s fucking her here, of all places.”

“What on earth is going on here?” He walked in with a lantern, one much brighter than the one she had lit up. He noticed the mess she’d made in there, the lantern broken in pieces and kerosene covering the rug.

“The Protector of the Realm is fucking his old whore, Alys Rivers, in MY LATE MOTHER’S OLD BEDCHAMBER!”

Larys looked from his sister to the Prince, “Is that true, your Grace?”

“No… I had only come to speak to Alys as a friend-”

“You happen to have the key to this chamber, the one you gave to HER.”

“Yes, as a sign of gratitude. She’s been the most helpful-”

“With what? Her old, wrinkly cunt?” Sansa walked in rage toward her husband, her brother holding her back, “Show her your gratitude in some other place, not in my mother’s bedchamber, you nasty scoundrel!”

“No, I have not been sleeping with her, Sansa. You must believe me. Please.” Aemond pleaded, his hands wringing.

“Then what has she done to have you wrapped around her finger?”

Aemond closed his eye, his voice dropping down notches, “She has visions.”

“What?” Larys spoke next, “What do you mean, your Grace?”

“She has visions. She saw Cole’s death, she saw Maelor’s death. She also saw Daemon sleep with a young woman with a dragon. She sees all sorts of things in the fire here and the clouds up there.”

Sansa’s eyes widened at her husband’s confession, laughing hysterically, “Are you wearing her cunt for a hat? For you seem to be Alys speaking through you, dear fucking husband!” 

“You must believe me-”

“Alright, I will believe that you have not been sleeping with her and have only been relying on her visions to calculate your next moves, such spectacular political acumen!” She spat, “Now, tell me, WHY WERE YOU REACHING OUT FOR HER HAND IN THIS BED?’

“I had a moment of vulnerability.” He confessed, “I don’t know what I wanted, perhaps an embrace, a pat of encouragement. I’ve been LONELY here.”

“Sister, I need you to calm down. You might fall ill. It’s no good for your health now that you’re with child.” He looked at Aemond one last time before speaking, “It’s not worth the health of yourself and your child, sister. We can discuss this later, when the situation’s been calmed.”

“Where’s Alys?” Sansa asked.

“She’s yet to return.”

“When she comes back, confine her in one of our basement cells. Bring her to me after I’ve broken my fast in the morn. I will speak to her, only I. No one shall utter a single word-” she looked at her husband and ordered through gritted teeth, “To her before I am done with her. This is your Lady Princess’s command.” 

Larys bowed his head, “Yes, my lady.” Helping Sansa to bed, tucking the quilt neatly beneath her chin, Larys lit up some of the candles such that she was not left in utter darkness. The ladies will be sent to occupy the rooms nearby, Larys assured her, and Alys will be locked up without any word.

“Do give her a warm meal. I had given her quite an exhausting chore.”

“Yes, my lady.” Larys muttered, gesturing the Prince to step outside before closing the door behind them.

Aemond waited for the door to close securely, “Is she truly with child?”

“Do you expect my sister to lie, your Grace?”

“No, of course not! I just hadn’t thought that she would be with child anytime soon… given her discretion.” Aemond’s mind whirled back to the last time they lay together. It had been almost twelve weeks or so, and he still recalled her soft whimpers against his ears. It’d been so long, he had drunk her in.

“Only the Mother knows.” Larys sighed heavily, “I would like to believe that your Grace has not been an infidel to my sister. She is a Targaryen in all but name, your Grace, and the rage of the dragon knows no bounds.” Larys looked at the Prince solemnly, “Please, excuse me, I need to make the necessary arrangements for Alys.”

Aemond watched Larys leave, pondering how to handle his temperamental wife the next morning. She was livid, and with good reason. He couldn’t bring himself to picture her with anyone but himself, feeling enough strength to rip apart anyone who may even touch her inappropriately with bare hands. 

Sansa had stood by the door quietly, listening to the brief conversation unfold to her liking. She hopped into bed, somewhat appeased. However, the thought of her husband sleeping with another woman filled her with insurmountable rage. She never knew she had such rage.

[zablife]

Maybe something darkish with Alfie if you feel inspired? 😇 Suggested: enemies to lovers 🤔

When Did You Realize I Was Not Dead?

You stole inside the large seaside mansion, clutching a pistol. You'd only seen a housekeeper come and go in recent weeks, but you weren't taking any chances. You'd come for Alfie Solomons once before and he had been unguarded. He wouldn't be stupid enough to make the same mistake twice. You moved silently through the house, eyes darting suspiciously for any signs of security as you attempted to find the irritating mad bastard who refused to die. 

As you snuck past a small sitting room crammed with heavy, ornate furniture, an open balcony door caught your attention. The curtains flapped lightly on a breeze that brought in a healthy dose of salty, sea air. You inhaled deeply, allowing yourself to release the tension in your neck and shoulders with the slow exhalation of breath. Momentarily closing your eyes, you attempted to picture Alfie here taking the air.

It wasn't difficult as the King of Camden's voice boomed from one corner of the room suddenly asking, "Gonna improve your aim by closing both eyes this time, dove?"

You spun in all directions, attempting to locate him. It only took a moment to realize he had concealed himself by sinking into a plush looking armchair. He peered out at you with mild curiosity, but utter lack of fear. 

"Fuck you, Alfie. I'm the best Tommy's got," you said, holding your head high.

"Well I'd hate to see his worst," he taunted you, rising from his chair with a groan. As he faced you, you saw the damage you’d inflicted the last time you visited. The left side of his face was stitched together in a crude patchwork, his left eye so badly damaged it was now a milky white. You couldn’t help the shocked expression that came over you as you took it all in. It was rare to be confronted with the consequences of your bullets as John and Arthur mostly handled that. The first pangs of regret hit you hard and fast as you’d always had a soft spot for this wild man and if you were honest, a bit of admiration as well. 

You remembered the day they called you about Alfie’s body. John shouting down the telephone line that something had gone wrong. Arthur demanded to know why there was a trail of blood in the sand but no body and you couldn’t explain it. You’d left Alfie for dead that day on the beach thinking no one could survive a bullet to the head. You held a handkerchief to your mouth to hide the sobs from them, afraid they would find out how much you cared for your mark. When it had been suggested he got away, you wondered if you hadn’t missed intentionally.

“Admiring your handiwork?,” Alfie asked, gesturing toward his scars with a flourish, gold rings catching the light, mocking you in their insistence you see what you had done to your former lover. You instantly snapped out of your dreamlike state as he continued to needle you. “Or do actually mean to kill me this time?” Alfie frowned at you, his hulking form before you like a terrifying grizzly ready to charge. 

Then with a quick turn of his back, he paced toward the open door. “Nah, that’s not why you’ve come. You’re losing your touch, getting sentimental on me, pet,” he pronounced. He looked over his shoulder briefly at your gun, still in hand, but not aimed at him for some curious reason. He sucked his teeth for a moment before continuing, “You’re a bit of a failure, ain’t ya?” he laughed heartily. “I mean, ya come here to kill me, cock it up and now you stand there…stand there, right, having a butchers but like a sodding muppet and you can’t even point the bloody thing at me,” he said, scratching his beard. Honestly, you were as confused as he was, unsure how to proceed. You had your orders, but you couldn't carry them out now that you were stood face to face.

Alfie made his way back to you, his limp slowing him considerably. “What’s that pikey paying you, hmm?” he demanded.

“Why? You going to offer me something I want more?” you asked, swallowing harshly with Alfie so close to you you could smell the rum on him.

“Dunno. What is it you want?” Alfie asked. “Gold?” He was testing you to see if you had a price. He wanted to know if this had been about the money from the beginning and that hurt you deeply.

You shook your head as a tear fell down your cheek. “What if I said I didn’t want to kill you at all, Alfie? What then?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. And you awaited his reply, frightened of the honest answer he might give.

[yougetoneshot]

Rebirth

Abigail (2024)

One Shot for now with potential to become something more.

Summary: Abigail being nearly drained by Adam has unexpected consequences as he begins reconstituting. Lazar sees the regeneration as an opportunity.

Characters: Lazar, Abigail, and Adam Barrett/Frank. 2 new characters.

Warnings: Gore and torture

Lazar stood over his daughter and looked at the carnage around him with an indiscernible expression. The walls were covered in blood with shards of glass and broken handrails scattered along the sanguine stained floor. He could sense the lingering presence of another vampire in the room as his eyes landed on specific pieces of viscera on the tile.

“I did warn you turning Lambert was a bad idea.” He finally spoke, calm but critical.

“It was the only way to get Barrett here. I knew Lambert would turn him but I didn’t think he’d be so strong..” Abigail’s voice was hushed as she hung her head in shame. She wanted her father’s attention but not like this- not as a failure.

“Did he do that to you?” Lazar pointed to the still healing bite marks on Abigail’s neck.

“Yes.” She hid the mark with her hand. “But I got him.”

“Not quite.” Lazar’s eyes drifted over to a spot behind Abigail and her gaze followed. A mass of bloody flesh was regenerating into a functioning hand. Abigail looked back to her father in confusion.

“What is happening?”

“Your blood is special. You are my direct descendent which makes you the second most powerful vampire on Earth.” Lazar looked down at her. “And you let him take that blood.”

“I underestimated him. I admit that. But I can handle this.” Abigail tried to appeal to Lazar but he shook his head.

“No, I will be taking over from here. I very much want to meet the man that nearly killed you.” Lazar remained expressionless as he stood over the reforming body of Adam Barrett.

Abigail looked up at her father with knitted brows, unsure if his expression was one of admiration or anger. Lazar was always unreadable even to those closest to him. She hoped he was angry. At least that would mean he still cared. “What are you going to do?”

“Rip him apart.”

—

Adam Barrett inhaled sharply as his eyes opened to see the familiar ceiling of the mansion he’d been trying to escape for the past 24 hours. He struggled to remember anything more than the need to get out of that house until his eyes landed on her- Abigail. A flood of memories rushed back as he scrambled to sit up. His hand reached out to the ground to push himself up and that’s when he felt it- his insides not quite fully formed sliding down his also not completely regenerated torso. His eyes looked down to watch them trying to spill out the open cavity in his stomach as he covered the opening with his other partially formed hand. Waves of pain paralyzed him as he became a spectator to the violent healing process. This wasn’t what he had expected from being a vampire- the pain was unbearable. He could feel every single restitching of his organs, bones, and flesh as his body reconstituted. Every second was pure agony that he finally was able to express once his vocal cords finished reforming. A horrified scream escaped his lips followed by a string of raspy curses.

“This is the man who almost took you from me?” Lazar looked down at his daughter and she frowned angrily.

“He just got lucky!” She whined and stomped her foot irritably.

Adam finally peeled his eyes away from the horror of watching his body repair itself only to be met with an even more horrifying image- Lazar looking at him with an intensity that he knew did not mean anything good.

“I can explain-“ Adam coughed up blood and howled again in pain.

“There’s no need.” Lazar knelt down by Adam and took his almost fully healed left arm into his hands. Adam looked at Lazar and shook his head pleadingly. Lazar smiled a wicked toothy grin before snapping and twisting the arm off Adam’s body. New waves of pain hit him as his voice cracked while pleading desperately.

“I can be useful to you!” He struggled to get the words out through the pain. Adam looked over to Abigail and bit back his pride as the words spilled out of him through gritted teeth. “Please. I’ll do anything you want.”

“Then die.” She hissed.

“Abigail-“ Adam felt Lazar’s hand grab his throat and lift him off the ground and into the air. His organs rolled around inside his body struggling to find their place as he was tossed across the room into a pillar. He felt a few ribs snap and wheezed painfully.

The doors to the manor opened as Lazar and Abigail turned to see Mina standing in the doorway. “Lazar, Victor called. The latest subject didn’t survive. He needs a new one.”

Lazar looked to Adam on the floor before over at his daughter who shook her head. “Not him.”

“He’s strong.” Lazar countered.

“So am I-“

“No!” His voice lowered to a growl that filled the room and caused all the lights to flicker for a moment. Abigail winced and looked down as her father took a breath to calm himself. “When the procedure has been perfected then you will be first in line. Until then, we use subjects that are disposable.”

“And what if it is successful? He doesn’t deserve it!”

“But you do. When it’s ready.” Lazar cupped his daughter’s face gently. “You look tired. Let’s go home.” He moved to put his hand on her shoulder and escort her towards the door. As he passed by Mina he gestured to Adam trying to crawl away on his side, his left arm and leg still not reformed enough to help him move away. “Take him to Victor.”

[thekingofwinterblog]

you know, if there is anything positive to take away from the absolute braindead idea that was Suicide Squad Kill the Justice leage, and the way it destroyed the Arkham setting in such a decisive fashion, its that Rocksteady Studios will hopefully serve as a reminder for other game studios that they can in fact go bankrupt when they decide to destroy their own franchises, and unlike movie universes like Disney Star Wars(which has been propped up by disney money even if every single product after rise of skywalker except the mandalorian, has been an abysmal failure financially), it is much easier for Game Companies and franchises to crash and burn permanently.

Harley executing Arkham Batman feels very much like Joel getting his head caved in with a Gold Club, and just like that game, There is no future for a sequel to either game.

There are two differences between Rocksteady and Naugthy Dog.

Regardless what I and many, many others think about the Game, and the way it cratered in sales very, very quickly once word got out about it's abyssmal story, the game did sell astonishingly well in that first period, more than enough to make their money back and then some. Sure as a long term project it effectively killed any future sales on anything except remakes/remasters of the original, but it made a lot of money for the company.

Suicide Squad will most certainly NOT sell enough to make any kind of similar profits.

The bigger difference though, is that though the future continuation of The Last of us as a Gaming franchise is as dead as Joel, Naughty Dog has other franchises it can fall back on in the long term, most notably Uncharted.

Rocksteady has no such franchises. other than one, single obscure FPS from 2006, The company has no other games whatsoever under its belt other than the Arkham Games.

This was their one, single, golden goose franchise, and like so many others in the last 10 years, they arrogantly decided to torch the franchise with no heed to the consequences, assured that fans would just buy it regardless of quality, assured that they could piss in a glass and call it wine, and everyone would drink it and praise it to the heavens.

They will not.

Rocksteady has just committed, fittingly enough, Suicide, and this game will go down, maybe not the biggest video game disaster in history, but certainly one of the most predictable, and avoidable icebergs ever in the industry.

Hopefully, others will take note once the fallout actually sets in, but probably not. We'll probably see more than a few similar disasters unfold before western video game companies take the hint that people are bloody tired of this abyssmal, predictable, and almost always poorly executed form of "Deconstructive" storytelling plaguing modern western storytelling.

[shuttershocky]

why is the rhine lab manga so fucking good, this chapter alone with saria leaving the feather, the TWO SEPRATE PANELS of 1. Silence seeing saria about to stab ifrit and 2. Silence cradling ifrit and looking at saria with pure fear and contempt in her eyes, SARIA CASUALLY PUNCHING A PILLAR SO HARD IT FALLS, AND THEN WHEN KIRSTEN COUNTERS HER CALCIFICATION SHE JUST BAREHANDED PUCNHES HER BARRIER UNTIL IT BREAKS. SHUTTERS IT MEANS EVERYTHING TO ME

It speaks to the strength of the writing where even if the translation can be stiff with its wording and has common errors (I have yet to see one correct use of the word 'knew' when it should have been 'known', still grateful for the effort of the fans though!), every single emotional moment is hitting at maximum capacity.

There is SO much dedication to showing us Saria and Silence's feelings, SO much complexity in the relationships these women have, SO many words left unspoken and reading between the lines to be done I am fucking feasting.

It's fucking crazy that Saria and Kirsten's conversation before their fight includes NOTHING about the emotional reason they are now in conflict and yet it is still every bit as obvious as their ideological conflict about the place of ethics in science. Saria's anger with Kisten is both her righteous fury with her and a deflection of the guilt she feels herself.

They were partners since college, best friends. They opened Rhine Labs together after Kirsten's parents died, with Saria vowing to protect her and her dream of science unbound by the politics of the scientific community. Then they grew apart as Kirsten started using Saria more and more as muscle for coverups for Rhine's possible scandals while never even seeing her. THEN when Saria finally thought she found happiness with another person, her own failure to protect her new family from the consequences of Kirsten getting into bed with the Columbian Department of Defense led to them being just as afraid and hateful of Saria as everyone else is.

BUT WE'RE NOT EVEN GONNA STOP THERE. When they fight and Saria realizes that Kirsten has rigged her office with the defensive measures they very likely came up with together (as Saria is the one who signs off for the designs of weaponry), when they fight and Saria realizes Kirsten modified the invention to fight her specific powers, as if Kirsten believed they were always going to come to blows one day...

There was love between them once, perhaps not romantic, but there was the kind of love that would have Kirsten coming with Saria to the gym to watch her box, admiring her form and even using it as inspiration to build a combat exoskeleton (as seen in Saria's module in-game). Once, there was love to the point of invention, and now that same person used those same hands to rig her own office with designs meant to beat her own muse.

Ooouugghhh the angst. The DRAMA. The way Saria answers this last betrayal by using her own unprotected human hands instead, bloodying her fists on Kirsten's forcefield until she breaks it with her raw strength. The way she stops just before hitting Kirsten, close enough that the blood on her hands forms a tear on Kirsten's cheek that we get a close look at when Saria declares she's leaving Rhine, I am spoiled. I am so spoiled.

I also want to point out that for maximum pain the same chapter has a very funny joke page of Muelsyse being genuinely terrified from Saria joking that she'd simply bury Mumu somewhere if the Eco director turned out fishy, and then at the end Saria sees Silence look at her with the same fear in the latter's eyes, making Saria realize that in the very end, everyone, her coworkers, her fellow Directors, and now Silence, who was once the only person in Rhine unafraid and open to her, just sees her as Kirsten's thug.

And she might as well be, having let this all happen.

[starryjuicebox]

Beloved (8) - Revelation

Summary: A necessary conversation is had.

Pairing: Ascended!Astarion x Tav

Word Count: 981 words

Masterlist | Ao3 Link | Next Chapter

Kythorn 1494

Astarion has secured a seat on the Council of Four. He came back to the manor and picked me up, spinning me around as he boasted of this victory. Then, he slipped a diamond ring on my finger. 

I, the Princess of Silevren, shall be joined in matrimony to the newest Council member. It feels more like a formality than anything else, as everybody already acknowledges me as the Lady of the manor. 

When I was a little girl, I had always dreamed of my wedding day. I just never expected it to be happening like…this. 

He does not understand my melancholy. I grieve the seven thousand people, each with families and loved ones of their own, that were damned because of my weakness. There were children included. Ones that will experience eternal torment due to my failure. Every glance in the mirror is a fresh reminder of my sin. Any time I partake in blood that is not his, I fear how it was obtained. I dare not share any of this with him. Astarion showers me in jewels, luxury, and affection. His ascension and my damnation was my folly to begin with. How could I complain? 

Last night, he had another nightmare and held me tightly. They happen so frequently. Astarion is somehow more afraid than he ever was before, and merely compensates with arrogance. It breaks my heart.

Astarion won’t let me out of his sight, for fear that something may befall me. If he leaves the manor to conduct business, he sends three servants to watch over me. I feel smothered. 

Last week, I had transformed into a dove to feel the wind in the sky. I thought he might burn down the entire manor in his consternation when he arrived home. I soothed him by lying that I was merely resting and hadn’t noticed his return. I was too late though, and the servants had already been killed. 

How can we heal from this? How do we move forward? Is it even possible? 

Stella Lunaris 

Love? Astarion knew love. The gravest crimes committed in the world were committed for love. A hunger crueller than bloodlust. He had told himself he would ruin her love, used it until she was nothing. 

And he had. Hadn’t he? Was that not the reason she no longer looked at him the way she had…before? He had succeeded in ruining her love. Over the past three centuries, he had been watching her waste away, slowly disappearing even if she was physically with him. 

It felt awful. 

Perhaps that was why he had wanted her to smile, why seeing her so hollow invoked anger and frustration inside of him. 

He just hadn’t wanted to admit it. 

Stella remained motionless on the floor, head bowed, but he saw the teardrops sliding onto the baby blue satin of her dress. Her hair curtained his consort’s expression from him.

For the first time in centuries, he was briefly at a loss for words. Was she telling him that despite the change in her behavior, she still loved him? 

He decided to latch onto something far easier to talk about and retorted, “You hate what I have become? Your hands are as bloody as mine, darling. Why would you go along with any of this just to pretend you’re innocent now?” 

“I know. I am not innocent at all. I’ve become a monster, and turned you into one too,” came his lover’s melancholic response, thick with tears. 

Astarion bristled, crossing his arms defensively. He desperately tried to ignore the foreign pang in his chest. “I have always been a monster. The Rite just made me a free one. But you? You are no monster. You are my dark consort. My treasure, and my most beloved.” 

How could she speak so poorly of herself? Had she been feeling this way the entire time? Gods, no wonder she had been miserable. These useless thoughts had to be banished.

He sighed, before guiding her to stand, and she buried her face into his chest. Wetness bloomed onto his expensive doublet, but that was of no consequence to him at all. He held her close, because that was surely what she wanted. It also somehow lessened the strange ache inside his own chest.   

“Thank you for saying that, but… I can’t take it anymore, Astarion. Seven thousand people died because of us. The guilt eats me alive. It’s been centuries, but I still can hear their anguished screams. And you - you’ve changed so much since that day,” her wails were muffled by the cloth.  

Gently stroking her hair, he said, “I have changed, for the better. I am so much stronger than I was back then. And those spawn would have unleashed incredible carnage upon the world. It was for the better that their lives were put to use.” 

His words seemed to cause her to pause in consideration. 

“That…may be true, but did they not deserve a chance to live? Just as you did?” 

Astarion sighed, before kissing the top of her head. “It’s too late for regrets, darling. They’ve been dead for three hundred years. Besides, I needed the power to best the brain. The pathetic weakling I was before could never have destroyed it on his own.” 

Stella finally tilted her face upwards to meet his gaze. “Seven thousand trees, for seven thousand souls. I…can’t take back what’s been done, but at the very least I can honor their memory. And their contribution to saving this city.” 

As much as he wanted to roll his eyes at her soft-heartedness and the pointlessness of it all, he supposed it was worth doing, if just to make her feel better. “As you wish, my love.” 

The tiniest ghost of a smile appeared on her face, and he felt the pain in his heart begin to ebb away.

[period-dramallama]

"It was an obvious choice, for I have studied Henry’s queens over several decades, and published books on them, notably a collective biography in 1991, which I am now re-researching and rewriting."

That's longer than I've been alive but GIRL I still found errors in your novel ffffffffffffffff

'Tudor women were poorly educated'

I'm not saying I WANT the education of a tudor woman (certainly at the bottom end of society the sexes would be almost equally illiterate). But again, educated for what? And why the value judgement of failure on the part of the teacher? If a carpenter teaches me carpentry but not theology, am I poorly educated? Did the carpenter 'fail'?

'Tudor women were excluded from formal academic spaces, often denied education in classical languages, and had fewer opportunities to enter or create informal ones' is the more accurate (but admittedly clunkier) way to put it.

"They lived in a court dominated by an egocentric, suggestible king, in which factions fought each other with often bloody consequences. It was the duty of the King’s wives to bear him male heirs – and in that they mostly failed spectacularly, and so exposed themselves to their enemies."

Catherine and Anne didn't fail. You can't fail something you have no control over. You might as well say that I failed to win the lottery this week.

"In 1533, to his crushing disappointment, she bore him a daughter, Elizabeth."

Henry was relieved, not disappointed! "Sons will surely follow" is a man who is optimistic not disappointed.

"Henry sent Hans Holbein to Cleves to paint Anna’s portrait. An ambassador vouched that it was a good likeness, but it showed her from the most flattering viewpoint. Henry was enchanted, and pressed ahead eagerly with the marriage negotiations. He was shocked to find Anne so unlike what he had expected. It was the most disastrous of beginnings. The marriage went ahead, in January 1540. On the wedding night Henry pawed Anna’s breasts and belly, but ventured no further, for by these tokens, he was to declare, she was no virgin. We might wonder what he meant by that."

Many people described Anne as the most good-looking of all Henry's wives. And why would Hans Holbein flatter her? He has no incentive to do that. His skill at painting is that he can capture the true likeness. Did he flatter every one of the candidates he painted?

"We might wonder what he meant by that" maybe he was looking for an excuse not to stay married to her and he was totally ready to LIEEEEEEEEEE

"At an early age she was corrupted by her music master."

The definition of corrupted:

cause to act dishonestly in return for money or personal gain:"there is a continuing fear of firms corrupting politicians in the search for contracts"

cause to become morally depraved: "he has corrupted the boy"

change or debase by making errors or unintentional alterations:"a backup copy will be needed if the original copy becomes corrupted" · "Epicurus's teachings have since been much corrupted"

ARCHAIC infect; contaminate:"the corrupting smell of death"

This is a value judgement. You're saying that Katherine Howard was made worse by being ABUSED. That is AWFUL.

"What happened next to this ignorant girl is one of the saddest chapters in English history."

Again, a value judgement. Say naive, say inexperienced. But ignorant?

Only one of Henry VIII’s wives left an enduring legacy.

Catherine of Aragon left a legacy in her daughter Mary and as a patron of humanism, Anne Boleyn and Catherine Parr left a legacy in Elizabeth and also as Reformation heroines (see Foxe) and patrons or in Catherine's case AUTHOR. Catherine was a pioneer as a female pioneer of the English language!

[alarrytale]

Honestly it's frustating to watch the way Louis and LTHQ manage his career. They had such a great oportunity with the pandemic and with people discovering Louis and his music through tiktok during that time and they just let everything go to waste. Downgrading from 20k to 2k shows in Asia, LatAm shows not selling out, his engagement on social media just going down and down and down.... Like what are they doing? Keep pushing the laddy lad image and shoving the kid down people's throats, by the look of things it seems to be going really well with the fans (*sarcasm*)....

If they don't change strategy fast, I give it 5 years maximum for Louis to not have enough fans to even be able to tour. And 5 years is me being generous because it seems it is going to happen way faster than that if they don't find a way of not alienating the fans he still has...

Hi, anon!

Yessssss! It's so bloody frustrating! They are letting huge opportunities pass (are they not seeing the opportunity for what it is? Don't they understand?) and they are making some huge blunders. Basic mistakes. That combo is career killing. You're saying they need to change strategy. I say they need a strategy, because they don't have one...

And we're talking simple, pretty basic mistakes with huge consequences. Sometimes the mistakes have got simple and basic solutions. We can't attribute these failings to the closet, him being sabotaged or his contracts. It's due to incompetance, not knowing the fandom, lack of care and appreciation and failure to remedy when mistakes are made. There is so much they can do to improve things and they are not doing it. They've got so many opportunities to engage and grow the fandom that they pass by. Fans need more good than bad to stay a fan. We're currently being treated like shit and the trust and faith is rapidly declining. They need to wake up.

The hole jakarta venue downgrade could have been predicted after the asia leg cancellation. You cancel a whole leg of tour suddenly without an adequate explanation or a heartfelt apology. (We all know it was cancelled because the venues didn’t sell enough tickets to cover the touring cost so he couldn’t afford it...) You make the asians mad who've spent months of wages on tickets, airfare and accomodation. They feel underappriciated and less of a fan than americans or europeans. You make your fans not trust you to follow through on your promises. Then you announce a show at a 20k venue in asia. You expect everyone from all over asia to fly in for the show, since it's the only asian show. Eight days before the show you have to downgrade the venue to a club. A 2.6k club. The reason is very obviously low ticket sale with that downgrade... The reason for the low ticket sale you ask? There is no way people will take a chance of using that much money on a dude whose already cancelled on you once, one that lies about the reasons for the cancellation, seemingly uncaring about the consequences for fans, and someone who may change things right before the show is about to happen. There is no trust here. Risk is too high for fans. Lo and behold he changed the venue 8 days before the show. People who didn’t buy tickets and found accomodation may now think 'see, glad we didn't buy those tickets and book that hotel. We would have had to change hotels now that they changed the venue and we would have lost that money'.

Now the ticket price is way too expensive for a simple club show. Fans need new accomodation closer to the venue. Your explanation for the venue change is that "We heard you. You wanted a more centralised show. We gotchu". Like we, the fans, wanted this? Lies about the reasons why again? Crickets from lthq about the venue change? No assurances from Louis that the show will happen, despite the downgrade to a club? Louis is still out there promising shows in India and other places before they even know if it's feasible. It's irresponisble and make you less trustworthy when you can't follow through. They treat fans like shit and people are not having it anymore. Get a grip or you can wave goodbye to being a world-touring artist.

[whims-of-a-star]

Grief

Grief never comes slowly, never a trickle of water from a leaking roof.

It comes like a broken dam, a tsunami, a hurricane, and it destroys every foundation you’ve built yourself on.

Sam’s grief usually comes in the form of anger, of revenge, of retribution. Revenge for Jess, for the innocence he’d wanted to keep nestled close to himself, for the normal life he’d wanted and never got.

His grief also comes in the form of guilt, of self-loathing. Hating himself for not being strong enough to save her, for not telling her about the unseen dangers of the world, for being unclean.

Anger and guilt. Retribution and self-loathing. A dangerous cocktail that becomes self-destructive when Dean is dragged down to hell.

He’s at his lowest and stays there for a long time even when Dean miraculously comes back from the dead months later. Even when he tries to return to some semblance of the normalcy from before, he’s changed too much. They’ve changed too much.

(Sometimes it feels like he’s sitting next to a stranger in the Impala, decades older than he looks. Sometimes he feels like he himself is the stranger.)

No longer the ‘Sammy’ Dean loved and protected back then. Now he’s something to be watched. Like he’s dangerous.

And he is. Should be. Dangerous enough to protect his brother, Bobby, everyone he cares about from the real monsters that lurk in the dark. From Lilith, who’d taken away his brother.

Even if that meant getting in fights with Dean. Even if that meant being called a monster, something to hunt.

Even if…

“You're not you anymore. And there’s no going back.”

He saves the voicemail and tucks his phone away, determined to finish his mission through even when a sense of emptiness fills his bones.

(Sam grieves the person he’d been before in Dean’s eyes, the hopeful little brother that could do no wrong. Someone to protect, to love.)

><><><

Dean’s grief comes in the form of emptiness, of an abyss so large and deep almost nothing can fill it. Parts of his soul chipped away. What can heal those wounds is not women, not booze, only…Sam. His brother. His purpose.

From the moment John Winchester had settled Sam into his arms all those years ago, Dean’s little brother had become a part of his existence.

Take care of Sammy.

So when Sam dies at Cold Oak, Dean is empty, grieving. No amount of alcohol swiped from Bobby’s stash can fill the void in his soul. Failure haunts him, blaring in his face, and nothing can heal him because Sam is gone.

Then Sam is resurrected only days later and Dean is once more complete, content despite his sealed future.

Emptiness. Purpose. Perhaps it’s unhealthy, this dependence on his brother, this all-consuming love that drives him to do whatever it takes to keep his brother safe, regardless of the consequences.

Sam is all he can think about in those forty years in hell. Proof of his bond in the shape of a bronze bull, hanging around his neck even when it shouldn’t be possible.

(He’d been wearing it when he was torn apart. Probably buried with it too.)

He thinks of his brother, wondering if he’s happy without him, screams for him when Alastair carves up his insides. He thinks about him decades later when he’s under Alastair’s tutelage, hanging souls on the rack and bloodying his hands. Wondering what Sam would think if he ever knew about the sins piling up under Dean’s name.

When he’s back topside, he doesn’t tell Sam. Claims to have forgotten hell and the atrocities he’d gone through and committed, of his flayed body, of the desperation driving him to torture other souls, of the way the little bronze necklace was the only thing keeping his sanity barely intact. He tries to pretend he’s still the big brother he’d always been before hell.

Then he notices the changes. The way Sam keeps secrets, the way he’s begun to act like he doesn’t need Dean anymore, the way he’s turning into—

A monster.

Just like big brother.

And Dean’s angry, because he’s supposed to protect Sam, save him from becoming what his big brother’s already become and his words come out harshly, words that are meant to hurt because—

He's seeing himself in Sam. And he hates it.

But at the end of the day, Sam is his brother. No matter what his father had said, Dean cannot bring himself to kill his little brother.

The phone against his ear rings. And rings. And rings, until it goes to voicemail. No matter, he’ll leave a message and maybe Sam will…maybe Sam will forgive him. Forgive him and come back.

(Dean grieves the big brother he’d been, the kind of person who saved people, the kind of person his dad would be proud of. Someone to look up to, to admire.)

[the-valiant-valkyrie]

holds out my hand. break, desire, and/or ghost for solaris?

break: What would cause [Solaris] to break down completely? What do they look like when that happens? Has anyone ever seen them at their lowest? ghost: Who or what haunts [Solaris]? What happened? How do they live with their ghosts?

Merging the two of these together because the answer is the same for both, pretty much. The Death Engine can only happen once, obviously. Solaris can't get blown up in it twice. That was certainly the lowest moment of her entire life- one only the Fabricator (and Zor, by a technicality) were there to bare witness to.

But post the Death Engine, I think the consequences of the explosion would have a lasting effect on her. Obviously physically, but I'm more talking about psychologically... The cost of dedicating her life to a project that nearly killed her. Her failure to protect what took years of dedication to build. The mental toll of slowly being killed by that one failure, even to this day.

I think a little distant part of Solaris breaks every time she considers her mortality. It's so much pain and humiliation and hatred- towards Zor, towards the Agent, towards herself- and she has no place to exude it... The Death Engine project was a failure. Her failure. Now she's going to die, and it's 'all her fault'.

Thinking about that... about a future she won't live long enough to see... about all the pain and humiliation she could have spared herself, if only she was smarter, quicker, more logical... I think it tears at her insides. She likes to be alone when she breaks because of that. It either reduces her to tears, or throws her into a violent outburst. Either way, she doesn't want to be observed doing either of those things.

Fabby has probably seen it, though. For better or for worse.

desire: What's one thing [Solaris] wants more than anything in the world? Are they open with that desire? Why or why not? What would they do to fulfill it?

I think, post Zoraxis- post the Death Engine- it's hard for Solaris to want for much... She had almost everything she ever wanted, and she lost it all in the fraction of a second. After something like that, it's hard to find yourself wanting anything at all...

But I do think Solaris craves revenge. Bloody, violent. I don't think it would help her. I don't think it would give her closure. But I think she's so desperate for anything that might, that she would be willing to stoop to murder in a vain attempt to make her feel better. To help her cope with what she's become. With what little time she has left.

If she's going to die, she's going to do it like any self respecting sun should. Everyone she hates will go down burning alongside her.

[sxthee]

PERSONIFICATION OF NATURE

For she is anything but a devout for life;

Even if the thorns draw out their knife,

Although never leaving unscathed,

She still stood there and bathed

In her glade of failure and imperfections.

No, despite the whittled misconceptions,

She is not flawless as what many may deem,

She's a failed artist who persists to dream

To paint around her element

With her blood so redolent

Of hope blossoming amidst winter.

(rambles/though process below if interested :>)

Behold~!

Me and my friend @pulchramorationem had a discourse whether nature is perfect or not intrinsically. Over that, I've decided that Nature is a failed artist who eventually succeeded after years (and they still continue to grow).

I call the artwork "The Crowned Artist Who Failed"

(doesn't have a good ring to it, might rename it in the future qwq)

Majority of us find solace in nature and label it as "perfect" due to the peace it is able to bring us. But with all the natural disasters that crack, flood and dishevel the fauna and flora, I thought that Nature is never perfect, and what if it exists to serve as a reminder that we can simultaneously exist disastrously and beautifully? A reminder that the perfections are the cause of flaws, and the flaws create perfections?

Although perhaps never truly achieving to be completely perfect, but because of thei ability to balance their inner turmoil and passion with the excellent endurance, they are able to be a master to them and create the best of both worlds - giving birth to the nature that we know of today?

Now that's something to ponder upon KWKWKWKWK OKAY! Moving on to the thought process of the design ig

I don't have a good reason as to why I drew Nature as a woman, but perhaps it's because I've projected a part of myself to her and was a ble to see a fragment of myself within her - both are trying artists who are still surging through this creative word despite the challenges. Another thing to it (kind of a last/additional though) women typically symbolize delicacy, kind of like how nature is delicate as well. Like, we must maintain the balance, like the food chain, to keep everything at peace. Basically, if one part is gone within the cycle, it may or may not create major consequences.

As for the outfit, green is self-explanatory. It symbolizes the nature, the life against the winter-barren background. I gave her a laurel wreath as (to my favor) symbolizes victory! And she is victorious in her own ways and masterpieces.

For her eyes, I wanted to symbolize the water somehow, so I guess using her eyes, she was able to symbolize the "water" part of nature. Of course the "land" part is her dress (you could count her hair as well, but to be honest that was not my initial intent, and rather, jsut found the color pretty and matched up well with the palette). The air?? To be honest I hadn't thought of it, but I guess you could count the swirly whites circling around her as the air???? And "WHAT ABOUT THE PLASMA-" UMMMM IDK—

I've only thought of this until now. I GUESS THE YELLOW PART ON HER DRESS OR THAT GLOWY BRUSH?? IT LOOKS ELECTRIC!!?

Think what you will, but the brush actually symbolizes that she indeed is an artist, and if she were to paint, each strokes she would create would result into life.

The scars and bloody bandage? Self-explanatory: evidences of her hardships and triumphs!

Anyway that's all!! qwq I had so much fun doing this prompt (interpretation of nature). Thanks to mah friendo for riding along with this lil challenge I began. WHKAEFHDBG I had so much fun doing this challenge with ya!!! >:3

(also forgive the cromchy artwork quality, idk what happened—)