#using timelines as lifelines

[a-stone-in-flight]

ik our hearts are all breaking but can we take a second to appreciate the way he fuCKING CREATED YGGDRASIL?!?!?!? what a power move bruh.

[silvermoon424]

It just occurred to me that, in every timeline, Madoka always believes Homura. Even when no one else does, even when what Homura is saying doesn't seem to make sense.

The two biggest examples I can think of happen in the main series. In one of the timelines in episode 10, we see Sayaka brushing off Homura's warnings about Kyubey and the true nature of Witches. She even accuses Homura of trying to sow discord in the group because she's in cahoots with Kyoko.

But later on in that same timeline, Madoka uses her last remaining Grief Seed on Homura because she is aware that Homura is a time traveler. We don't know when that happened because it's not shown, but it's very possible she learned Homura's backstory in that same conversation with Sayaka. And unlike Sayaka, she wholeheartedly believes Homura's story, to the point of using her one and only lifeline on Homura and explicitly asking her to prevent this tragedy from happening.

Also, in the main series timeline, Homura tearfully reveals her past to Madoka in episode 11. She offers no concrete proof and acknowledges that what she's saying is crazy, but all she asks is that Madoka allow Homura to protect her. In the next episode, before finally making her wish, Madoka acknowledges that Homura has always been watching over and protecting her. Madoka sincerely thanks Homura, promising that she won't allow Homura's hard work to go to waste. And again, this is before she becomes a goddess and remembers all the other timelines. All she has is Homura's word, and she believes it.

Multiple times throughout the series, Homura expresses her frustration and despondence over the fact that nobody believes her or heeds her warnings. But someone does. It's just that that "someone" happens to be the person she's trying to keep away from everything.

[frostyresolve]

constellations ꒰ ᝬ phainon

you wonder whether you’d find each other, even as stars in the sky. 641 words. a sprinkle of angst.

︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦‧

“do you think when you’re long gone, the gods would put us up in the stars like constellations in the sky for the whole world to gaze upon?”

his head swivels at the sound of your voice, slight alarm in the irises of his eyes as his forehead bumps against yours in shock. at your question or the fact that you randomly appeared in front of PHAINON; you did not know. you can’t help but wince, showing the pearly whites of your teeth while he mumbles his apologies in a panic, jittery like a newly hatched droma on its feet.

“why would you ask such a thing?” is his reply, bewildered, though his tone borders on fond exasperation. leave it to you to ask the oddest questions he’s ever heard. one time it was if he’d love you if you were a verax leo. the other was if he’d still kiss you if you’d been a titankin (kephale knows how you’d turn into such a monster).

the silence hangs between you as your inner thoughts echo loudly in your head, anxiously waiting for his answer. he purses his lips, mouth parting to give you an answer before it shuts again, scrunching his nose in the way you adore so much. how does he answer you when he knows the truth? he’ll be the last one left at the end of the world, and you won’t be by his side.

“you’d be the prettiest star in the sky then.” he murmurs, fingers intertwining with yours like they’ve done so many lifetimes ago. a cycle that’ll repeat till the end of time. a romance meant to end with loneliness and doom, an ache that he can’t quite erase nor forget, haunting him across endless loops across timelines.

you don’t believe him, not knowing about the thoughts running rampant in his head, the impending sense of doom that threatens to swallow him whole and the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“really? you’re just biased towards me. i can tell you’re trying not to laugh.” you pout, teasing him when your shoulder meets his with a soft nudge. PHAINON feigns hurt, clutching at his shoulder pad with an over-exaggerated wince.

“i think..they’d be fools if they didn’t. to be part of something eternal, that would be a sort of immortality in itself, don’t you think?” a wry smile tugs at the corner of his lips when he decides carefully on what to say without giving away the inner turmoil bubbling in the depths of his soul.

you laugh, a sweet sound that causes his heart to flutter; he’s never gotten used to the way you make him feel. he doesn’t think he ever will, falling for you over and over again.

“i’d love you forever, immortal or not. you know that, right?” you remind him, squeezing his hand tight enough like a lifeline. he’s your anchor, always and forevermore.

he gently rests his cheek against the top of your head, eyes closing for a moment as he basks in your presence, his other hand snaking around your waist to pull you close to him.

when he does open his eyes, his head turns to look at you. his gaze meets yours for a moment before flickering down to your lips, then back up to your eyes again.

“i know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “and i will always love you, no matter what form i take.”

“even as a chimera cat or a droma?” you giggle, his nose brushing against yours as his lips brush against yours in a gentle kiss.

“even if you’re a chimera cat or a droma.” PHAINON promises, his eyelashes tickling your cheek and sharing his breaths with you, your love mingling together into what he thinks is the closest feeling of peace he’ll ever feel.

© FROSTYRESOLVE 2025. DO NOT PLAGIARISE, REUPLOAD OR FEED MY WORKS INTO AI

[elliesbabygirl]

ch.004 ⇄ ch. 005; Being in Love - Wet Leg

"I feel like someone has punched me in the guts, but I kinda like it 'cause it feels like being in love"

my masterlist.

word count: 4.6k words

series synopsis: friends with benefits, that's what ellie wanted. yet, she can't let you go, even after the messy 'breakup' between the two of you.

warnings: swearing, yearning, kissing, fingering (r! receiving), cheating, envisioning sex partner as somebody else, scissoring, hickeys, biting, tit-sucking (r! receiving) , slight nipple play( r! receiving), slight clit play (r!receiving), and pet names. lmk if I missed anything 🚶‍♂️‍➡️enjoy.. (still not proof read)

author's note: as promised, here's ch.005 a little earlier than usual since I was so late with uploading ch. 004, the timeline is a little fast paced in this ch. I wanna say all of this happens within the span of a week n a half, maybe? also cocky! ellie comes back for a split second before turning back into a hot mess. I'm gonna start ramping up the series as we get messier and closer to the end🫦so buckle the fuck up bitches!

The early morning air was thick with fog as you both walked out of the IHOP, the world outside still quiet, barely awake. The streetlights cast a soft, hazy glow over the parking lot, and everything felt muted—like the conversation inside had drained all the noise from the world.

Ellie walked ahead, unlocking her truck with a quick press of her keys before climbing into the driver’s seat. You slid into the passenger side, adjusting in the worn leather seat as she started the engine.

The heater kicked on, warming the cabin, but the silence between you both was thick, awkward. Ellie tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, biting the inside of her cheek before clearing her throat.

“So, uh…” she started, voice hesitant, eyes still fixed on the road. “Things are, uh… going good with Abby?”

You blinked at her, caught off guard.

Ellie’s grip on the wheel tightened, she already knew the answer. Of course things were going good. Of course you were happy, she wasn’t stupid.

But she still asked.

You hesitated before giving a slow nod. “Yeah, they are.”

Ellie swallowed hard, keeping her expression neutral. “Cool,” she muttered. “Cool. That’s… good.”

The awkwardness thickened.

She hated this, hated pretending like she wanted to hear that.

Her fingers twitched against the wheel, her knee bouncing slightly as the fog outside swallowed the road ahead. She focused too hard on driving, on the way the headlights barely cut through the mist—anything to keep herself from completely falling apart.

And then—without thinking—her hand moved.

Out of habit, out of muscle memory, she reached toward you, toward your thigh, like she used to so many times before. Her fingers barely brushed against the fabric of your jeans before she realized what she was doing—who you were with now—and jerked her hand back, gripping the gear shift instead.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, ears burning, barely audible over the low hum of the engine.

The touch lingered in the air between you both, heavy and unspoken.

She could feel your eyes on her, could feel the way you noticed, but neither of you said anything.

Ellie swallowed, staring hard at the road, barely remembering why she had asked you to have this talk in the first place. She was too distracted with the fact that you were right there.

The truck rumbled to a stop outside your dorm, the engine humming softly as the fog curled around the streetlamps. Neither of you moved.

Ellie’s hands stayed tight on the wheel, knuckles white, gripping it like a lifeline, like if she just held on tight enough, she could stop time—stop you from leaving, stop this moment from slipping through her fingers like everything else.

You sighed softly beside her, shifting in your seat. When you turned to look at her, it wasn’t to say anything, wasn’t to linger—just to say goodbye.

And Ellie couldn’t let that happen.

She leaned in before she could talk herself out of it, before you could pull away, before she had to sit with the unbearable silence stretching between you. Her fingers brushed against your jaw, hesitant but desperate, and then—

She kissed you.

And this time—

You kissed her back.

It wasn’t like before.

It wasn’t muscle memory, it wasn’t a flicker of the past.

It was real, present, something between you unfolding as her lips moved against yours, slow but full of something that had been buried for too long.

Ellie’s fingers tightened against your skin, her other hand gripping the fabric of your sleeve as she pressed into you, needing you, craving you in a way she hadn’t let herself before.

And for those few stolen moments, you let her have it.

But then, your hands tensed against her hoodie, your breath hitching—

And you pulled away.

“Ellie,” you whispered, shaking your head. “I can’t—”

Ellie exhaled sharply, her hand still hovering near your face, her lips still tingling from you. “Why not?” she whispered, her voice uneven, cracking at the edges. “You’re not even official with her, it’s not—”

“I can’t do this to her.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it slammed into her like a punch to the gut. “I can’t give her false hope like you did to me.”

Ellie’s breath caught.

The words knocked the wind out of her, made her stomach twist in a way that felt painfully familiar, as if she was reliving the sucker punch abby did to her stomach.

Was this what being in love felt like?

“I—” Ellie tried, her voice desperate, “I wouldn’t— fuck, I wouldn’t do that to you again.” She swallowed hard, her fingers curling into a fist. “This isn’t wrong. You— you’re mine, you always have been—"

“Ellie,” you exhaled, voice strained.

And the way you said her name—the weight of it—made her stop.

You pulled away completely, reaching for the door handle, the space between you stretching into something too wide to close.

Ellie’s heart pounded as she watched you step out, still breathless, still reeling.

The passenger door shut with a quiet finality.

Two days later..

Abby’s apartment was warm, the low glow of the TV casting flickering shadows across the walls. A half-empty bowl of popcorn sat between you, forgotten as you curled into Abby’s side, her arm draped comfortably around your shoulders. Her body was solid, steady, her fingers absentmindedly tracing light patterns against your arm as the movie played.

But you weren’t watching it.

Your mind was elsewhere.

No matter how hard you tried to shake it, the moment in Ellie’s truck kept replaying in your head. The way she had looked at you—desperate, pleading. The way her voice had cracked when she told you, she wanted to fight for you. The way she kissed you, like she needed you, like she thought if she just held on tight enough, you wouldn’t leave again.

You exhaled softly, forcing yourself to focus, to be here—with Abby.

She was warm beside you, her steady breathing, her easy presence, everything that had been so good for you these past few weeks. And yet—your body felt tense, restless, something unspoken sitting heavy in your chest.

You shifted slightly, tilting your head up to look at her. Abby glanced down at you, a small, lazy smile pulling at her lips. “What?” she murmured.

You didn’t answer—not with words, at least.

Instead, you leaned up, pressing your lips to hers.

Abby made a soft sound of surprise, but she responded easily, her grip around you tightening as she deepened the kiss. Her lips were soft, familiar, but as much as you wanted to lose yourself in it, to drown out everything in her touch, the memory of Ellie still lingered at the back of your mind.

Ellie, reaching for you.

Ellie, whispering your name like a prayer.

Ellie, begging you to stay.

You pressed harder into Abby, trying to chase away the ghost of that moment, trying to remind yourself that this was where you were supposed to be.

That Abby was real, safe.

That she deserved more than this weight sitting between you two.

And yet—

No matter how hard you kissed her, no matter how tightly you held onto her—

Ellie’s voice wouldn’t leave your head.

The kiss deepened, turning into something more than just a simple distraction. Abby responded without hesitation, her grip on you firm but careful, her lips parting against yours as she pulled you closer.

To her, it probably felt natural—the way you melted into her, the way your hands curled into the fabric of her hoodie, the way you kissed her with an urgency she wasn’t used to.

To you, it was desperation.

A need to forget. A need to drown out the weight of Ellie’s voice, the feeling of her hands, the way she begged for you.

Abby hummed against your mouth, her fingers trailing down your spine, her other hand slipping beneath your shirt, warm and solid against your skin. She deepened the kiss, matching your intensity, her breathing growing heavier as the movie on the screen faded into background noise.

Your hands roamed on instinct, gripping her shoulders, pressing into the familiar strength of her body. Abby’s lips moved to your jaw, then your neck, her breath hot against your skin as she whispered, “Didn’t think you’d be this into the movie night.”

You let out a quiet, breathy laugh, but it wasn’t real.

Because this wasn’t about this.

It wasn’t about Abby.

It was about pushing Ellie away.

About erasing the ghost of her mouth against yours, her voice in your ear, her fingers twitching toward you with a need she never let herself show before.

Abby didn’t know.

She didn’t know that every movement, every kiss, every touch was a distraction—a desperate attempt to silence the part of you that still ached for someone else.

And for now, you let yourself pretend that it was enough.

Abby moved with certainty, her fingers slipping past the waistband of your shorts, her touch teasing but firm. She knew exactly what she was doing—taking her time, making you wait for it, letting the anticipation build until you could barely breathe.

Her mouth brushed against your ear, her breath hot and steady. “You always get this worked up for me, baby?” she murmured, her voice smooth, dripping with amusement.

You exhaled sharply, fingers curling into the fabric of her hoodie, hips shifting instinctively as her fingers explored, teasing you through your underwear before slipping beneath.

The first touch sent a shudder up your spine, your lips parting as a soft, shaky moan left you. Abby hummed in approval, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your jaw before trailing lower, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck.

“So good for me,” she muttered, voice husky, her fingers moving with deliberate, torturous precision.

Your body arched into her, your breath stuttering, pleasure coiling inside you. But your mind—fuck, your mind—

It wasn’t here.

It wasn’t on Abby, on her steady hands, on her confident touch.

It was on Ellie.

Ellie’s desperate hands on your face in the truck.

Ellie’s voice cracking as she begged you.

Ellie’s lips pressed against yours like she needed you.

You let out a soft whimper, eyes squeezing shut, your body reacting before your mind could stop it.

“Baby,” you gasped, gripping onto Abby’s arms, needing something to ground yourself.

Abby groaned against your skin, her movements growing firmer, hungrier. “Fuck, I love hearing you like that.”

You bit your lip, swallowing back the name that almost slipped out.

Because for just a second—for one brief, fucked-up second—it wasn’t Abby touching you.

It was Ellie.

Ellie, whispering your name against your throat.

Ellie, making you fall apart under her hands.

Ellie, pressing into you like she owned you.

The pleasure surged higher, tightening in your core, but you couldn’t tell anymore if it was Abby making you feel this way—

Or if it was the ghost of Ellie lingering in the back of your mind.

Abby’s fingers moved with slow, deliberate precision, teasing at first, dragging through your slick before pressing inside with an ease that made your breath stutter. She was good—confident in the way she touched you, in the way she curled her fingers just right, in the way her thumb pressed against your clit in a rhythm that had your thighs trembling.

“You feel so good, baby,” she murmured against your skin, her voice low, deep, sending warmth pooling through your body. She kissed along your jaw, her free hand gripping your hip, anchoring you as she thrust her fingers deeper, her pace unhurried but intentional.

Your head tilted back against the couch, lips parting as your breath came in uneven gasps. But when you opened your eyes, looking at her—

You saw Ellie.

It was so fucked up, but your brain couldn’t stop twisting it, couldn’t stop replacing the person in front of you with the one you had been desperately trying to forget.

Ellie, gripping your waist.

Ellie, watching your face as she worked you open.

Ellie, begging for you in that damn truck.

A choked sound slipped from your lips, your body reacting before your mind could catch up.

Abby groaned at the sound, her fingers moving faster, pressing deeper, fucking into you with a slow, devastating intensity. “That’s it, baby,” she muttered, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Let me hear you.”

You knew it was Abby, you knew that.

But for just a second—with the way her fingers filled you, the way her body pressed into yours, the way she held you together as you came undone beneath her—

It felt like Ellie.

Ellie, whispering mine against your lips.

Ellie, watching your body react to her every touch.

Ellie, knowing exactly how to break you apart.

Your fingers dug into Abby’s back, your moans growing shakier, higher-pitched, your body tensing as pleasure coiled impossibly tight.

You were too far gone, too caught up in your own head, and before you could stop yourself—

“Fuck—” Your breath hitched, and you almost said her name, almost.

But you swallowed it back just in time.

Abby didn’t notice. She was too caught up in you, too focused on the way you were falling apart under her.

And you let her believe it.

Because if you let yourself think about what was really happening—about who you were really thinking about—

You weren’t sure you’d be able to stop.

The lecture hall was dimly lit, the glow of the projector casting long shadows across the room. The professor’s voice droned on about cognitive biases, something about heuristics and decision-making, but none of it was registering—not when this was happening.

Your pinky brushed against Ellie’s.

Neither of you moved at first, both pretending it wasn’t intentional, that it was just an accident, just a side effect of sitting too close. But neither of you moved away either.

You stared at the screen, eyes unfocused, feeling the warmth of her skin against yours.

Ellie was pretending too, sitting stiff beside you, bouncing her knee under the desk, her fingers twitching slightly on the table. But you caught it—the way she glanced down at your hands, then back up at you.

Slowly, you turned your head to look at her, and that’s when she did it.

A small, nervous smile, barely there, her lips pulling at the corner as she bit her bottom lip, something hesitant but hopeful flickering in her green eyes.

And then—Ellie moved first.

Her fingers slid over yours, slow and careful, before intertwining with them fully. Her palm was warm against yours, her thumb running lightly over your knuckles, back and forth in a slow, unthinking rhythm.

She didn’t look at you again.

She just kept her eyes ahead, staring blankly at the professor, pretending like this wasn’t the biggest fucking deal in the world to her.

Like she wasn’t sitting here, barely breathing, her pulse pounding in her ears as she held your hand for the first time in what felt like forever.

She didn’t care about Abby. She didn’t care about what this meant, about what she was doing.

She just knew that she had you here, in the smallest way.

And for now, that was enough—

Ellie barely got the door unlocked before your lips crashed into hers again, all teeth and desperation, hands tangled in the fabric of her hoodie as you pulled her closer. She groaned against your mouth, fumbling with the handle, nearly missing it in her rush to get you inside.

It wasn't enough for Ellie, actually.

She needed you, craved you.

“I hate you,” you whispered between kisses, your breath hot against her lips, your voice dripping with something that sounded like anger but felt like need.

Ellie barely registered the words, barely heard them over the blood rushing in her ears, the way your fingers gripped at her like you couldn’t stand the space between you. “Yeah?” she murmured, smirking as she finally shoved the door open, her hands finding your waist, guiding you inside. “That why you’re all over me right now?”

Before you could answer, she spun you around, pressing you hard against the closed door, trapping you between the wood and the heat of her body.

Your head fell back with a soft thud as Ellie’s lips devoured your neck, open-mouthed kisses trailing along your skin, each one messier, hungrier than the last. She groaned when your fingers tugged at the back of her hair, her nails digging into your waist through the fabric of your shirt.

“Fucking missed you,” she murmured against your throat, her voice rough, needy, her hands gripping at your hips like she was trying to memorize the feel of you.

You let out a breathless moan, arching into her touch, your resolve slipping away with every press of her lips, every scrape of her teeth against sensitive skin.

Her hands roamed, slipping beneath your shirt, fingertips dragging over bare skin, igniting heat in their wake. She wasn’t taking her time—she wasn’t pretending to be patient. She needed this, needed you.

And you were just as desperate

You grabbed the hem of her hoodie, yanking it up, needing to feel her, to get as close as possible. Ellie groaned, letting you tug it over her head, barely giving you a second before her mouth was on yours again, her hands already pushing up your shirt in return.

Her lips were hot, demanding, everywhere.

And then—without warning—she grabbed you by the thighs and lifted you.

You gasped, arms instinctively wrapping around her shoulders as she carried you through the apartment, barely making it three steps before she kicked open her bedroom door.

It slammed against the wall, rattling slightly, but neither of you cared.

Ellie groaned as she tossed you onto the bed, crawling over you immediately, her breath heavy, her green eyes dark with something unreadable.

Her fingers traced your stomach, sliding lower, her lips already back on your neck, her weight pressing you into the mattress.

You weren’t thinking about anything else.

Not Abby.

Not what this meant.

Nor how wrong it was.

Just Ellie—all over you, all around you, making you hers again.

Ellie was everywhere.

Her hands, her mouth, the weight of her body pressing you into the mattress—it was all too much and not enough at the same time. The room was dimly lit, hazy with the scent of sweat and something undeniably Ellie, the sheets already tangled beneath you both as clothes were stripped away piece by piece.

Your shirt hit the floor first, followed by her hoodie. She barely gave you time to breathe before she was on you again, lips hot and desperate against yours, fingers fumbling to tug your shorts down, her breathing ragged, uneven.

“Fuck, I missed this,” she groaned against your mouth, her hands roaming down your bare skin, gripping, squeezing like she needed to commit the feeling of you to memory.

You gasped as she pushed you back against the pillows, her lips trailing down your jaw, your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses that turned into soft bites, sucking bruises into your skin like a fucking claim.

“Ellie—” you whimpered, body arching into her as she pressed a knee between your legs, teasing, her breath heavy against your collarbone.

She exhaled sharply, her own body shuddering as she sat up, yanking her sweats down, leaving herself in nothing but a black sports bra, her toned stomach flexing as she moved above you.

Your breath caught in your throat.

She looked wrecked—her lips swollen from kissing, her green eyes blown with want, her chest rising and falling with each unsteady breath.

“Please,” she murmured, her voice breaking slightly, her fingers trailing down your sides, her touch featherlight, reverent. “Let me feel you.”

You barely had time to register her words before she was slotting herself between your legs, her skin burning against yours as she lined up with you, her slick dragging against your own.

The first grind had you both moaning, your hands gripping at her arms, nails digging in as she shuddered above you.

“Fucking hell.” Ellie choked out, her forehead pressing against yours as she rocked her hips forward, slow at first, her hands gripping your thighs to keep you close.

Her breathing was uneven, her lips brushing against yours with every movement, her whimpers slipping through the cracks in her voice as her pace quickened.

“Fuck—fuck,” she gasped, kissing you again, her lips needy, sloppy, as she rolled her hips faster, harder.

You whimpered into her mouth, your hands flying to her back, feeling the heat of her skin, the tremble in her muscles as she moved against you, her breath stuttering with each grind.

“I need you,” she groaned, voice wrecked, her grip on your thighs tightening. “I fucking need you—”

She kissed you like she was starving, like this wasn’t just about sex—like it was about something deeper, something she couldn’t put into words.

Her body trembled, her moans turning higher, needier, her pace stuttering as her hips snapped forward, chasing something she hadn’t let herself have in so long.

And fuck—so were you.

Ellie was losing it.

Her movements turned frantic, her hips grinding against you with more urgency, more desperation, her breath coming out in ragged gasps as she chased the feeling of release she had been starving for.

“Fuck, I missed this,” she groaned, voice shaking, her hands gripping your thighs, fingers digging into your skin as she rocked against you, slick and messy and so fucking good. “Missed you—missed your pussy—”

Her head dipped down suddenly, her lips latching onto your nipple, sucking hard before flicking her tongue over the sensitive bud, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat.

“Ellie—”

She moaned against your skin, her other hand slipping up to cup your other breast, fingers rolling your nipple between them, teasing, playing with you like she had all the time in the world—like she wasn’t already on the edge.

“I’m so sorry,” she muttered against your skin, her voice breaking between gasps, between moans. “Fuck— I was so mean to you, baby—so fucking mean to my pretty girl—”

She kissed her way back up your chest, her lips swollen, her eyes hazy, desperate.

“I’ll make it up to you,” she swore, her forehead pressing against yours as she snapped her hips forward faster, grinding harder, the friction almost too much, almost perfect. “I’ll be so fucking good to you, baby, just—fuck—just let me have you again—”

Her words wrecked you, made you clench around nothing, made your nails dig into her back as she worked you both closer, closer, her whimpers turning into soft, breathy cries.

She was right there.

And she wasn’t letting go of you ever again.

Ellie was gone, lost in you, in the way your bodies moved together, the way your breath hitched every time she pressed just right against you. Her pace stuttered, hips snapping forward in desperate, uneven grinds as she chased the high building between you.

“Come for me,” she begged, voice raw, lips dragging over your neck in slow, open-mouthed kisses. “Fuck—please, baby, let me feel you—”

Her words sent a shiver through you, your body tensing as the pressure coiled impossibly tight, your breath catching—

And then you broke.

A choked moan slipped from your lips as pleasure crashed over you, your nails biting into Ellie’s back, thighs squeezing tight around her hips as you came against her.

Ellie groaned at the feeling, her whole body trembling as her movements turned messy, her hips rutting into you in short, erratic grinds. “Fuck—fuck—” she gasped, burying her face against your throat, her breath hot, shaky—

And then she fell apart, her moan muffled against your skin as she shuddered, riding it out, her lips still pressing lazy, sloppy kisses to your neck, matching the slow roll of her hips as she came down with you.

The room was quiet, save for the sound of your breaths mingling, heavy and uneven, both of you tangled in the sheets, in each other.

Ellie exhaled against your skin, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re all mine,” she murmured, lips brushing over your collarbone, her hands still gripping your waist like she was afraid you’d disappear. “All fucking mine.”

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a golden glow over tangled sheets and bare skin. The air smelled faintly of sweat, sex, and you—something Ellie wanted to drown herself in, wrap around her like a second skin.

She was already awake, sore in the best way, her body humming with the aftershocks of the night before. But it wasn’t just the feeling that had her smiling against your skin—it was you.

You, still asleep, your body relaxed in the early-morning haze, your lips slightly parted, your breath soft and even.

Ellie’s fingers traced idly over the marks she had left—dark hickeys blooming across your collarbone, throat, and swell of your chest. Hers. She hadn’t held back, too desperate to keep you, to mark you as hers again.

She exhaled a quiet chuckle before dipping her head, pressing slow, wet kisses to your collarbone, mouthing lazily at the bruises she’d left there, her smile never fading.

She didn’t care how sore she was. She didn’t care that she could barely move after how wrecked she was last night.

All she cared about was this—being here, having you like this, tangled up in her sheets, and covered in the evidence of her love-starved touches.

And fuck, if this was a dream, she never wanted to wake up.

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Author's note: me when I'm messy and like to create drama for funn.. 🤭I need ellie to dick me down real baddd🫦LMAOO ignore my crazy ass cs ur girl is sick rn but yess, tell me what y'all think!! This was my first time writing smut so I'm a bit nervy to see what y'all think..hopefully it's okay at least 😭give me feedback and stuff!! I love when you guys full up the replies, it honestly encourages me sm and lets me know what I did good on!! feel free to fill up my request inbox too!!

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[endearng]

Lifeline

Pairing: earlyseasons!Spencer Reid x addict!reader Summary: How does one move on after seeing the lost versions of themselves on someone else entirely? WC: 8.8k Warnings: canon criminal minds violence (m-rder); pr-stitution and mentions of sex; s.h-rm; illegal substances consumption; mentions of dr-g abuse; panic attacks; graphic suicide attempt. Minors, please, do not interact. A/N: This is heavily based on "The A Team", "Gale Song" and "evermore" and also Skins UK's character Effy Stonem. Besides that, I was also somewhat inspired by CM'S 2x11 and I messed up the timeline. Feedbacks are always welcome! | masterlist

"Her name's Amelia Holden. She was found in a dumpster in an alley of a neighborhood in central Richmond. Along with her, we have four women murdered within two weeks." JJ informed as she briefed the team about the case they were invited to work on.

Their reactions always were different. Aaron Hotcher remained unreadable, often asking about the local police's findings. Derek Morgan usually worried about victimology and the modus operandi. Emily Prentiss used to brainstorm details on the pictures. David Rossi was the one to make comparisons with previous cases. Spencer Reid busied himself with data, statistics and whatnot about the locality.

Speaking of which, "This is an high-end neighborhood, not to mention the obvious fact that it happened in the capital of Virginia. Based on that, one could think that the citizens will cooperate to solve this as fast as we can."

Derek sighed, "I wish I could tell you're wrong in different circumstances, pretty boy." Spencer frowned, eager to ask, but Derek was faster, "Truth is, these girls were all prostitutes. The rich won't give a damn if they go missing, which is pure hypocrisy based on the fact that they go where the money is, which is, well... in their neighborhood." JJ pursed her lips, taking another look at the evidence.

There were pictures of four girls, placed so carelessly in the dumpster that it was possible to deduce that they had been all thrown in there already dead. Not a single chance of survival. Not a single chance someone could save them. JJ felt a lump in her throat and looked away from the photos.

“It’s most likely a male.” Rossi said.

Emily nodded, asking, "So what do you guys think? Maybe this guy is murdering them because he thinks he's doing society a favor?"

"It could be, yes. When prostitutes are targeted, the main reason is misogyny, but we can also associate these crimes to other forms of hatred. It can also be related to power." Spencer answered. "Are there any signs of sexual abuse?"

"No, only physical violence." JJ answered. "The coroner's reports indicate that they were drugged, some of them with multiple substances. There are red bruises as well as knife scars and stabs basically all over their bodies."

"Multiple substances in their body can be a sign of addiction, but also that our unsub drugged them to make them easier to drag around." Spencer continued. “Does the lab have the substances yet?”

“Garcia is working on it.” JJ replied.

"And the amount of cuts and bruises on their bodies mean that our unsub is angry. Like, uncontrollably angry." Emily finished.

"Well, he's killed both black and white women, so we know it's not race motivated." Rossi completed Emily's train of thought. "He's been getting more and more desperate, given the depths of the cuts as he progresses, look." He said, pointing to the picture of the last victim.

Emily gulped, shaking her head lightly.

“I’d say that, given the color of the bruises, they were beaten right before they died. This unsub doesn’t keep them for much longer. Most likely, he tortures them and kills them, getting rid of them in the dumpsters. The place of disposal is rather telling.” Spencer chimed in.

"Get Garcia to look up sex offenders in that area." Hotch said. "Try to find them all, no matter what their outcome was. Close, dropped... It doesn't matter. If the theory about social cleansing is right, maybe the offender has a past history with it. On the other hand, if he's rich, he probably got away with it."

"I'll call her right now." Morgan said with a nod.

"Great. tell the Richmond PD we're getting there in a couple of hours." Hotch announces. "Wheels up in thirty."

—

Arriving in the precinct, Hotchner assigned the tasks. Rossi and Morgan would go to the latest crime scene as Reid and Prentiss looked around for possible witnesses. JJ would stay at the precinct in case something came up.

"Check this out," called Rossi. "The... instrument was big enough to go through her body, from her stomach to her back." He said.

Morgan sighed. "Intensified violence means that he's not planning on stopping any time soon."

A couple feet away, agents Reid and Prentiss talked to one of the prostitutes. "We're always here, especially at night. Some girls are here during the daytime, but you know, it's slower. Nobody wants to be seen with us." She had bloodshot eyes, a defeated expression on her features. 

"Who are your usual... customers?" Reid asked, a little embarrassed to be talking to a woman who had that much expertise in a field he lacked any. A flash of worry and guilt crossed the young woman's face and she looked around as if making sure no one was listening to them.

"Don't worry, everything's classified. You're not gonna get in trouble if you talk to us. We're just trying to help." Emily said, trying to ease her nerves.

"Okay... I... The guys who work in the bank are often here. Cops, too. But they are very sneaky." She whispered, fright almost palpable in her voice.

"Did any of them ever pose a threat? Maybe too violent? Persistent?" The young doctor asked, again. She blinked at him, willing the tears not to fall.

"Most of them are just bored husbands or divorcees who want to get laid without the worry of being chased after." Looking away, she went on, "we’re the ones who can't afford to say no to the things they're into. We get the best of their roughness, so it's hard to tell." Emily gave her a sympathetic look.

From afar, you watched their interactions. The girl, whose name was Renée, looked very nervous and guilty. You approached them, looking a lot more skeptical than the emotional mess they were asking questions to. You took a look at them, took in the way they were dressed, besides the pens and notepads in their hands. The man took a second look at you, but you shrug it off, used to be perceived and not always in the best manner, given your appearance these days. “You ok, Renée?" You checked on her softly and she nodded in agreement. "Excuse me. Are you with the police?" You ask in a serene voice.

"Hi. I'm Agent Emily Prentiss and this is Doctor Spencer Reid. We're with the FBI," the dark haired woman answered, both of them showing you their badges. You nodded. "We're investigating the murder of women in this location."

Spencer looked at you as you inspected their faces. You wore casual clothes, nothing like the outfit Renée had on, and, for a moment, he thought what were you doing in there and how and why did you know her. It didn't make sense, albeit briefly, to him, why would someone so mundane be in that place, at that time. After a couple of seconds of watching you curiously, the pieces started falling into places, though. The crestfallen expression, dry skin and chapped lips... You were going through something.

He had a feeling he wasn't sure if he wanted to know what.

That is, until you actually started talking.

"Hello," you introduce yourself. "Oh, I see. I didn’t think the locals would be interested in solving these anyway."

“Why do you say that?” Emily asked, curious to know your answer.

“I suppose they don’t like the fact that some of us are so daring to the point of going to their station to report the abuse we all go through weekly,” you snorted, voice thick with disdain, although every person in the conversation was aware that it was not aimed at either of them, “like, why are we complaining? We want to do this, we are willingly here.” Emily sighed.

“I’m sorry.” Was all that Spencer could muster up.

“Anyway…” you sniffled. A telling sign. “How can we help?”

"Have you seen anyone violent around here? A-a new face, perhaps?" He asked, turning his body to face you properly. Emily looked at him, puzzled.

"Doctor, with all due respect, they are men. And they are paying. It’s basically a green light for all sorts of abuse, I'm sure Renée told you that much." You answered, in a much more certain tone than your friend had used.

"Did either of you recall anything about that night? The most basic detail can help us.” Emily inquired.

"Yeah." Renée answered with a quiver of her lip, clinging to you, trying to find some solace. You squeezed her shoulder lightly, glancing at her.

Sensing she might not be able to talk, you went on, "I can't think of anything out of the ordinary that night. I didn't notice they were missing until the next day. We try our best to watch out for each other. As I said, some men can be real creeps, but once you start your own thing, it's… hard” you exhaled, “for some of us to keep track of what's going on around us. Unless we run into each other again, we won't know for sure if we're actually safe." You explained, looking down at your feet. After a couple deep breaths that felt like you were inhaling the oxygen of the entire Earth, you looked back at them. Still avoiding eye contact, glancing between their foreheads, something you'd learned to do in order to escape the person you were with when you needed to.

Spencer watched you the entire time.

“I see,” the woman said, taking some notes. “Would you know if they share anything in common?”

“They usually stay in the park at the end of the street,” Renée answered, “They go there once things quiet down, and guys pick them up in their cars. The night they were… um, taken, was pretty intense. If they got kidnapped, we couldn’t even give you a license plate. We weren’t around.” Her voice dripped with pure guilt. You ran your thumb on her shoulder.

At the moment, though, there's something else entirely on your mind. Eventually, after a beat of silence, you decide to speak your mind, to expose your insecurities. Not worried about how you may look. Hell, it's been a long time since you stopped. "I'm sorry to press or if I sound too demanding. I know sometimes things get out of your control, but, uh, you're gonna catch this guy, right? I mean... we have to be here. I hope you don't think we have another choice."

As you talked, your soft voice and pleading eyes drew Spencer's attention to you with even more intensity. Your voice and mannerisms weren't something he was expecting. He berated himself after realizing how he was in the wrong by assuming you’d portray yourself in a certain way because of the area you worked in. Your voice was low, but firm. Your words were understanding, but demanding. Your posture was almost defensive, but the desperation of your tone told them how terrified you were. He couldn't help but notice the fact that you were sniffing quite often. His profiling skills were faster than himself and he made the conclusion that, given the line of your work, he presumed it most likely wasn’t only a cold.

Spencer knew, then, that you shared something in common with him. Something bad.

Again, not something he wanted to know about.

Emily opened her mouth to speak, but Spencer beat her to it, "We're gonna do the best we can, Miss."

"Glad to hear that," you muttered, unable to look him in the eye.

“Thanks for your time.” Emily said, a gentle smile on her face.

Spencer watched from the corner of his eye as you and René left, walking arm in arm. In a safe distance from everyone else, he saw as your friend broke down in your arms and as you comforted her, even if you had your own tears streaming down your face. He had reached Morgan and Rossi when you two walked away. Emily studied his face attentively, wondering why he was so fast to assure a possible victim like that, because, one, it was unlike him to want to partake in such sensitive conversations with the ones involved in the process. Two, what kind of agent, doctor, official, profiler, whatever, makes promises before such an intricate process such as their work?

“So, did you get anything?” Rossi asked him, breaking him out of his reverie.

“Oh, yeah. Those two women said that the victims usually waited for clients in the park right down the street.” Emily said.

“I think we should go take a look.” Spencer suggested.

Searching the park, which was full of passersby and families just spending some time outside their houses, Spencer couldn’t shake the feeling that this case had already hit him too close to home. The violence was something that still messed with his head and he thought he could never recover from the flashes of memories behind his eyelids once he closed his eyes to sleep every night. Still, it wasn’t that that baffled him the most, but you. He knew what it was like to struggle with addiction. He had been very harsh on Emily not long ago, during a withdrawal, so he knew aggressiveness and mood swings were to be expected. You and your mannerisms, however, were totally out of the addiction bingo. The way you looked, so broken, so sick, in every sense of the word, didn’t stop you from having a polite conversation with them, even if the topic was very much concerning to you. Plus, the caring nature you seemed to have and the way you made sure to be supportive towards you and the others who, just like you, went through hell every day for the most unspeakable reasons stood out to him.

It was intriguing, to say the least.

“Hey, I got something.” Morgan said as he approached the team with a piece of paper. “It says: They will not do it again.”

“Who’s they?” Rossi inquired.

“Maybe the prostitutes. The only way of stopping them is killing them.” Spencer answered, albeit his thoughts were still far, far away from the scene.

“But stop them from doing what? Causing a divorce? Being a homewrecker? Polluting the city?” She wondered out loud.

“These are all valid possibilities,” Rossi nodded, “we now know from your interview that rich men are regulars here. Maybe one of them was unfaithful and snapped after getting his divorce. Now, he might be taking it out on these girls.” He finished.

“We still need to figure that out.” Morgan sighed. “Hey, babygirl, we need a favor,” Derek said once Penelope picked up his call. “Can you check every upper-class man in Richmond that has recently gotten a divorce?”

“Sure thing, handsome,” she quipped, “it might take some time, though. And I know you’ll need to narrow it down.”

“We’ll keep you posted. Thanks, babygirl.”

“Always happy to help, hot stuff.”

—

Back at the station, the BAU team was surrounded by cops, sharing their findings so far. Spencer was the one to make sure that the cops would be on duty and laser focused on the areas he determined through the geographical profile. Those areas were most likely the ones the next attack would take place. He emphasized, very intently, that they needed cops especially in darker alleys and that they were looking for a male in his thirties. 

Spencer couldn't shake the thought of dread that crept up on him, making him almost paralyzed. The fear of getting to the unsub, of letting him get away, of being too late, of being too early, of not being enough. Every scenario was the worst, his mind working overtime to make sure he had at least an ounce of optimism for months on end, ever since he finally managed to stay clean off Dilaudid. The cops moved around, divided between groups to start surveillance. And the dread kept building inside of him, like a crescendo of horror.

Sitting next to Emily, he decided to break the morbid silence hanging over them. “I'm sorry I lashed out on you, Emily. I don't think I ever apologized.”

Totally not expecting his words, she looked at him, wide-eyed. It took her a second to gather her thoughts and form an answer. “It's no problem. I know what you were going through.”

“Still. It doesn't change much. It's not a good enough excuse for me to treat others poorly.” He couldn't look at her, fiddling with his fingers instead.

“Reid, why do I sense you're talking about something else?”

He sighed. He was so, so tired of keeping it in, of bottling everything in, of swallowing his words so as to not make anyone uncomfortable. “I am.” He confessed, after a moment of silence.

Maybe staying quiet was less morbid than the conversation they were about to have, he mused.

“What happened?”

“That girl, today. The second one. I could tell she's having issues. The same as me, I mean. And she was so nice the entire time. She was trying to make her friend feel better.”

“Spencer…” Emily breathed out, a somewhat reprimanding look on her face. Not that he could see it. “This comparison is unfair on so many levels. First, you've seen her for what? Five minutes? We don't know what she's been through, if she has a family… There are so many possibilities. Maybe she was having a good day—”

“How does one have a good day knowing that they have very high chances of being killed?” He interrupted. A sigh left Emily's lips.

“I don't know. But you do understand why that comparison you made was unfitting, to say the least, right?” 

Right on cue, to make the subject die, he muttered a “I guess.” so she could drop the subject. From afar, Spencer watched as you left a building with a glare on your face. He wondered what you were feeling and if your expression always told you off.

“There she is. Not looking happy.” Emily said, simply, not relating it to the use of any substances out of respect. She could only imagine what he was going through, being forced to watch someone she loves slowly lose themselves over something so trivial, but at the same time, dangerous as a substance.

Spencer pressed his lips on a thin line.

—

You laid there, on a big, albeit uncomfortable bed, simply enduring the sloppy, much erratic thrusts of a man who was old enough to be your dad. Grandfather, if you pushed it a little bit. Internally, you chuckled bitterly at the thought, because those two decided to want distance from you a long, long time ago. You had turned out into a person who many people didn't want to be associated with, so you kind of understood their attitude towards you. Still, it didn't make navigating through this world all by yourself any easier. In fact, it stung harder than you cared to admit, but, for the most part of the time, you were as high as a kite — your coping mechanism to shield your brain for reminiscing about the disgusting, vile man that you had to... satisfy to avoid starving to death. It was a never ending cycle. A torturous one that you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy.

Speaking of which, the man above you came on your stomach, meaning that the appointment had finally reached its end. You couldn't quite pinpoint if he was the first, second or even third man you've encountered that night, but you didn't care. The effects of the dope made sure you wouldn't remember them the next day. Actually, it had been a while since you had been exposed to daylight. Your routine consisted of being around all night with those men, getting home, scrubbing your skin hard enough to draw blood as you showered, trying to get rid of the feeling of the greedy, disgusting hands all over your body, sleeping all day, getting high and repeating it all over again. Some nights you didn’t have too much strength to do it all. Some days felt like they mashed together with how long it felt with the same ache, the same hole in your chest. Your life was miserable, and you often caught yourself thinking if it was worth it. And, if it was, what for?

"You're so good, princess, kept quiet all the time and shit." The man said as he pulled his shirt back on, covering his thin frame. You cleaned yourself the best you could with a washcloth. "You’re fairly pretty… If you weren't a junkie, I might take you home with me... keep you all to myself, you know?" He inquired, a smirk dancing around his features.

You didn't dignify him with an answer. Instead, you glared at him, even though he couldn't see your face, grabbed the money that had been placed in the nightstand and made a beeline to the door.

You stared at that money with burning rage. If you didn't need it so much, you would definitely tear it apart given the hatred coursing through your veins. You gulped, and it tasted bitter, and it was hard to swallow the lump in your throat. You sold yourself for something as ordinary as money, and it made you so angry because your family was swimming in it. Sometimes, you wished they would drown in it, just to see if your anger simmered down.

You weren't always like this, so... so rotten. Coming from a rich, traditional family, people expected highly from you all the time, thus, you had been an excellent, straight A's student, being the valedictorian of your class at a traditional Catholic school without your teachers needing to double check any records. You also volunteered halftime in an institute that helped old people, which made your parents immensely proud. At that time, you had gotten yourself a boyfriend, your high-school sweetheart, getting engaged to him as you started your third year at a great university, majoring in Psychology. It all went down, though, when you started struggling with addiction.

It started with lighter substances, like alcohol. You drank until you started mumbling out the words you meant to say, going even as far as embarrassing yourself and your fiancée multiple times at social gatherings that involved booze. You loved the thrill, the buzz, the lightness it made you feel, instead of the pile of anxiety that built and seeped into your very bones after being so pushed to the edge your entire life. You thought you liked your life, but after being in touch with people who had a much (what you considered to be) easier life than yours, you started to let loose. Since you didn't have any family around you to put you on a tight leash, you lost control altogether.

When your family realized what had happened, too engrossed in their own businesses and investments and money and anything that was more important than their offsprings, it was too late. You couldn't go a day without drinking, dropping out of schoolcALT without thinking about the consequences for your future. Ironically, you knew and understood pretty well the things you were going through, but battling an addiction requires a lot of strength that you didn't know where to find, since you were all alone. After all, you had pushed all your friends away, your fiancée had walked out on you and your family basically disowned you.

Left to your own devices and unable to keep a steady, serious job, despite your background, you found yourself in the streets.

Sigh.

Opening the door to your small apartment, you got rid of the clothes that began to reek of alcohol, throwing them mindlessly on the floor. You rushed to the bathroom and stared at your own reflection for a moment, noticing the dark spots under your eyes, your dry lips and the lifeless gaze that your eyes had turned into. You had lost quite a bit of weight, now looking like a dead skull, wandering around, doomed to search for any reason to continue living in a world that had been pitch black.

In the bathtub, you scratched your skin aggressively, not being able to avoid the feeling of the remnants of several unknown men, which sensation brought up the comparison that you felt similar to a person who suffers with phantom limb pain: you couldn't see their hands, you couldn't come up with anyone's face, but you couldn't avoid sensing their touch on your skin. But, unlike the syndrome, you didn't feel pain, feeling rather like needles were seeping into your skin, deep enough to reach your bones. But, like the syndrome, it felt like it was yours. Their touch, although invisible, was forever inked into your skin.

You couldn't help the tears running down your face, mixing themselves with the water that poured from the shower. Tears of both pain, disgust, desperation, regret. It was a whirlwind of emotions that you couldn't deal with. As you left the bathroom, you downed half a bottle of vodka, hoping that it would lull you to sleep.

Maybe for good this time.

—

A loud banging on your door roused you from sleep. Your mouth felt dry and your skin felt even worse — it felt like it had been days since you last drank water. Maybe it was true. The loud noise made your head throb in pain. Curled in bed, you tried to muffle the sounds by covering your ears with your hands, but it was just as annoying. The person on the other side of the door seemed hell-bent on seeing you, but you couldn't come up with anyone other than your landlord, because your rent was supposed to be paid yesterday.

Getting up from your bed with a groan of annoyance and pain, you threw on a flannel you found on the floor. Opening the door, you were surprised to see your older brother.

"Y-you?" You asked, baffled. Embarrassed by your own appearance.

"It's me." He said, the usual serious edge to his voice. He said your name, hesitantly. "Can I come in?"

You didn't know what he wanted. The fact that you had been left alone for so long made your heart burn with anger and you wanted to slam the door in his face. You considered it for a moment, but it wouldn't take a genius to know that you needed someone with you, even if for just a couple of minutes, even if it was out of pity. You didn't mind. You relied on the kindness of people to get by, so what harm would it be in accepting a little more pity? More self loathing than you already had and constantly feeded inside you? You judged it impossible.

With a curt nod, you gave him space to enter your apartment. The place was a mess, clothes scattered around, curtains drawn closed, the darkness in the room not only caused by the absence of sunlight. Something somber stopped light from entering. Your brother looked around with an unreadable expression and saw the countless bottles everywhere, from the floor to the couch, not to mention the many white remains on the surfaces like the small coffee table. He blinked away tears, desolate to see you in that position. Desperate to find words. Desperate to find you again in that vessel of a human you had become.

Clearing his throat, “I… heard what's happening. I was worried so I came all the way here to check on you.”

You bit back a bitter laughter. How could someone be this cruel? Abandon you and then treat you like you mattered? It made you almost want to throw up. “I'm alive. Happy?” You couldn't help the snarky remark.

“Come on, you know I'm not like them.” He defended, not able to look you in the eye.

You took a deep, shaky breath, trying to keep your emotions at bay. “If you weren't, you wouldn't have left me, too.”

“Come on, I was going through my own shit, I didn't realize what you were going through until it was too late.”

“Too late? Too late? I spent all my days wishing any of you would pick up the damn phone so that someone could come and get me before I was dead. But you're all the same. So self absorbed, so selfish, so… individualistic.” Your words were daggers, but you couldn't stop yourself from being mean, from trying to push away the only person who seemingly had an interest in helping you. Too bad you felt it was a little too late.

“Don't say that.”

At this point, the verbal vomiting was unstoppable. You sure looked like a maniac, rambling and jumping inconsistently from one topic to another, aiming to hurt him as much as they have hurt you, too. You knew what you were doing, but it felt for a moment that something else was forcing such cruelness out of your mouth. “The final blow was grandma dying, right? So you could finally pretend I don't exist. Keep doing that.”

“Let me help you.” He pleaded, coming close to you.

“I don't need your help.”

“If you don't accept it now, you're gonna spend more time wishing you had.” He said, holding your hands with his own.

“How are you going to help me? By sending me money so that I spend it all on drugs? On booze? Hah, nice one, really.”

“I wouldn't help you kill yourself.” He almost shouted, rage and sadness fighting over which would be the dominant feeling in his eyes.

“Then how? I basically just told you I'm helpless. I'm a ghost. I stopped existing a long time ago.” A sob broke through you, echoing in the walls of your dark apartment. You shut your eyes. “I don't know who I am anymore.”

Silence.

He's probably thinking everything through. Trying to find a way to let me down gently, you thought. “Let me take you somewhere safe. We'll see how it goes.”

You didn't expect that much. Despite wanting to say yes, your mouth was seemingly disconnected from your brain, so your words took a whole different turn. Instead of accepting his help, you simply stated, “I don't think I would stand to let you down again. I'm sorry.” He looks at you, bewildered, but, to you, not strong enough to put up a fight. “Can you please leave? I'm waiting for a friend.”

Defeated, he walks out the door. 

You don't notice the paper with his number left on the kitchen counter. When Renée shows up, dressed in a skin-tight red dress, she sees and runs her finger on the note as if it could save her from every single risk her life could show her. 

—

"We found another body."

Amidst the research and data analysis required to provide the profile, Spencer Reid got easily lost on his obligations and far too focused on his duties in order to help people as fast as he could, which was why he was seemingly terrified of one of the local officer's voice. 

At the crime scene, the found body was once Renée Woods. Spencer watched from afar as the coroner  examined their body and as Derek and Emily searched frantically for anything they could do to help, whether it was examining the crime scene or simply talking to the assigned legists. Spencer, unlike them, stood still. Muscles unable to make any movements besides clenching his hands in fists so tight that his somewhat long nails almost cut through the sensitive skin.

How would you take the news?

What if that was you?

The thought went as quickly as it came, because, from afar, he watched as you showed up, looking skeptical, but soon becoming hysterical once you recognized her, even from a certain distance. You could tell it was her by the clothes she was wearing. You cried hysterically, screaming as if someone had torn apart your heart with their bare hands, sobbing as if you couldn't breathe unless Renée was walking the Earth. A cop touching you, instead of soothing your turmoil, only served as a fuel to the fire raging through you. Sadness, anger, desperation, panic, everything flooding your chest, ragging your breath. You pushed the man away, trying to find a way to enter the crime scene.

Spencer finally was taking control of his body again. Approaching you, calmly, as if you would attack him too if he got too close and too abruptly, or worse, you’d run away, he made his way to you. Noticing your red-rimmed eyes, he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“You said you’d do your best,” you said in a broken voice, looking him in the eye. Defeated.

Silence. All the noise seemed dull, distant, far away. You were in a bubble.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out, wide eyes looking at his confused ones. Right now, talking to you felt like whiplash. “I know it wasn’t your fault. I didn’t mean to accuse or blame you. Fuck,” you cursed, bringing your hands to your eyes. “Can I do anything to help? I can… I can try.”

Unbeknownst to you, Emily Prentiss watched your interactions with a puzzled look on her face. You looked and acted so distraught that she felt the need to approach, mindful of the damage the words from an enraged, saddened close friend of a victim would do. Unable to stop her own feet, she approached you. Spencer wouldn't utter a word. You looked nervous, looking from her to him and obsessively trying to wipe your tears that seemingly had their own will to run on your face.

"Can you come with me?" She offered, handing out a blanket for you. You looked at her and amidst the mixed feelings that the grief started etching into your eyes, you could give her a grateful glance.

By her side, you looked at Spencer, who was still frozen in place.

"I'm sorry..." You whispered, looking at the ground.  

He looked straight ahead. Once you were with Emily, he glanced your way with a pitiful look on his face.

—

Days passed. You were in the precinct once they called Renée’s family to break the morbid news. You watched as her mother fell to her knees once one of them told her what had happened to her daughter. You heard the chanting of "I failed, I failed, I failed..." endlessly. And by endlessly, you mean it is still haunting you to this day.

For three days, all you did was escape reality, whether by sleeping or doing drugs. Your brother's contact sat still on the kitchen counter, collecting dust and meaning hesitation from your end.

On the fourth day, you were sober for a couple of hours. You opened the curtains and despite the darkness still loomed around, it felt better. It burned, but in a nice way. As you stared at the note in the counter, untouched, Emily Prentiss knocked on your door to let you know that they were close to catching the killer. His profile was complete, it seemed. Something about a man in his 40s taking out the frustration of his parents’ broken marriage because of his father’s infidelity and his own divorce because of his affairs. Cyclic. Looking at your wrecked state, she told you all about him.

"Why are you telling me this?" You asked as Renée’s mother chant still echoed in your mind.

"First, I thought you needed hope. Second, I was thinking you might recognize him.”

Needless to say, she was right. Your lungs burned at each breath you took, and, in that moment, you decided you would try to be strong. Stronger. Renée’s face came to mind. You had nothing left to lose if you exposed a few rich men. Thanking Emily, you said softly, your tone contrasting with the vile nature of your words, “You said he dumped the girls in a specific place, right?” She nodded. “I don’t know if anyone told you about this one place, but they take some of the girls there. It’s kind of off-radar” 

As you gave her the location, her surprise betrayed her usual composure. “No, nobody did.”

“Do you think it could be helpful?”

—

You found yourself in one of aforementioned building’s room along with Dr. Spencer Reid, as sort of your protector, while the others patrolled the building and the people who came and went, and the local cops lurked around downtown, in the park. You felt nervous, reminiscing about your last interaction with the man. Taking a deep breath, you sat down on a chair. “May I ask you something?” You inquired, carefully. He hadn’t talked much to you unless it was information about what you knew and what he needed to know. He nodded at you, turning his attention to your figure. "Do you like your job? I only ask because... you know... nobody really likes this job."

"... I do, yeah." He muttered, albeit not the whole truth. It was gruesome, but he thought he could manage. Besides, you didn’t need to be exposed to even more disaster. It was bad enough as it was.

"I don’t know if you know or acknowledge this, but not many people choose to do this. It's more of a last option, the one you really don't wanna take." You justified, even though you didn’t quite know why.

You supposed it was the embarrassment that came with being with a man who knew what you did but wasn’t with you to do that.

Understanding flooded his features, a soft "I understand." making its way out of his lips.

"Thanks." I say with a tight-lipped smile. "It means a lot."

He nodded. "You keep fiddling with your necklace."

"It's a locker, actually. It's a picture of me and my grandmother. I don't wear it when I'm.. um... Anyway, it's kinda sacred to me." You chuckled, gripping the accessory tighter. “I wore it today so that it would give me the strength needed to help Renée. And myself.”

He glances at you as if he wanted to know more. After a beat of silence and deciding that it was enough, "Do you have a good relationship with her?"

"I did. We were very close, but she passed away last year, sort of giving my family the free pass to cut me out entirely. I believe they think that I was the one who killed her, my life choices and whatnot."

He furrowed his brows. "You didn't choose this."

"In a way, I did. I knew what I was doing, I just couldn't stop. It's just that... It felt good not to have so much pressure on me, you know? I felt finally free... but what did it cost me? A safe relationship, my education, my family and friends… They never gave me a chance, not even to explain myself. I needed help. Thus far, I have had company my entire life. I didn't know how to exist. Then one of those girls helped me, but I realized that she was struggling to pay rent and I needed to do something, not just sit pretty and be high with the money I had left.”

His silence was unexpected.

In reality, it was caused by the cliché of watching your life passing before your eyes took over his mind. He remembered being drugged by Tobias Hankel, he remembered the needles puncturing his skin and the relief he felt from the entire situation once the substance started running through his veins. He remembered taking Dilaudid from his abductor’s pockets and he remembered staring at his own reflection in the mirror and finding a stranger looking back at him. He remembered being given a chip of sobriety even though he wasn’t sober for that long. He remembered thinking of himself as unworthy as he became more and more dependent, especially when he couldn’t even disguise how affected, how it changed him. Looking at your defeated face, he muttered, “I understand. It changes your perception of things and yourself.”

You could act oblivious and assume that his knowledge of the topic came from books, but you don’t see that expression on just anybody’s face. You felt sorry for him. Sensing he didn’t want to talk about himself any further, even if, in your opinion, wasn’t nearly enough for someone who had battled something as deep as an addiction, you decided to respect his wish. You talked about yourself instead, hoping to give him something, someone to relate to, as you desperately wanted for yourself. “I wasn’t always like this.”

“I’m sure you weren’t.” His voice held that tinge of something you couldn’t quite describe, something distant, but so close at the same time. He saw himself in you, almost if he was talking to himself.

He might have had Penelope check your background. Something about the lost potential resonated deep within him, and it made him all the more anxious to be close to you, to repair something he hadn’t been the one to break. As he looked at you, all he could see was someone in dire need of something, someone to grasp onto. “How does one manage to move past all that?"

Despite the will growing and boiling inside of him, he couldn’t just come up with a magic solution to cut through the darkness surrounding you. "Honestly, I don't know." You couldn’t see when he gulped.

"It's a long way from home. At least, for me."

For a moment, you looked at each other, mouths shut, not a single beat of sound around you. You looked at him, searching for answers and for someone to relate to. Spencer hesitated for a moment, the silence hanging over you like a fog. He wasn't trying to seem disinterested or unkind, but he felt as if his curt phrases weren’t enough to calm your heart. He spoke again, his voice softer, offering a hint of deeper sincerity, "Sorry, I..." he trailed off, unsure how to convey his thoughts without making the situation more hurtful. "I'm sure you can manage it with the right people."

Your grip on your locket softened, letting it fall close to your chest once you let it go. Looking at him, a soft melody started playing in your head.

Patience.

“I’m sorry,” you said, earnestly, which made him look at you with recognition. “Thanks for talking to me. It’s been a while.” 

I missed this feeling.

—

After a few moments, the BAU team had captured the man before he could collect another soul. Everything happened so fast. In one moment, you were in a superficially verbal conversation with Spencer. Despite the shallow nature of the words exchanged, digging deeper, the interaction was filled to the brim with meaning, which made you rethink a thing or two. You shared that much with him.

“Goodbye.” He said, simply. To you, he was not one to speak much. “You’ll be home by spring.” I can’t wait ‘til then, he thought.

“Goodbye, doctor.”

Next thing you knew, as you got home, all by yourself, you decided to reach out for your brother. Telling him you needed help, that you were pessimistic but that it would be foolish not to at least try.

Days at rehab went on as smoothly as they could, considering you were suffering with withdrawal. Your behavior and emotions swayed like waves on a lake surface on a windy day. Deeply unstable, your mind was forced to remember all the hell you’ve been through on a daily basis for the last sad months of your life. Grieving for the version of you you could have been, for Renée, for your sense of self, self-respect and whatever you had lost during those dark times. Often, your hands trembled, you felt cold in a warm, cozy room and there were times your skin felt ablaze, not to mention the whirlwind of thoughts that made your head hurt. You missed feeling numb.

And when I was shipwrecked, I thought of you.

Still, there were afternoons that you would sit on the porch of your bedroom and simply take in the surroundings. The green grass that was taken better off by the employees like it was someone’s first born. The other patients who walked around and closed their eyes as they felt the sun kissing their skin for what it felt like the first time in years. The trees that casted shadows on the grass so that some of them could lay beneath them. The breeze that engulfed your figure and gently touched you, unlike you had been treated. The immense sense of belonging to this existence, of not longer being a stranger to your own life. You would take deep breaths and your lungs wouldn’t ache like before. You pictured the two reasons responsible for making you take the decision that brought you to this place sitting next to you. You held what was left of one of them between your fingertips.

The sudden and constant mood swings made your attitude change at breakneck speed.

Tonight, taking a quick break from the notebook you were scribbling on, you took a look around you. At that moment, everything around you was spinning. You couldn’t breathe, feeling as if the hands that touched you in the past stopped you from inhaling oxygen altogether. You shut your eyes closed and tried to breathe in like the doctors had told you to when things got too hard — it was not working. Panicking further, you stumbled your way to the ensuite bathroom and took a good look at your reflection. You felt shivers running down your body, an uncomfortable feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach as you desperately tried to turn on the faucet to splash some cold water to your face. Unsuccessful, to say the least.

The feeling grew as time went by. You couldn’t stand the discomfort and the memories and the feeling of being inappropriate to go back to living in the real world again. For a moment, you quieted your struggle. You gave in. You glanced at the mirror and although the tears blurred your vision, you were able to wonder if that was your opportunity of finally having the control of your life back. Maybe it was for the better, you thought as you reached for the small blade you secretly kept on the bathroom window. As you started feeling dizzy by the lack of oxygen, you couldn’t help but to think back to the interaction you exchanged with Spencer before you thought of accepting your brother’s offer. Picturing his face, of himself as a person and as a professional, you thought that, for a moment, he was a reflection of all that you wanted to be, all you wanted for yourself.

The blood that gushed from the open cuts of your arms, that drained from your body, felt like the catharsis you needed from all the mishaps that had taken place in your life. As you watched it dribble down your skin and as it stained the floor, you took a deep, difficult breath, feeling lightheaded. No thoughts swarmed your mind anymore. A sob, from both the dull sting of the cuts and of your difficulty breathing, echoed through the bathroom.

No!, you thought you heard a familiar voice scream.

In the cracks of light, I dreamed of you.

Finally taking short puffs of breaths, you kept thinking this was it. That it was for the better. That nothing could save you, nothing could stop the blood from cleansing you and taint the floor in the process. You finally shut your eyes as the tears never ceased to flow from your eyes, feeling hands squeezing your arms where you had drawn vertical lines with the blades. From that moment, everything around you felt mixed, the swaying of a vehicle, the alarmed voices, the brightness behind your eyelids. You never opened your eyes. You couldn't bear to open them and still be here, facing the people who were doing their best to help you.

As you lost consciousness, you finally found peace, your mind finally quieted down, the hands stopped touching your body. You thought you managed a weakened smile in your state.

;

Spencer, much like you, didn't keep much track of the time as it passed, for the things in his world happened too fast and burned too bright. As he approached his desk in the bullpen and he was reading through some emails, dread adorning his features and panic setting in the pit of his stomach as he read your brother's name on the screen — whose contact he had gotten after you were admitted in rehab — and the news he was sharing.

;

You didn't know how much time you had spent unconscious. You didn't have any dreams. You didn't have any thoughts. You were completely numb, as if you were surrounded by a bubble that protected you from anything that could possibly happen.

As you opened your eyes, you recognized a hospital room, wires and needles and the unmistakable smell of that place. Looking at your arms, you noticed the bandages that hid the scars that were certainly forming by now, if the dull ache was anything to go by. When you slowly felt reality creeping in, you didn't dare to look up, afraid to find a judgmental or angry look on someone's face. You focused solely on breathing, too frightened of your surroundings.

You gulped and your throat felt so dry that it almost scratched, which made you erupt in a fit of coughs. That drew the attention of a person sitting right next to you, which you hadn't noticed, too preoccupied with someone's reaction.

Slowly looking up, you found Dr. Reid’s face. You couldn't quite begin to read his expression, as his eyes were full of relief once he saw you were still alive. Hanging by a thread, but still alive. You didn't bother to speak after he silently held a bottle of water with a straw on it for you to drink. Neither did he. At least for some amount of time.

“I didn't know how bad this could get. I mean, I do know, but not because of the reason you probably think. It's not just because I have to study human behavior, but also because I was abducted and drugged,” he started, losing the bravery that it took to look you in the eye. “I know you have nothing to do with this. And that it makes me sound very selfish, because, um, I'm here talking about myself when you are so fragile and so broken, but it's just because I know what you're going through. I know what it's like to not recognize yourself. When we talked in that room, for the first time, I felt alive. I felt seen. I felt like I had finally found a little, small, fleeting piece of myself that had wandered too far once I was… addicted.”

You just took in his words. You already knew why he related to you so much, but hearing him talk so freely and unabashedly about his experience made you somewhat perk up. “I'm in a lot of trouble, aren't I?” You managed to mutter in a weak voice.

“It depends on what you think you're going to do now.” 

“It's a lot of work.”

“Not if it's you.”

“How could you possibly say that?”

“I know a little about your background. My friend looked you up. You looked promising.”

“Yes, past tense. Now I'm just this… vessel of a human. I don't think I have blood, let alone the guts to face the world after this.”

“I'm not calculating your worth on your accomplishments or on the person you used to be.” He sighed, softly.

“Do I even still have worth?”

“Of course you do.”

“Don't waste your breath on me. How could you be so sure?”

“I just do.”

Little did you know, Spencer Reid was not one to pry where it wasn't welcome, but he spent every day letting his mind run to you. He couldn't help but think about you and whether you were actually doing good after the decision you decided to share with him. That was how he found himself having some unsent letters that were soon ripped and thrown away. Telling you about him, wondering about you, wondering if you two could relate on different topics.

“Would it be weird to ask you to trust me on this one?”

“What's the worst that could happen?”

For the first time in years, you had a sincere smile on your face. 

—

The next day, you woke up to a letter addressed to you, which you knew who it was from. 

Your lifeline.

This pain wouldn’t be for evermore.

☆

Part 2

[thecaffeinatedwitch]

The 3 Sneaky States Blocking Your Manifestation (and How to Shift Out of Them)

So, you're affirming daily, visualizing like a manifesting ninja, maybe even whispering “it is done” to yourself in the shower. But still—nothing's happening.

Don't worry. You're not cursed, broken, or manifesting wrong. You're just stuck in one (or more) of the three mental states that secretly block your desires from materializing. The Law of Assumption works when your inner world aligns with what you want. These sneaky states throw that alignment way off course.

Let’s call them out, one by one—and then learn how to lovingly kick them to the curb.

1. The State of Lack (“I don’t have it yet”)

This one wears the disguise of ambition. It sounds like:

“I need to manifest this soon.”

“I’ll feel better when I finally get it.”

“Why isn’t it here yet?”

At first glance, it seems like you're just focused. But what you’re really doing is confirming the absence of your desire over and over again. You're basically affirming, “I don’t have it” with every thought—even if you're saying affirmations.

How to Shift:

Start acting and thinking from the end—the version of you that already has it. Even if it’s subtle.

Instead of:

“I’m manifesting my dream job.”

Say:

“I love how aligned and fulfilling my job is now.”

Even if you're still sitting at a desk you hate, your inner state is choosing “already done.” And that's what matters most.

2. The State of Desperation (“I need this to feel okay”)

Desperation is that clenchy, anxious, refreshing-your-email-500-times-a-day energy. It’s driven by fear and urgency. It sounds like:

“If this doesn’t happen, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“I can’t be happy until this comes through.”

“Universe, PLEASE just give it to me.”

This state screams “I’m not whole without it,” which energetically separates you from the version of you who already has what you want (because that version is calm, grounded, and confident).

How to Shift:

Let go of the idea that this desire is your lifeline. Your power isn’t in the thing—it’s in you.

Affirm:

“I’m already fulfilled. This desire is just icing on the cake.”

And breathe. Seriously. Slow breaths send signals to your nervous system that you’re safe—and when you feel safe, your assumptions naturally become more powerful.

3. The State of Waiting (“I’m in the middle of the process”)

Waiting seems harmless. But it’s actually sneaky resistance in a pretty outfit.

When you’re “waiting” for your manifestation, you’re assuming that the manifestation is separate from you, and off in some distant timeline.

It sounds like:

“It’s coming soon.”

“I’m manifesting it right now.”

“I’ll have it eventually.”

But the Law of Assumption doesn’t operate on “eventually.” It responds to what you assume is already true.

How to Shift:

Stop waiting. Start being. Start embodying.

Imagine you’ve already received the desire. How would your body feel? What would your posture be like? Would you still be stalking your ex on Instagram or would you be out living your hot, self-assured life?

Use language like:

“It’s done.” “It’s mine now.” “This is who I am.”

Acting as if doesn’t mean faking it—it means choosing your new identity before the outside world catches up.

The Law of Assumption isn’t just about what you say—it’s about what you embody. You could affirm “I am loved” a thousand times a day, but if you're doing it from a place of panic, need, or disbelief… you're still living in the old story.

The shift happens when you catch yourself in those sneaky states, and gently pivot into a new one.

So next time you're feeling stuck, ask yourself:

“Am I assuming it’s done? Or am I waiting, lacking, or pleading?”

Then lovingly shift. Even a 1% change in state is progress. Manifestation isn't about being perfect—it’s about being persistent in the right direction.

You’ve got this. Assume it’s already yours—and watch the world adjust.

[three-realms-archive]

Just a Study

Content Warning: Spoilers for Lesson 40 of Nightbringer! Everything above the cut is spoiler-free!

The wise sorcerer watches his dear apprentice sleep peacefully, unaware of their close friend and mentor doing what he does best. Studying.

His eyes analyse the rise and fall of their chest, tracing his gaze over and across the parabolas that make up the shape of their sleeping form. The small chuckles that escape him when you snore and snort are sounds that you will never get to hear. The soft, unprecedented flushes of crimson across his cheeks when you nuzzle your forehead deeper into the crook of his neck is a sight you will never get to see. Yet your sounds, sights and touch… Solomon knows all of it. He knows the mean, median and mode of the number of hours you sleep at night; and he spends the midnight hours flipping through tomes dedicated to understanding love. To Solomon, this was all a study, really.

A study on how it would have been, if he had taken the time to know his fellow, human classmate from the get-go. How it would have been if he had taken you under his wing sooner - if he had won the race for your heart against the Seven Avatars of Sin. The data was there, in the form of the pact marks etched into your skin - placed there like perfect puzzle pieces. And no matter how much his brain wanted to process that data differently, the results and conclusion would remain unchanged.

To conduct a study, one must try to match the conditions of the experiment to the assumptions of the theory. Solomon knew this, and so he had strived to make Coctyus Hall your new House of Lamentation. He had lived with you - had eaten with you - had even slept beside you. He knew that you (more often that he liked) had shared a bed with each of the brothers before - so he had done that, too. He had taken your trip to the past as an opportunity to replicate the theory with ease, piecing together a domestic life with you that felt like bliss.

The perfect study.

It was meant to be the perfect study. For him and you.

So why?

Why did it hurt so bad, returning to the original timeline; and seeing how… easily, you fell back into your own life?

Why did it hurt, seeing you live, eat and sometimes even sleep alongside the brothers again?

Why did it hurt, sleeping beside you in your old room, when he had already shared a bed with you many times now? It hurt being with you, in this bed made for one, the pillows and blankets and your shifting form taking up room and pushing him out. Telling him that he didn’t belong next to you.

… The wise sorcerer watches his dear apprentice sleep; studying. He presses his lips gently to your temple and savours the familiar warmth that greets him, fondly. He selfishly, childishly, hooks an arm and a leg around you; entangling himself in you as you had done many times before with him. He easily finds your hand through touch alone under a blanket colder than the one you used to share; struggling to intertwine his fingers with yours properly. But he grips your hand like a lifeline when he manages to. He’s got the lines of your palm and the creases of the skin of your wrists memorised. With a small, shaky breath, Solomon uses his thumb to trace over them again, and again, and again. Studying.

It was just a study, right? A ‘what if’.

Just a study, with a simple title.

What if, for a while, he pretended you loved him?

A study compares the theoretical with the experimental. Compares the ideal with harsh, painful, hurtful reality.

You belonged with the brothers. They were your ideal.

… And his brief, domestic, blissful experiment with you was now over.

(i had started writing this before seeing that angest was ruling the poll, lol. but yayyyyyy i wanna start writing angst and romance with the characters i haven’t touched on yet, so have an angst solomon, set after lesson 40 of nightbringer)

[enasmaher44]

"Urgent... Critical ❗❗❗❗

"My son Bahaa, a 3-year-old child, lost his father in the war and has endured its harsh realities — from losing his home to repeated displacement and hunger that spares no innocence. Today, he is battling severe intestinal inflammation that threatens his life amid a lack of treatment and resources. Bahaa is not just another number among the victims of war; he is a pure soul in desperate need of saving. Every moment of delay means more pain for a child who has lost his safety and the warmth of his father’s embrace.

He now lives in a small, fragile tent that cannot shield him from the cold, unhealthy conditions, or contaminated water. Your donation is not just treatment; it’s a lifeline that restores Bahaa’s stolen childhood. Please don’t leave him to face this agony alone.

Please help us by sharing the link and donating.

#SaveBahaa

@deepspaceboytoy @post-brahminism @khanger @kibumkim @neechees

Please help 🙏🏼😭

@timetravellingkitty @deathlonging @briarhips @dirhwangdaseul @mahoushojoe

@rhubarbspring @schoolhater @pcktknife @sawasawako @appsa

@strangeauthor @gabajoofs @irhabiya @wellwaterhysteria @tamamita

@deepspaceboytoy @post-brahminism @khanger @kibumkim @neechees

@kyra45-helping-others @7bitter @tortiefrancis @log6 @toiletpotato

@fromjannah @omegaversereloaded @vague-humanoid @evillesbianvillain @aristotels

@komsomolka @xinakwans @heritageposts @transmutationisms @amygdalae

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@ghostenluvs @t-800 @mythicalmagical-monkeyman @olivethetiger @sykloni @captainjimothy @withdecay @lemonsharks @22craftgirl @professionalchaoticdumbass @puddingandp1 @endomentendo @magic-can @siren-serotonin @timetravellingkitty @tiredguyswag @post-brahminism @shesnake @akajustmerry @camgirlpanopticon @fleshdyk3 @fading-event-608 @mangocheesecakes @anyonghalimaw @nimbooz @papenathys @hussyknee @hiveswap @irhabiya @feluka @anneemay @ripley-stark @balaclava-trismegistus @paandaan @transmutationisms @lonniemachin @retvolution @rairikka @a1m3v @books-n-quotes @chronicschmonic @halalchampagnesocialist @ihavenoideashelp @irhabiya @furiousfinnstan @paparoach @neil-gaiman @celadonwanderer @girlinafairytale @2tbssd @forgetfulrecord @fading-event-608 @repulsion @noncathartic @gusherbug @autisticmudkip @FUCKGIMP @tiredguyswag @briarhips @three-croissants @bilal-salah0 @paper-mario-wiki @snapscube @joy-crimes @hollowtones @chongoblog @wayneradiotv @just-shower-thoughts @firefox-official @gimmickblog-taxonomist @pukicho @biggest-gaudiest-patronuses @worldheritagepostorganization @alphabetcompletionist @posts-from-a-darker-timeline @i-am-a-fish @theshitpostcalligrapher

Please help me and save Baha'a life 😭😭😭

[rottenpumpkin13]

How much do AGS fair when Zack excitedly announces that he’s going to be a daddy? How does everyone else?

Oh, and were the Turks or Kunsel first to start the betting pools? :o

 

*sending absolutely not a bribe cookies*

(@violetinkclouds)

*Zack bursts into the room, proudly wearing a bright yellow t-shirt that reads "#1 Father" in Comic Sans, glitter glue obviously involved*

Zack: GUYS. Look what I have!! It goes perfectly with my new identity! Aerith and I decided to level up our relationship!

Angeal: OH MY GOD NO—NO NO NO!

Genesis: ZACKARY. YOU ARE A CHILD.

Sephiroth: Congratulations on your fulfillment of heteronormative domestic aspirations.

*Angeal immediately drops like a sack of potatoes and begins violently sobbing*

Zack: What, so I can't become a dad just because I'm "young" and "irresponsible" and "once lost my sword for two weeks and used a broom instead"? TOO LATE. Baby's already here and Reno's on babysitting duty!

Genesis: YOU IMPREGNATED HER AND SHE ALREADY GAVE BIRTH??? WHAT IS THE TIMELINE HERE, IS SHE A SUMMON??

Sephiroth: You left your offspring with Reno? A man who has smoked things that aren't even legal in the Gold Saucer? That's—OW, OW, Angeal stop clinging to my leg, you're cutting off circulation—

*Angeal is ugly sobbing, face smashed into Sephiroth's thigh like it's a therapy pillow*

Zack: Listen! So what if Reno's nanny-ing? I just wanted Angeal to meet his grandkid. You guys can all be uncles! Uncle Gen, Uncle Seph, maybe even Uncle Tseng—

Genesis: NO. NO, I REFUSE. I AM NOT SIGNING UP FOR PTA MEETINGS OR CHANGING DIAPERS.

Sephiroth: Angeal? My friend? Genesis, he's stopped blinking. He's vibrating. Why is he vibrating?

Genesis: Zack, you buffoon, this is catastrophic. Think of the logistics. R&D will have your head. Where will you even put the child? The barracks? You are a FATHER now. And Angeal is a GRANDFATHER. I NEED A SEDATIVE.

Sephiroth: Oh! Angeal has found a snack. Genesis, help me unhinge his jaws from his own shirt.

Zack: You're all being so dramatic. Look! Reno's here with the baby! :)

*Enter Reno casually wheeling in a tiny stroller with a tiny succulent snuggled inside*

Genesis:

Reno: Yo. Kid's asleep. Didn't cry once. Kinda proud of him. We shared a juice box earlier, he's chill.

Zack: There's my little tyke!

*Angeal has passed out on the floor, one hand still gripping Sephiroth's boot like a lifeline to sanity*

Sephiroth: Your child is beautiful, but I fear Angeal requires medical evacuation.

Genesis: It's like everyone snorted crack.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

Do you have any Delta and/or Beta headcanons?

I like to think their system operates somewhat similar to a fusion from Steven Universe. Most of the time they are Delta —and appear to be like a singlet.

The reason for this is because Sans is legitimately struggling to operate as only Sans, as separate from the Bravery soul. So for awhile, Sans and the Bravery soul were fused together as Delta, because it gave Sans the bravery to continue functioning.

Eventually, however, it fell apart. I’d like to think it started actually when the bravery soul started remembering more about his previous life—and he could no longer simply function as just Bravery.

Perhaps this was also around the time when either Color and Epic seemed to drift more away towards Killer and Cross, or even around the time they moved out.

With both Beta and Sans struggling so much separately and unable to maintain a fusion, they decided to seek out therapy for themselves and figure out how to work together.

Because now that Beta was gaining more..individuality and self awareness i suppose, developing more but also remembering more, their teamwork was also starting to fall apart.

With time and effort, the two manage to learn to find balance as separate individuals sharing a body, and a mind, and a life.

And they start using their fusion as Delta as a way to find comfort and stability, to try and be closer too, instead of just purely as a last restore lifeline because they couldn’t Sans was struggling with depression and PTSD and the Bravery soul was not just a fully separate, developed individual capable of functioning without Sans in the body fused or blended with it.

Everyone out in the external multiverse will refer to them as Delta, regardless of if they’re actually fused together or not. But as home, in private, with their friends and family—they alternate between their names as Beta and Sans, and Delta when they’re not just Beta or just Sans.

I like to think the animals in the Chromatic Crew household can definitely tell the difference, too.

I also like to think that Delta doesn’t often have amnesia barriers between their two halves, even when they’re not fused together.

There’s still definitely dissociation of course, particularly when encountering a trauma trigger for either Sans or Beta that either triggers one to the front immediately or destabilizes the fusion, but most of the time it’s mostly “emotional” amnesia.

I like to think that, unlike Color, Delta doesn’t have a headspace. Whenever the two aren’t fused and only one is fronting, the other usually is watching from the backseat or is “asleep,” as they describe it.

They have always had pretty good internal communication, but during episodes of intense dissociation, they will verbalize their back and forth conversations out loud to each other.

It helps them to stay focused and grounded, even if they have to block out and ignore the external world and its people for a brief moment—and even if that causes people to give them weird looks if it ever happens in public.

Color has never once found these moments strange, even back when he wasn’t aware of that they were two, not one. He would literally just sit and journal while the two just talked to themselves out loud. At the most he would find the sounds of their voices and breathing grating and annoying and would literally just get up and walk away mid conversation.

Delta enjoys sparring with Cross and Swap, I feel. Delta was also the one who encouraged Cross to join him in participating in the Omega Timeline’s Coliseum, and two of them have earned a reputation as a duo.

I like to think that although the Coliseum is Beta’s favorite location in the OT, Grillby’s is actually Sans’.

It was actually on Sans’ idea that Delta first told Color about the existence of that Grillby’s and was the one who suggested going together, hoping to both help his friend and maybe attempt to connect and bond with Color this way. Unfortunately for them both, it didn’t turn out as they were both hoping for.

The food was amazing. But nothing else was anything approaching familiar for Color. Delta had to tell him what his favorite food used to be, and Color thought the jukebox was on the left. He doesn’t remember if Grillby’s ever had a vending machine or not. Delta still goes to this restaurant occasionally, but it somehow felt lonelier than usual—even though he could feel that his two halves were still there with him.

Beta had a panic attack the first time he fronted alone in the body, and the sounds of bones clinking and rattling together still sends him into hyperventilating.

Delta likes retro-gaming, thanks to Beta’s half of the fusion. Inspired by Color’s tendency towards hoarding and collecting—specifically photos, journals/notebooks, and music records in Color’s case—Delta also started tentatively collecting older video games and consoles.

Unlike Color who enjoys being on the move after years of being forced and confined to one location, Delta is used to being on the move—both as Beta, but also as Delta traveling and hopping between AUs.

They’re trying to get used to being in one steady location in the Omega Timeline, and trying to allow themselves to trust the stability. Starting with trying to make their home seemed lived in, and allowing possessions that aren’t purely for survival’s sake.

Delta also got the actual delta and beta symbols tattooed somewhere on their body, perhaps around their collarbone or hands. It looks like this:

Not only is it just the symbols of their chosen names together on their shared body, not only are these symbols commonly used in math and science—and so those who love mathematics, science, engineering, etc. may choose to get these symbols as tat—but according to Google, the delta symbol spiritually means;

“In a spiritual context, the delta symbol (Δ) is often associated with change, transformation, and the Holy Trinity, particularly within Christian traditions, and can also represent the concept of a divine ternary or triad.”

And the beta symbol not only means this, but can also means something like;

“In a spiritual context, "beta" can refer to the second letter of the Greek alphabet, often used to denote something secondary or a stage of development, and can also be associated with brainwave activity during alert, focused states.

In Hinduism, "Beta" signifies a term of endearment used by Nimai to address the cowherd boys as his sons, highlighting a deep, affectionate bond and a sense of familial connection within their community

In neuroscience, "beta" brainwaves (12-30 Hz) are associated with alert, active, and focused states, such as when solving problems, making decisions, or engaging in critical thinking.

While not a universally accepted spiritual term, some interpretations link "beta" brainwaves to a more active, external focus, contrasting with the more relaxed, inward-focused states associated with alpha and theta brainwaves.”

I was also thinking that, maybe to remember and honor Frisk, they got the alpha and/or epsilon symbols tattooed on their body, too.

The Alpha not only goes with the Omega—Chara—but is said to represent a beginning, so together they represent “the beginning and the end.” The epsilon is even used to refer to children sometimes. You can find that here.

(Also side note, according to this, “In music, more accurately in jazz, delta represents a major seventh chord.” And I feel that’s something along the lines that Color said to Delta sometime after their first meeting. Because Integrity knew it.)

But I was also thinking maybe Ultratale/Vitaltale Frisk could potentially be nicknamed Theta, because it’s apparently a symbol of death and Thanatos in Ancient Greece, but that felt a little too on the nose. And I didn’t feel like doing extensive research into every Greek alphabet letter at the moment.

And of course, Frisk died in their AU and never went into the Multiverse like Beta and Sans did, so they of course don’t officially have a nickname. So perhaps Sans just gets whatever letter makes him think of them.

[anisespice]

“ BABY MOVE YOUR HIPS, DON’T BREAK IT ”

synopsis: they can’t handle how your hips move the way they do.

pairing: various x fem!reader

warnings: mature language, MDI. descriptions of sex, use of vulgar words (cunt, slut), biting, hair-pulling, mentions of alcohol, public sex/exhibitionism, and i think that’s it - feel free to let me know if I’ve missed anything!

notes: wheee some smut for your timeline - hope you enjoy! <333

“Shake it from your waist down.”

Getting to watch his resolve crumble with every nasty swirl of your hips was hands down your favorite part about riding him. No matter how badly the ache in your thighs begged you to take a break, it’d be drowned out by the sound of him begging you not to, even though minutes ago he was so adamant on finishing his game.

If you even slowed down for a moment, he’d buck up into you desperately, pawing at your supple thighs for more of your tricks. Controller long discarded on the floor, game reduced to mere background noise, a teasing grin adorned your face at the complete delirious and love-struck expression on his, borderline entranced without anything else in that empty head but the feeling your snug walls, sucking him in so deep it made his toes curl.

“jesus—fuck.. jus’ like that..j-jus’ like that baby, shit.. use me, c’mon, fuckin’ use me!”

His mouth hung open long enough for drool to slip out the sides, moaning like a bitch when you switched up the rhythm on him out of nowhere that sent those watery, unfocused eyes to the back of his skull. His arms wrapped tightly around your middle like a lifeline, legs spreading wider to force him deeper into your gushy cunt as he buried his face in your neck, biting down on the sensitive spot to control his pathetic whines. You hissed, eyes fluttering but grabbed a fistful of his hair in retaliation, yanking him back. He keened, dick doing somersaults in your guts from both the sting and the searing look in your eyes.

You scoffed. “Don’t remember.. giving you—uhnshit!…g-giving you permission to hide your pretty sounds from me, slut..”

Ineligible apologies flowed out of him, as did the tears down his face from the intense feeling, bits of your name in the mix of it somewhere. It’s not until you ascended off his dick painstakingly slow before stilling at the tip to pulse around the sensitive head, nearly making him sob, then slamming back down does he let you hear it all.

Especially when you repeat the motion again and again and again.

“Oh, f-fuck! Fuckfuckfuck,wait..wait baby, g-gonna—hah!”

Without much choice he came prematurely, thick, hot cum filling you so deep you could’ve sworn you tasted it in the back of your throat. You cooed at him, racking your fingers through his hair as you fought back your own moans as he rode out his orgasm with strong, quick thrusts that would certainly have you walking funny later, milking him dry for all that he’s worth until he got worked up again for another round.

It was always a gamble with you in this position, never knowing how long he’d last; hips too lethal.

(tr) takemichi, kazutora, chifuyu, ANGRY, HAKKAI (hq) nishinoya, atsumu, BOKUTO, kenma<3, tendo, MAKI (mha) deku, shinso, DENKI KAMINARI, kirishima (for sure bites)

—

“Margarita got a bitch on ten.”

Should’ve known better than to leave you alone for this long.

With the liquor flowing through your veins, club lights painting the room crimson, and the beat of a song you frequently fuck to blaring through the speakers, it’s no wonder when he laid eyes on you again that you’d already be grinding up on someone else, shooting him a sly look as if it wasn’t his attention you were vying for in the first place. And he had about five seconds before you used this sorry loser to sedate your insatiable appetite, one he’s been ignoring since arrival in favor of his work.

He’d kill everyone in the vicinity before letting that happen.

Barely got off the dance floor before you pulled him to a stop, pressing up against his chest with a leg teasing up his thigh as you gestured to the vip area. It was secluded, but still open for onlookers to walk by and see everything going on behind the velvet rope. He raised a brow in question, you merely wearing that look he knew all too well. Leaning up to whisper in his ear, nothing could’ve prepared him for what you proposed he do to you.

“Let’s do it on the couch over there. Wan’ everyone to see how good you take it when I ride you, pretty boy…”

Maybe it was the tequila that made you request something so bold. But, who was he to deny such a tantalizing offer?

His arms rested behind the couch, granting you majority of control to set the pace, and god were you doing a fantastic job of that. It sent his brain into a fog, hooded eyes watching your every move from your heaving breasts, all the way down to where you connected, gaze intently focused on the white ring forming around the base. He groaned at the sinful visual, abdomen clenching with every drag of your sweet pussy, occasionally leaning forward to capture your lips in a sloppy kiss that was all tongue.

The audience you’ve accumulated were fascinated, appalled even; but they couldn’t look away. Others did their best to ignore it, but as things progressed, the two of you growing more shameless, it was hard not to tune in after a while. Eventually, it turned into a group effort, some club-goers cheering the two of you on while others threw money, requesting tricks for you to do while on his dick—A spin, riding it reverse style, spelling a long word with your hips with them chanting out the letters, edging him in the process and leaving him looking like a complete mess in front of all his patrons.

Until, he inevitably loses composure, and fucking you hard on the table covered in Benjamins—A whole performance.

God bless Margaritas.

(tr) mikey, IZANA, sanzu, shion, BAJI, smiley :)) (hq) kyotani, iwa<3, terushima, mattsun (mha) shigaraki, dabi, hawks!!!, sero, shindo

© 2023-2024 anisespice ッ all rights reserved. likes, comments & reblogs much appreciated!

[shtern-and-art]

ON COGS, BUTTERFLIES, AND THE NATURE OF THE SHARED DREAM

#JayvikLived and why it makes the most sense

What if saving you will doom me and the entire world, but I will still do it anyway, in every universe in every timeline, always. What if I do it again and again until I find the one where you can save me back. Because I don't want to do it without you.

---

In all timelines including the one we saw in the show, Jayce keeps fucking up, making mistakes and wrong calls. Oftentimes because of his fixation on the miracle that happened to him in his childhood. And in all timelines, in all realities Viktor keeps saving him. With that miracle.

Their recursive dream is always collapsing on itself. Viktor saved Jayce because they had the hextech dream already, and in doing so gave Jayce this dream. They are infinite in their paradox. And they managed to walk away from it only when they did it together.

Because their actual dream, the real one, was not the hextech itself, not a cog (in the system that's bringing money for the people in power), but a butterfly. A living thing. The man, not the machine.

It was never about the tech, two ways of using it, never about two sides of the cog and choosing between one or the other. It was about two wings learning to work together.

See, Jayce got his (somewhat naive) dream of saving the world because he was saved as a child. But Viktor saved him then because their dream was always, from the very start - to help and save each other.

It was the butterfly all along.

It was there when Jayce opened his eyes in the field. Not an omen of death, but of the human soul, rebirth. Of infinite consequences unraveling into the future.

---

The way the butterfly was corrupted through focusing on the technology, and the way technology eroded, reshaped itself into what it actually strives to be.

The way Jayce put hexcore into Viktor, even though it would change him, and derail his life. Even though it would doom Viktor and them both. Because Jayce couldn't do anything else. Because Jayce would love him anyway.

The way Viktor kept coming back to save Jayce when he was a child, kept giving him the crystal. Even though it would change him irrevocably, derail his life forever. Even though it would doom Jayce and them both. Because Viktor couldn't do anything else. Because Viktor loves him anyway.

And in the end we saw that holding on to that love, like a lifeline, through all the mistakes they've made along the way, can save them both from the endless cycle of death and pain.

It was affection that held them together. Held them both from breaking into pieces and losing themselves.

---

I know people keep saying that it is left ambiguous if Jayce and Viktor died, or became celestial beings together, or teleported into some other time and space. But I think it is explicitly narratively clear that they didn't die in the end.

And maybe, if Jayce left, and Viktor tried to activate the rune on his own they both would've died, yes.

But their whole story is about how they help each other choose life. Literally and figuratively. By giving inspiration, by force, by just asking. It is about the butterfly coming together, and actually flying on its own, without the magic or technology.

(mookhead_mcspazatron_ @ tiktok)

Viktor saved Jayce on the mountain and gave him his dream. Viktor took Jayce off the ledge, and gave him his dream again.

Jayce took Viktor off the ledge, when he also wanted to go. Comforted him and showed him that he can stay, even if it hurts right now. Jayce literally tore Viktor's death away from him, thrusting the new life and new fate into his hands.

And this cycle kept repeating over and over, because they refused to let each other go, yes.

But in the end Jayce clawed and tore himself to pieces to get into Viktor's soul to once again say "Your life is precious to me, no matter how bad things can get. Please see how valuable it is".

---

And this time, in this timeline, of all the possible (sometimes, I bet, deadly) purposes their rune was the rune of acceleration. Of, you know. Moving somewhere. Through time and space.

And it wouldn't have work if they didn't activate it together.

And to do it they had to, symbolically, choose to walk away. Move on. Together.

Not from life, like Jinx tried after her inner-Silco's monologue. She was wrong in thinking her death will stop the disasters she brings, it would've just added to this cycle, keeping her within it instead.

And similarly, Jayce and Viktor choosing to die, and then actually dying to save everyone would've been antithetical to everything we were told beforehand.

(And oh, one day I'll compile all my notes on Jinx-Viktor/timebomb-jayvik parallels I've been clocking since season 1. This season just polished it all into crystal clear shining thread that ties the story's themes together.)

They chose to move on from the pain, the pride, the insecurities, from everything that didn't let them choose life. Everything, that pushed them away from it and towards the ledge.

Viktor was ready to let Jayce walk away, and then throw his own life on the barricades to make up for what he has done. And Jayce said "No. You don't have to do it alone".

Viktor accepting Jayce's care and love, accepting that Jayce is staying with him, was Viktor accepting that he's worth it. That his life is worth it.

(Choosing to move on from the pain and trauma, that's what got me so strongly in the finale of the season, ugh.)

What they did wasn't a sacrifice, it was proof of life. That's what saved the world. And that's why they could only do it together.

(And with Ekko and Jinx going through the similar journey parallel to them. I'll get to that post, because fr)

Perhaps, they thought they might die. But narratively, thematically, and within their universe's established laws they actually did the opposite.

Because it was never about single individuals breaking the cycle, the wheel, the cog spinning it all. Never about one person stopping it, and saving everyone who needs it, be it through progress, through evolution, through war, or dang capitalism and politics. It was about finding the courage to trust and rely on others, to keep caring about each other. To work together like one, like two wings. To create a community, however small, that will allow you to make choices outside of the pressure the cycle of death and oppression is grinding you under. And how that brings actual meaningful change to the world, the fact that we make it happen together, and care for each other throughout.

It was about the butterfly, in the end.

P.S.

Jokes about gay situationship destroying the world and then saving it after are fun and all.

But there is SOMETHING in how it would've been so much simpler for Viktor to let Jayce die on that mountain. To let himself die of his illness later. To let the world be safe from both of them. To spare them both the pain of what will happen in the rest of their lives.

And yet Viktor comes back, and tries again and again to find a timeline where they both survive, and stay human, and don't destroy the world.

Even if it will be almost too late, even if a lot of mistakes still happen.

How about that - from the terminally ill suicidal man the world tried to convince that he's better off dead? (Yes, we're judging Heimerbitch hard in this house)

Anyways. #JayvikLived, love wins, see you all later ✨

[5five5five5five5five5five]

Bored take some Viktor five content:

* five and Viktor end up being roommates due to everyone else not having the strong tolerance to handle his ass. Viktor doesn't either but they wanted to go back to the start and rebuild a dynamic after all the chaos and drama.

* they end up getting really close. It's easier for Viktor to listen to five talk about his past now that they have experienced all sorts of weird shit and five is less bitter about viktor's new found independence and choices now that the world is saved.

* I hc that five has trouble using Viktor's preferred name and five HATES IT. It's not to be disrespectful or not understanding gender, he's all cool and very respectful. It's that when you have truama as deep rooted as his, calling out his siblings names on a daily basis in a lonely ruined world for 40 years. Carrying around viktor's book as a lifeline to stay close to him....it's just not something your brain can let go. he wants to let it go, he feels like a ass everytime he slips and apologizes like 3 times even when Viktor said it's ok. his truama CLINGs to viktor's dead name like his life depends on it. He does get better at it as they start live together and it was a 1/9 chance anyway so Viktor wasn't too bugged by it and understood that it's not meant to be disrespectful. Trauma's a bitch. They both get that.

* they take turns making lunch and dinners. Breakfast is always coffee and peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches.

* Five starts collecting vintage cook books because he's had food from other timelines that aren't as popular anymore and wishes to make them.

* Viktor LOVES Chappell Roan. Five is unimpressed but likes watching Viktor just jam out well doing chores or studying.

*Viktor would drag five to a lot of queer centric events and five would feel out of place at first like "I'm your 60 year old straight cisgendered brother that looks 15. I don't fit in and I don't think that drag show bouncer is going to be as lenient as that strip club in the 60's...long story." But over time, five actually starts to enjoy himself. And maybe learning his gender and sexuality along the way (I don't have strong opinions on that yet. All ik is he's such a fruit and has no idea /pos. When Viktor and Klaus are your favorite siblings....ask yourself whyyy)

* they host small dinners with a handful of siblings at a time. They can't host all of them at once due to their apartment size (it would be a disaster) but sometimes Diego, Lila and the kids come over. Or just Luther with fast food well he was walking home. I think the biggest group would be brother nights (sorry Allison....i feel so bad for her lmao I think her and Lila hang out on those nights. )

* five and Viktor realized that giving the other puppy eyes breaks the other easily. I think both have trouble saying no to the other due to feeling bad about how much they fought and were butting heads throughout Dallas and the hotel. Five doesn't want to let his bs behavior under "gotta save the world" distress linger between them. And Viktor doesn't either, he also misses his brother and just wants to see him happy and relaxed for once.

*that doesn't mean they don't fight. They bicker consistently about such basic things . From where the remote is to when the other will be home to the past. They don't don't do a good job at not throwing the past in each others face......but they useally settle down.

*Viktor LOVES to try and use therapy talk with five, who hates it at first. But overtime, I think after a very strong breakthrough in his issues and realizing how much not being under survival adrenaline is effecting him, he becomes more accepting of it. And it's helped their fighting and understanding each other a lot.

* I feel like they get rather touchy together over time. Fixing each others hair, leaning on the other well sitting on the sofa, etc

*five has to tie viktor's ties ALL THE TIME.

*(tw drugs) I feel like they have "rekindling our Lost teen years together" nights where they get high (they only take edibles bc neither like smoking) and watch all the cartoons five has missed. Wear comfy clothes. Talk about nothing. They try to make it a point to talk about anything BUT family and the past. Witch helps them grow closer.

*five wants bees. They have no room. Five is very sad. Viktor hopes they one day get a bigger place to have bees.

* five gets a emotional support animal with viktor's help. mr.pennycrumb! They do all the training and five loves that boy with his life. He really helps him with episodes and panics.

* Viktor ends up helping five with rather basic things. Again, no more survival adrenaline to make him speed learn everything all the time. He can afford to be confused and frustrated. "Egh How does the tv remote work again?" "The pepper grinder has stopped wo- oh the other direction..." Five starts to feel rather useless but Viktor likes helping. five bitterly jokes at Viktor being either his elderly care nurse or babysitter. Viktor reassures him it's not like that and they are just brothers and he needs help.

* Viktor gets into the habit of calling five "bud" as a loving brother pet name.

I've ran out of brain fuel. I could go on for hours about them though.

(PRO SHIPS DNI THIS IS ALL PLATONIC)

[racefortheironthrone]

Since SAG AFTRA has also gone on strike, does that mean the negotiations between the WGA and executives went poorly?

This is a great question, because it allows me to do some educating about labor law!

Today's topic: "bad faith" bargaining.

While often honored more in the breach than the observance, U.S labor law requires employers to engage in collective bargaining with unions, once those unions have been recognized as the "exclusive representative" of the workers via card check or union election.

Because Leon Keyserling and Senator Robert Wagner were not idiots and could see it coming that employers would drag out negotiations in order to try to destroy the union through attrition, the Wagner Act of 1935 required employers to not just negotiate with unions, but to negotiate "in good faith" and made it a violation of the law to negotiate in bad faith.

Two major forms of negotiating in bad faith are "dilatory tactics" (deliberately using the procedures of collective bargaining and labor law more generally to delay the process) and "surface bargaining" (where the employer goes through the motions of meeting with the union, but refuses to engage in substantive discussions). This can include stuff like sending representatives who don't have authority to negotiate, refusing to schedule sessions or trying to unilaterally control the timeline, not asking questions or engaging in back-and-forth discussion, refusing to discuss topics that are germane to conditions of employment, and so forth.

These kinds of actions are considered Unfair Labor Practice violations and the NLRB can issue "cease and desist" orders and "affirmative bargaining" orders, as well as some rather creative "special remedies" that get around the Wagner Act's lack of monetary penalties. As that suggests, however, part of the problem is that because the Wagner Act doesn't have significant monetary penalties, a lot of companies will just budget a line item for breaking the law and treat that as the cost of doing business, while using the same dilatory tactics to appeal NLRB decisions through the courts in the hope that they can outlast the union. (This is why one of the most effective labor law reforms that could be passed in a Democratic Congress would be adding compounding daily monetary penalties and streamlining the ULP process in both the NLRB and the courts.)

From what I've read of the negotiations, I think there's a pretty clear cut case that AMPTP engaged in surface bargaining and used dilatory tactics, with the intent to run out the clock and thus provoke a strike in which they believed economic pressure would force the union into surrender, essentially a lock-out without declaring a lock-out.

I think it's backfired on them. A big part of AMPTP's strategy for winning that strike was to divide-and-rule - hence why they came to an agreement with the Director's Guild - by getting through the lean months by filming and releasing shows and movies with already-completed scripts. Now that SAG-AFTRA is on strike, that lifeline of content is immediately cut - which means AMPTP is going to run out of revenue in the near future, which as WGA leaders have pointed out means bad quarterly earnings reports, which means stock prices tank, which means investors and boards of directors get angry and executives become the ones facing the prospect of losing their jobs at the same time that all the compensation they've structured as stock options to avoid taxes loses value.

[theomencometh]

okay i've had this scene from an au stuck in my head recently so here's 3k of timkon identity shenanigans where kon has been recently taken in by luthor for nefarious reasons and is forced to attend a gala where tim and bruce show up. robin hasn't revealed his identity to the team yet even though they've been friends for years. canon/timeline has been put in a blender and liquified.

Kon takes a deep breath in through his nose, holding it for a few seconds before slowly letting it out of his mouth.  It’s a technique that Robin taught the team when he was trying desperately to get them on a more bat-approved training regime, including meditation and an acrobatics routine that Nightwing allegedly used on the Teen Titans years ago.  Kon is fully aware that he’s got weird stuff going on with his body’s organs and systems compared to humans, but the slow, rhythmic breathing still brings comfort and helps center him, slowing everything down enough so he no longer feels like he’s going to accidentally fry someone with his heat vision.

He tugs at the collar of his dress shirt, gulping and taking a deep breath again.  The shirt and tie feels so much more restrictive than his Superboy uniform, tightening like a noose around his neck, and the inflexibility of the suit coat makes him feel like a stiff, awkward mannequin.

“Stop that,” Luthor says, putting a heavy hand on his shoulder.  Kon immediately stills, straightening and trying to relax at the same time.

“These people are vultures,” Lex says, voice low.  Kon tries to focus his super hearing on him, rather than the woman with the loud laugh across the ballroom or the clink of glasses down the hall where the staff is continuously loading and unloading equipment.  He can hear the steady beat of Lex’s heart, the rhythmic whoosh of air traveling in his lungs, the slight gurgle of his stomach (gross!).  Kon decides he doesn’t like listening to Lex Luthor very much.

“Remember what I told you,” Lex is still saying.  “Be on your best behavior.  Today is about getting your name and your face out there.  Be polite, but not a pushover.  Never let them see weakness.”

Kon forcibly bites back the retort that his only weakness is kryptonite and makes himself nod instead.

Luthor leads him over to a group of people with his hand still clamped on Connor’s shoulder like a shackle.  From there, it’s an exhausting parade of schmoozing with millionaires and billionaires, shaking hands firmly (but not too firmly!), laughing at unfunny jokes, and pretending that he loves dear old Dad instead of wanting to punt him through the nearest wall.

Kon is charming.  He knows this.  It’s something that he’s known since he freshly came out of a test tube, and it’s something that he’s perfected with smiles and body language and a well-placed word or phrase.  Kon can get most people eating out of his hand with barely any effort, but it’s usually normal people a little closer to his age, not rich, egotistical, out-of-touch old people who want to pinch his cheeks but absolutely cannot be allowed to due to his invulnerable skin.  Kon forgets everyone’s name almost as soon as he hears it, clutching his flute of sparkling cider like a lifeline (but not hard enough to shatter).

Kon doesn’t know how long he gets paraded around as Luthor’s newest pet, but it feels like forever.  Everyone talks around where he’s been for the past 17 years of his life (nonexistent and then in a lab and then gallivanting around with superheroes and then, finally, as of two month ago a little farm in Kansas until Lex Luthor uprooted everything with a few well-placed threats), and Kon lets Lex tell the cover story about how he didn’t find out about Connor until recently, but he’s happy to be reunited with his son now.

Son.  Connor isn’t anyone’s son.  He was maybe getting to be a family member to the Kents finally, but Luthor threw a wrench into all of that.

Connor had a room at the farm.  He had a chore list to do and homemade meals to eat, and Clark has finally stopped flinching when he sees him.  Clark grinned at him the other day, not his public smile or a small, polite thing, but an actual, honest to goodness grin.  Connor bets he can kiss that goodbye now, just like he can kiss goodbye ever knowing Robin’s real identity, because there’s no way that Batman will let him tell Kon now that Kon is semi-legally under the guardianship of a supervillain, and just like there’s no way that Kon can have anything remotely resembling a normal teenage experience as the ward of a billionaire and forced showpony, and just like–

“I’ll be damned,” Lex breathes next to him, interrupting Kon’s spiral.  Kon follows his gaze to the entrance of the ballroom, ears picking up the loud, boisterous laugh of Bruce Wayne clapping someone on the back a little too forcefully.  Kon has never seen Bruce Wayne in person, but he’s difficult to miss in the papers, especially with how often he finds himself in trouble.  Robin has told him of a few instances when he or one of the other Gotham vigilantes has had to rescue him, and Kon knows that Lois interviewed him once and Clark has informally run into him at a gala such as this.

Clark says he tried really hard to be the journalist from the Planet here tonight once Lex demanded that Connor be there, but it was too late notice.  Neither Clark nor Lois are among the reporters clustered in the corner.  Kon is alone.

“He didn’t RSVP,” Lex says, miffed.  Kon immediately likes Bruce Wayne significantly more because of it.  “Oh, and he brought a friend.”

Kon peers around the crowd that has quickly amassed around Gotham’s favorite billionaire and finally spots the person Bruce Wayne has a hand on the shoulder of.  It’s a teenage boy, dressed in a dark suit with dark hair parted in the middle to keep it out of his eyes.  He’s slight, but not skinny, and he’s not overly tall, probably closer to Robin or Bart’s height than Connor’s.  He doesn’t show any signs of discomfort at the press of adults around him, offering polite handshakes and letting the women kiss his cheeks the way some of them have tried with Kon.  Bruce doesn’t stray far, taking the boy with him when they finally finish with the crowd near the door and head to the bar.  The boy doesn’t seem to mind the attention.  Kon, however, does not appreciate the tone of voice that Lex used when he said friend.  He’s ready to do some superheroing if he needs to.

“Let’s go,” Lex says, putting his hand on Connor’s shoulder again to steer him through the crowd.  “Let me handle Bruce Wayne.  The kid is Timothy Drake.  He recently became the head of his parent’s company when his father died.  This is the first time he’s been seen at an event since the death.  Bruce is almost certainly going to adopt him.  Timothy stayed with him when Jack Drake was in a coma, plus he has the dark hair and light eyes and Brucie favors in his kids.  He’s your focus for the rest of the night.  Forget about everyone else.”

“Lex!  I didn’t know you’d be here, you old dog!” Bruce calls before Connor has time to process all of that, slinging an arm around Luthor’s shoulders and seemingly crushing all of the air out of him in less than a second.

“It’s my party,” Lex wheezes.

“Good thing I’m here to liven it up, eh?” Bruce asks, elbowing Luthor in the ribs.

Kon really hopes that Bruce Wayne’s obsession with dark haired, light eyed boys is an innocent coincidence, because he doesn’t want to apprehend him for being a pedophile when he’s pissing Lex off so easily.

“Hello, Timothy,” Luthor greets, holding out his hand.  Bruce pouts at being ignored while Timothy shakes politely.  “May I just say, it’s refreshing to see you out and about.  I’m sure running your parent’s company is stressful all by yourself.”

Timothy tilts his head, reminding Connor vaguely of a bird.

“I’m happy to do it,” he says, polite but firm.  “It’s what my parents would have wanted, and they left things well organized for me.”

“And I suppose Bruce here has been giving you advice?”

“Now Lex,” Bruce says, wagging his finger at him, “you know that’d be a conflict of interest.  Besides, Tim could run circles around me.  I should be asking him for advice!”

Connor feels his eyes start to glaze over as Luthor and Bruce volley back and forth, seemingly forgetting that he’s even there.  Having Lex’s attention off of him and on someone else is a much needed break, so he’s not about to complain, but it’s also really fucking rude.  Connor hasn’t even been introduced to these two.

Timothy catches his eye, sweeping his gaze over to Luthor and Bruce and rolling his eyes.  Connor smirks.  Timothy raises an eyebrow and Connor mirrors him, just a slight quirk.

Timothy looks pretty nice, up close.  His eyes are the promised light blue, but his dark eyelashes are long and thick, framing them beautifully.  He’s pale, almost reflective in the glittering chandelier light, and he carries himself with a self-assuredness that Connor envies in this environment.  The suit fits him really nicely, hugging his shoulders and accenting his trim waist and long legs.  When he raises his flute to take a sip of the drink inside, Kon finds himself tracking the liquid as it disappears past his pale pink lips, his throat flexing as he swallows.

He’s not bad to look at.  He could easily turn out to be dull as a brick or a total douchebag, but so far first impressions are good.

“And who is this young man?” Bruce asks, snapping him out of his thoughts.  Luthor puts a hand on his back to push him forward a step, and Kon doesn’t have to move, but Lex is going to be mad if he doesn’t and the situation is delicate.

“This is my son, Connor,” Luthor introduces.  Kon offers his hand with his most charming smile.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, shaking first Bruce’s hand (better grip than he expected) and then Timothy’s (rougher than he thought it’d be, skin warm).

“Son, eh?  He must take after his mother!” Bruce laughs.  Lex’s face pinches, but Connor doesn’t have a chance to relish in it before Bruce is sweeping Luthor away with another arm around his shoulder, talking loudly about secret children and parenting hacks.  Luthor tries to protest, but it’s quickly drowned out by Bruce, and he doesn’t have a chance to so much as glance back at Connor before they’re swallowed by the crowd.

Kon blinks.

“Bruce will keep him busy for a while, sorry,” Timothy says, not sounding very sorry.  He takes another sip from his glass, then leans in.  Cologne tickles Connor’s nose.

“Hold your drink by the stem, not the glass,” he says quietly.  “It’s supposed to keep your drink from getting warm, an old etiquette thing.  It’s small, but it’ll help you blend in a little more.”

Kon looks around the room, taking in the people with flutes like him and where they’re holding it.  The majority are holding the stem, and the ones that aren’t are people that Luthor hasn’t bothered to introduce him to yet.  Kon adjusts his grip accordingly, off-balance and embarrassed.

“Thanks,” he says.  Timothy tilts his head.

“You want to get some air?  There’s a balcony over there.  Your father will be able to find you easily once Bruce releases him.”

“Yes,” Kon agrees immediately.  He’s used to not fitting in, but having the eyes of so many judgy rich people on him when he’s pretending to be Lex Luthor’s human son has been exhausting.  No one has been too rude so far, but the weight of Lex’s hand on his shoulder is heavy, and this complicated set of social rules that he still doesn’t understand puts him on edge.

Normally he’d say fuck the rules and do what he wants, but the situation is too delicate for that.  Clarke and Robin both told him that he needs to be careful and think twice about every move he makes, and for once neither of them sounded condescending about it.  He could tell that they don’t like the situation, either, worry and sympathy clear in their faces.

“Come on,” Timothy says, heading towards a set of double doors.  He doesn’t glance back, trusting Connor to follow him, and Connor does, stepping in his footsteps as he expertly weaves through the crowd, deflecting anyone trying to stop to speak to them with smooth excuses and a well-placed smile.  In no time at all he’s pushing open the large french doors, releasing them from the ballroom and into the cool night air.

Kon tilts his head up, blinking at the night sky above him.  It’s cloudy, obscuring what few stars manage to make their way through the light pollution to reach Metropolis.  Connor wishes he could fly up there, feel the dampness of early rain on his face, burst into the dark and escape everything.  For now, he keeps his feet on the ground, instead joining Timothy by the railing.

“So, how often do you come to these things, Timothy?” Connor asks, leaning back on his elbows.  The other boy perches with a hip pressed against the railing, arms crossed over his chest.

“Tim, please,” he says.  “Timothy makes me feel like I’m in trouble or you’re trying to swindle me out of a business deal.”

“Okay.  How often do you come to these things, Tim?” Connor corrects, testing the feel of it in his mouth.  Tim relaxes at the sound.

“Decently often, but I usually stick to Gotham,” he says.  “I’ll have to start coming to more now that I’m in charge of Drake Industries, but I grew up going to galas.  Is this your first one since Luthor found you?”

“Is it that obvious?” Connor asks.  Tim smirks, but shakes his head.

“I think I’d remember if I’d seen you at one of these before.”

Connor flashes him a charming smile.

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”  Tim’s cheeks turn pink, his blush noticeable against his pale skin even with the limited light out here.  Kon takes a sip of his sparkling cider, satisfaction making it taste sweeter on his tongue.

“I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re probably the only people under thirty in the whole building besides some of the catering staff,” Tim says. 

“You missed the toddler earlier,” Connor hums.  “She was throwing a tantrum.  I very much sympathized.”

“Did I really?” Tim asks dryly.  “What a pity.  Oh no.  How unfortunate that Bruce likes being fashionably late to everything.”

Connor snorts.

“Bruce Wayne, huh?” he says.  “How’d you two meet?”

Tim shifts so he’s leaning back against the railing like Kon.  Kon takes a moment to drink in his profile, tracing the sharp jut of his nose, the hair shielding his eyes from him at this angle.

“He’s my neighbor,” Tim says.  “I’ve kind of always known him, but our families weren’t really close until a few years ago.  When my dad was in a coma, Bruce took me in.  My uncle was supposed to get custody of me now, but…”

Tim trails off, searching for words.  Eventually, he shrugs.

“He’s fostering me right now.  We’ll see where it goes from there.”

“Do you want to stay with him?” Kon asks.  Tim considers his words carefully.  Connor’s mouth is always running away with him, but Tim seems to have the opposite approach.  Everything is measured and careful, cold and tactical.  It reminds Kon of Robin in the middle of missions, keeping his reactions even and methodical to counteract the impulsiveness of the rest of the team.  Kon wonders if Tim is the type of person to let himself be stupid and emotional around friends like Robin is, or if he always keeps everything bottled up.

“Yeah, I do,” Tim breathes eventually.  “But it’s complicated.”

“What do you mean?”

Another pause.  Kon does Robin’s breathing exercise, staying patient.  Some people need time to talk, and Kon can’t help if he doesn’t know what’s wrong.

“I guess I don’t want him to adopt me because he feels obligated,” Tim says.  “He has a family.  There’s–It’s a long story, too long to explain now.  Sorry, this is a weird first impression, huh? But enough about me!  What about you?  Where were you before Luthor found you?”

“Uh,” Connor says, still recovering from the whiplash of topics and searching for Luthor’s cover story.  “Kansas.”

“Kansas?” Tim prompts.

“Yeah, Kansas. I was in the foster system for a while, then I got adopted by this nice old couple who live on a farm in Smallville, which is just as small as it sounds.  I didn’t know anything about my birth parents until Lex showed up.”

“Wow,” Tim says.  “This has to be a big adjustment, then.”

Connor scratches the back of his neck.

“Yeah, kinda.”

Kon’s whole life feels like a big adjustment, from adjusting to existing and Clark’s negative feelings towards him, to adjusting to working for Camdus and living in Hawaii, to adjusting to Young Justice and Teen Titans, to finally trying to adjust to Smallville, only to be ripped away from that and forced into Metropolis high society.

“Do you miss them?” Tim asks.  “The old couple who adopted you?”

Kon swallows against the unexpected pang that rolls through him.  He can almost taste Martha’s pancakes on his tongue and hear the crinkle of the newspaper as Jonathan hands him the cartoons.

“I wasn’t with them very long.  Only a few months.”

Tim tilts his head.

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Connor shrugs.  He doesn’t know what the right answer is here.  Martha and Jonathan are the closest thing he’s ever had to parents, but part of him never expected to stay with them.  When Luthor ripped him away from them, there was a part of Kon that wasn’t surprised at all, even if a bigger part was in agony.

Martha kissed his forehead when he left the farm and gave him a sad smile.

“You can always come back here, okay?  This is your home, no matter what Lex Luthor has to say about it.”

“If they formally adopted you, Lex Luthor’s claim as your biological father isn’t enough to force cut contact,” Tim says, pushing off the railing and taking a few steps closer.  “Trust me.  I researched this stuff when my dad came out of his coma.”

Kon frowns.

“He didn’t like Bruce?”

Tim wavers.

“It’s complicated,” he offers.  Kon snorts.

“Yeah, I get that.”

Tim’s mouth quirks up, giving Connor the shadow of a smile again.

“It’s not really a first meeting story.”

“Guess we need a second meeting, then,” Connor says.

“Yeah?” Tim asks.  “My weird family dynamic really captivated you, huh?”

“It was your eyes first, actually,” Connor says.  Tim opens his mouth, then closes it again, eyes wide.  Kon holds his breath.  He says flirty things all the time, both to his friends and to people he rescues who seem like they need a pick-me-up, but it’s been a while since he sincerely flirted with someone he plans to see again.  He almost never does it with someone who only knows him as Connor rather than Superboy, much less a boy.

If this goes badly and Tim tells the entire Metropolis elite that Lex’s son is a homosexual, maybe the scandal will be enough for Luthor to send him back to Smallville.  If it goes well…

“You have… very nice eyes, too,” Tim says eventually.  Connor beams, then beams even more at the sharp inhale Tim draws in response.  Tim shifts.

“Hey, do you want to get out of here?” he asks.  “There’s a decent ice cream place open late a few blocks away.  We can be there and back before anyone misses us.”

Connor glances towards Luthor in the ballroom.  He’s still talking to Bruce Wayne, and they’ve amassed a small crowd around them.

“Bruce will keep Lex busy for a while.  He likes to talk.  Besides, you can always tell him that you were networking,” Tim offers.

Luthor said that Tim should be his focus for the rest of the night.  He never said that they had to stay at the gala.

“Lead the way,” he says, gesturing grandly towards the French doors.  Tim blinks once, then again, then smiles.  His eyes light up with it, and Kon suddenly understands why Tim had to inhale before.

“Come on,” Tim says, leading the way.  Kon follows just as closely as he did before, trailing him until they spill out into the Metropolis night and he can stand next to him, almost close enough for their arms to brush.

Maybe living with Lex Luthor won’t be so bad if comes with seeing Tim Drake, too.

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

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

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

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Bed rest was incredibly difficult, even though Maera knew the Maester had recommended it for the sake of her health. She couldn't remember a time when she had actually kept still for this long. The days stretched into weeks, each hour feeling like an eternity as she lay confined within the four walls of her chambers.

She recalled how, even as a child, she had defied the orders of the Maester at Rain House. No matter how ill she felt, she would quickly sneak out of bed to play with her toys or climb atop her bookshelf to reach her favorite fairytale. Her septa would scold her, but Maera never cared. The thrill of independence and the joy of losing herself in stories had always outweighed any reprimands.

Yet now, despite feeling like a caged dragon, Maera adhered to the Maester's orders for three long weeks, for the sake of her unborn child. Each day, she reminded herself of the precious life growing inside her, finding strength in the small kicks and movements that signaled her baby's vitality.

Maester Cain visited the Princess daily, diligently re-dressing her wounds, checking her stitches, and monitoring the progress of her healing. He applied various ointments and prescribed medicines to aid her recovery, though his options were limited by her pregnancy.

Lord Unwin also made regular visits, keeping Maera up to date with the happenings within the castle and the council meetings. His updates were a lifeline to the outside world, yet each visit brought a pang of shame. She felt weak and pathetic, dependent on others for information and care, a stark contrast to her usual self-reliance.

The usual young maid attended to the Princess as well, quick and efficient in her duties. She changed the sheets regularly, careful not to disturb Maera’s injuries as she dressed her in fresh clothes. The maid also brought Maera her meals, ensuring she was fed and comfortable. But that was the extent of their interaction. Unlike Thena in King's Landing, who had always chatted with Maera and made her feel less isolated, this maid performed her tasks in silence, leaving as soon as her duties were complete.

The combination of these visits—necessary though they were—only served to deepen Maera's feelings of helplessness. She longed for the days when she could move freely, engage with those around her on her own terms, and reclaim her strength and independence.

Another thing that didn’t help was hearing Ēbrion’s calls from outside her window. Maera had not seen her dragon in weeks and she desperately wished to be near him. The great beast was her oldest friend here, and she yearned to feel his presence, to fly and escape these prison-like walls.

One day, Maera managed to get out of bed and walk around a little. The wounds on her arm and thigh were incredibly sore, but Maester Cain had assured her they would be fully closed in a few more weeks. Each step sent a jolt of pain through her body, the few paces leaving her breathless, unused to the exertion after weeks of bed rest.

Determined to regain her strength, Maera set small goals each day to walk a little further. At first, it was just a few steps from the bed to the chair. Then, a few more steps to the door. After several days of this slow progress, she finally managed to make it to the window and sit on the ledge, a welcome change from the confines of her bed. The fresh air and the view of the outside world were invigorating, even though her body still ached from the effort.

As she sat on the window ledge, Maera looked out and saw the distant figure of Ēbrion. His calls seemed to echo her own longing for freedom. She knew it would still be some time before she could fly with him again, but the sight of her dragon gave her hope. Looking out past Harrenhall’s broken walls, Maera saw her mount in the same place she last saw him in person: the burnt lavender field.

The sight brought back a flood of memories, haunting her with the vividness of her encounter with Alys. She could almost feel the blade piercing her skin again, the sharp, excruciating pain that still echoed in her body on the worst days. The smell of burning flesh and lavender wafted into her mind, a stark reminder of the moment she had ordered Ebrion to incinerate Alys.

The guilt about what she had done, particularly concerning Alys's unborn child, had begun to fade. The relentless waves of remorse were now replaced with a cold, clear anger. As the fog of guilt lifted, Maera's rage toward her husband grew and grew.

Aemond had still not returned, and there was no news from the ongoing battle near Rook's Rest. Despite Maera's growing anger toward him, she couldn't help but be concerned for her husband's wellbeing.

A thousand questions raced through her mind. Surely no news was good news? But what if it wasn’t? What if something had happened to the Lord Commander? Or to Aemond? What position would that leave her and their child in? If the Blacks won at Rook's Rest, would she find herself at Rhaenyra’s mercy? Would Rhaenyra even grant them mercy?

The thoughts made Maera shudder. Her mind spun with the uncertainty of their future. The possibilities loomed over her like a dark cloud, each one more terrifying than the last. She tried to push them away, but they clung to her, dragging her down into a well of anxiety and fear. Desperate for a distraction, the next time the maid had returned, Maera pleaded with her to provide her with something, anything, that would provide solace and a brief escape from the prison of her mind.

The maid had brought Maera a large fresh bouquet from the gardens, along with some charcoal and parchment. Maera was extremely thankful for the thoughtful gesture. However, due to her low spirits, she found herself unsure of what to draw. Her dragon Ēbrion, visible from her window, only made her miss the freedom of the skies. The outside world reminded her of the confining walls of Harrenhal, and she had never excelled at drawing portraits of people.

With a sigh, Maera hobbled to her desk where the lovely bouquet had been placed. The vibrant flowers were a glimpse of the beauty that lay beyond the castle’s walls, a fragment of the life she yearned to return to. Deciding to capture this piece of the outside world, she picked up her charcoal and began to sketch the delicate petals and intricate leaves.

She started with the red geraniums, their rounded petals forming clusters of vibrant blooms. The delicate veins in each petal were carefully rendered with gentle strokes, the charcoal capturing the depth and texture of the flowers. Next, she moved to the black snapdragons, their tall, spiky stems and intricate blossoms creating a striking contrast. The dark blooms seemed to absorb the light, and Maera took care to highlight their shadowy allure.

The deep orange marigolds came next, their ruffled petals and dense heads a challenge to capture with charcoal. She meticulously shaded the layers, bringing out their fiery intensity. The red petunias, with their trumpet-shaped flowers, added a splash of brilliance to the bouquet. She sketched their soft, velvety petals, capturing the delicate folds and curves.

The black poppies were a somber addition, their wide, papery petals dark and mysterious. Maera rendered them with a mix of light and heavy strokes, emphasizing their dramatic presence in the bouquet. Finally, she turned her attention to the white rose that had begun to wilt. The edges of the petals were tinged with brown, the delicate flower showing signs of its fleeting beauty. She carefully sketched its drooping form, capturing the fragility and grace of its decline.

As she worked, a pang of sadness washed over her. In King's Landing, she would have painted these flowers, bringing out their true colors with vibrant pigments. Here, she only had charcoal, and while it allowed her to capture the forms and shadows, it lacked the ability to convey the vivid hues that made each flower special. The monochrome sketches were a pale imitation of the bouquet's true beauty, and Maera longed for the days when she had a full palette at her disposal.

Gazing at the blooms, Maera could not help but be reminded her of her dear friend Helaena. Just a year ago, they were strolling through the gardens of the Red Keep, hand in hand, their laughter mingling with the rustle of leaves and the hum of insects. Helaena, with her boundless enthusiasm, would gleefully point out the bugs wandering amongst the blooms, her violet eyes lighting up with childlike wonder.

The joy she shared with Helaena felt like a distant dream, yet it was a dream she clung to, a beacon of light in her darkened world. Maera's heart ached for the simplicity and innocence of those times, and she longed to walk through the gardens with Helaena again, free from the burdens that now weighed her down.

The Princess felt a twinge of guilt for leaving Helaena behind to follow Aemond to Harrenhall. She wondered if things would have been different if she had stayed in King's Landing, remaining by her oldest and dearest friend's side. Perhaps, she thought, none of this would have happened.

She silently prayed for Thena, hoping that when the time was right, the maid would be able to get Helaena out of the Capital to a place of safety. Maera wished with all her heart that Helaena would find happiness once more, allowed to walk freely amongst blooming gardens and enjoying the simple company of the insects.

On the day Maera felt strongest, she finally left her chambers. The maid had dressed her in a soft, black silken gown that felt light and airy against her large stomach and the healing wounds on her arm and thigh. The fabric flowed gently around her, offering a semblance of comfort and grace she had longed for during her bedridden weeks. Maester Cain assisted her down the corridor, his cautious presence a constant reminder of her recent ordeal. He helped her into the carriage, ensuring she was settled comfortably before taking his place beside her, his eyes filled with both concern and encouragement.

As the carriage pulled away from Harrenhall, Maera opened the window, letting the fresh air fill the space. She gazed out at the mountains and valleys, their majesty a balm to her weary soul. The sun's warmth on her skin and the gentle breeze in her hair made her feel alive in a way she hadn't for weeks. The rustling of leaves, the distant calls of birds, and the rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels on the path all combined into a symphony of life that she had missed so dearly. Inside her, the baby seemed to share her delight, kicking with great strength as if to express its own joy at being outside.

Maera stepped out of the carriage, her movements slow and deliberate. Maester Cain offered his arm, supporting her as she limped forward. Together, they walked towards the great expanse of the Gods Eye, the lake shimmering under the midday sun. The sunlight glinted off the water, creating a mosaic of dazzling reflections that danced across the surface. Just as Maera took in the serene beauty, the sun was momentarily blocked by a large shadow, followed by a distant, resounding thud. A grin spread across her face as she recognized the sound.

With the Maester's help, Maera settled onto the grass, her eyes scanning the sky. Moments later, Ēbrion, her giant dragon, came striding towards her, his deep roars echoing across the mountain range. His massive wings flapped once, sending a gust of wind that rustled the nearby trees.

Upon seeing the dragon, Maester Cain quickly retreated back to the carriage, his face pale with trepidation. "I will remain in the wheelhouse until you need me, Princess," he called, his voice trembling slightly. "To give you some privacy."

Maera couldn't help but giggle at his hasty retreat. She outstretched her arms and watched as Ēbrion approached, his blue and black scales shimmering in the sunlight. The dragon lowered his massive head, nuzzling against her ever-so softly. She ran her fingers over his warm, scaled skin, feeling a profound sense of relief and joy at being reunited with her mount.

After their initial greeting, Ēbrion curled up around Maera like a cat, his enormous body forming a protective circle. The contrast between their sizes was striking, akin to an elephant and a mouse, yet Maera felt the safest with her dragon. Their bond was unbreakable, and she knew without a doubt that he would never harm her.

Leaning back against his warm, scaled body, Maera sighed deeply. Her fingers danced along her belly, feeling the rhythmic kicks of her child. The gentle pressure of the baby’s movements brought a small smile to her lips. She missed soaring through the sky on Ēbrion’s back, the exhilarating freedom it brought. It felt almost as if she had wings of her own, cutting through the clouds and leaving her troubles far below. But for now, sitting together by the lake's edge, wrapped in the comfort of her dragon’s presence, would have to suffice.

As she sat there, the sun's rays filtering through the trees, Maera's thoughts wandered. Although she loved Ēbrion deeply, her visit to the Gods Eye wasn’t solely for their reunion. She had arranged to meet a small number of Harrenhall's residents outside the castle walls to discuss an urgent matter.

A simple horse and cart pulled up alongside the carriage Maera had ridden in, its wheels creaking as it came to a halt. Atop the cart, the Princess could see four guards, their expressions grim and apprehensive. Beside them sat Lord Unwin, his face stern, none of them looking particularly pleased.

While Maera had trusted Lord Unwin to handle the guards who had neglected their duty on the day she was attacked, she felt an overwhelming need to assert her own authority as Princess. It was not enough for a Lord to enact justice on her behalf; she needed to demonstrate her strength and resolve personally.

As the men approached with Lord Unwin leading the way, Ēbrion growled lowly, a deep rumble that resonated through the air. The dragon bared his teeth menacingly, his orange eyes narrowing with protective intent. The men’s footsteps faltered, their faces paling as they stared up in horror at the massive beast.

"Lykirī, Ēbrion," Be calm, Maera murmured, patting her dragon reassuringly. The growling subsided slightly, though the dragon's gaze remained fixed on the approaching group. Maera then turned her attention to the men, her voice firm and commanding. "You may approach," she beckoned, her green eyes unwavering.

With visible reluctance, the guards and Lord Unwin continued their approach, their movements cautious. Maera's presence, coupled with the looming figure of her dragon, left no room for doubt about who held authority here. The men stood before her, clearly intimidated but now fully aware of the gravity of their previous actions, or lack thereof.

Maera noticed the men varied in age and stature, all of them male relatives of the members of the war council at Harrenhall. Two were lower-ranking guards, evident by their basic armor and weapons. They were young in age, similar to Maera’s brothers Faran and Luthor, just a few years older than herself. Their eyes betrayed a mix of nervousness and guilt, fully aware of their transgressions.

One appeared to be an archer, with a large, noticeable bow and a bag of arrows attached to his back. He bore the orange and black sigil of House Peake on his chest, so Maera surmised that he must be the nephew of Lord Unwin. His stance was slightly more confident, yet there was an undercurrent of unease in his demeanor, his eyes flicking nervously to the towering form of Ēbrion.

The remaining guard appeared higher ranking, his armor meticulously polished, bearing the green and black sigil of House Vance. He was about the same age as Maera’s eldest brother, Guston. His face was stern, and his posture rigid, suggesting that he would not take kindly to being ordered around by a girl. His brown eyes were hard, revealing a man used to command and control.

Maera knew she would have to approach this assertively, yet diplomatically. The situation required a delicate balance of authority and tact to ensure her position was respected and her commands followed.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” the Princess began, her tone gentle yet firm. “I must apologize for the unusual location. I have not been outside for some time, nor have I been away from my mount for so long since I claimed him.”

Ēbrion trilled softly behind her, his presence a silent reminder of loyalty and protection. Maera affectionately patted his scales. “He is a loyal beast, my Ēbrion. I owe him so much, and just a few weeks ago, he saved my life. This is what I wish to discuss with you today.”

Turning her gaze to the guards, Maera noted their discomfort under the watchful eye of her dragon. “In your own words, pray tell me why you were not at your assigned postings when an attempt on my life was made by Alys Rivers,” Maera declared, her voice steady but commanding.

The men shifted uneasily, exchanging hesitant glances. Lord Unwin, growing impatient, interjected sharply, “Your Princess has just asked you a question, you fools.”

The archer, Lord Unwin's nephew, pushed the highest-ranking guard, a knight of House Vance, forward. He glared back at the others before stepping forward and nodding respectfully to Maera.

"State your name, Ser," Maera commanded.

"Ser Willard of House Vance, Princess," the knight replied.

"Do you speak for the men you command?" Maera asked, tilting her head slightly.

"I do," Ser Willard confirmed.

Maera leaned forward, her gaze unwavering. "Then please answer the question I asked."

The knight hesitated, glancing back at his comrades before turning his attention back to Maera. “I had known the witch for a long time. I knew what she was capable of… what she had done to your family in Morne.”

Maera winced at the memory, letting out a shaky exhale. No doubt Alys had boasted of her alleged power to anyone in the castle who would listen, and unfortunately, it looked like it had achieved its desired goal; that Alys would be known as a force to be reckoned with.

The Princess pictured her poor Aunt Viserra, Maera’s last link to her mother, who had been slain consumption, as well as her family. All at the order of Aemond, which caused Maera’s blood to boil. Her fingers clenched into fists, the sharp pain of her healing wounds a reminder of her recent ordeal.

“We did not know what she would do, Princess, I swear,” Ser Willard assured her.

But Maera found no comfort in his words. “I thought you said you knew what she was capable of?” Maera retorted sarcastically.

“She threatened us. She knew things about us that she should not have known. My wife, my daughters…” the knight trailed off, and Maera felt a pang of sympathy for the man in that moment.

The knight's voice trembled slightly when he spoke, his fear for his loved ones mirroring Maera's own fear for the child in her belly. Yet it was because of their fear that Maera and her child were at risk in the first place. The complexity of the situation settled heavily on her, a reminder of the constant balancing act she had to perform.

Clearing his throat, Ser Willard continued, “All she asked was that we leave our postings for an hour, so she could labor in peace in the lavender. So she could give birth to her son.”

Maera tensed her jaw. Mayhaps Alys had spouted lies about her supposed prophecy as well. That her son and Maera’s daughter would bring forth the Prince that was promised, this so-called ‘King of Kings.’ It was absolutely ludicrous how the men in Harrenhall, including her own stupid husband, had fallen prey to the witch’s words, without thinking about what Alys’s own personal gain from this would be.

The scenery at the Gods Eye provided a stark contrast to the turmoil within her. The water lapped gently against the stoney shore, creating a soothing, rhythmic sound. A soft breeze rustled the leaves of nearby trees, and the sunlight shimmered on the lake's surface, casting a golden glow, a similar colour to the flames at had been launched out of Ēbrion’s mouth upon Maera’s orders.

The Princess fixed her forest green eyes on the knight with determination, as she declared, “And yet the witch is gone, Ser.”

Ēbrion craned his neck, bringing his snout close to Maera’s body. She petted the beast lovingly before ominously warning the knight, “For you see, the threat to life does not lie within foresight or words of prophecy. It is here,” she declared, gesturing to her dragon, who growled lowly, his gigantic teeth showcasing a potential fate to those who crossed his rider.

The knight seemed taken aback, stepping backward slightly as he gazed up at the Princess’s dragon, fear in his eyes. “We were fools, Princess. Men led by fear, and we are ashamed to have been so reckless,” he said shakily, his eyes still fixated on Ēbrion. “Please, we ask for your forgiveness.”

In the past, Maera would have walked a different path. She would have forgiven the guards for their lack of action, trusting them to fulfill their duties and keep her safe. But time and time again, the allies around her had not prioritized her needs, much like her husband. Now, she needed to prove she was not to be crossed.

The Princess glanced sideways at Lord Unwin, his orange and black attire standing out against the mountain range backdrop. He had been mostly silent during the meeting but had watched her every move, following her lead as she chastised the men. She grinned at him before addressing the guards.

“A friend told me recently that not only do I have the Mother’s mercy, but I also have her strength,” Maera declared, before looking down at her huge stomach lovingly. “I admit, carrying my child has induced a ruthlessness within me that I did not know I possessed.” For Maera, a mother's love for her child was like nothing else in the world. It knew no law, no pity, no forgiveness. It defied all logic and crushed down remorselessly all that stood in its path.

Her gaze flicked up to the men, and her expression hardened as she looked each of them in the eye. “You may count yourselves lucky that my husband is not here. I daresay you all would be in Vhagar’s stomach by now.”

As idiotic as the one-eyed Prince had been, Maera knew one thing about her husband: he was merciless. Such a lapse in security and disregard for their duties would have resulted in death for all those who had deserted their post, and he would not have lost a wink of sleep over it. Aemond's cold pragmatism and ruthless nature had always been his way of ensuring loyalty through fear, and he wielded that fear with a deft hand.

Despite this, Maera did not feel such an act of brutality was necessary... yet. Putting the guards to death meant fewer bodies on the war front, weakening their defenses. Moreover, such an act would send a clear message to those who supported the Greens, potentially driving them to flock to the Blacks in retaliation. The realm was already teetering on the brink, and she did not wish to push it over the edge with reckless cruelty.

The Princess shifted with a groan in her seated position on the grass, uncomfortable from sitting still for long. Ēbrion raised his head, his mouth opening slightly as he let out a puff of smoke, causing Maera to stroke his scaled hide reassuringly.

“Therefore, I will give you all a choice, rooted in honor and allowing you to keep your integrity as knights and guards.”

The men exchanged confused glances at Maera’s words before watching her grab onto one of her dragon’s scales and pulling herself up from the grass slowly. Ser Willard and Lord Unwin stepped forward, offering their hands of assistance, but she refused. Determination flashed in her eyes as she braced herself against the dragon's warm, sturdy scales.

Pain surged through her body. The freshly healed wounds on her arm and thigh burned as she pushed herself up, and the weight of the babe in her stomach felt like a leaden anchor pulling her down. Her muscles trembled with the effort, and she gritted her teeth, willing herself to stand.

Eventually, with sheer determination, Maera stood, holding onto Ebrion for balance. She was breathing heavily, her face slick with sweat, and every nerve in her body seemed to scream in protest. Yet, she did it. She stood tall, a silent testament to her resolve and strength, despite the pain coursing through her.

After taking a steadying few breaths, she looked at each of the guards, one by one, before pressing on. “Swear your oath anew to House Targaryen and your King Aegon, second of his name, to protect and serve his kin, the Princes and Princesses of the blood.”

Ebrion leaned forward sharply with a growl, causing the men to jump, their eyes wide with horror, their breathing becoming rapid. The dragon's immense presence, combined with Maera's stern demeanor, created a palpable tension in the air. The knights could feel the ground tremble slightly beneath Ebrion's massive weight, and the sheer power emanating from the beast was enough to make their knees weak.

“Or,” Maera continued, “if you feel cowardice and fear will rule your ability to fulfill your duties, declare it now. And you will have a quick and honorable death.”

The beast opened his mouth, a fireball forming slowly in the back of his throat. The sight was terrifying, the heat radiating off the forming inferno making the air around them shimmer. It was as if the dragon's thoughts were synced with those of his rider, reflecting Maera's anger and determination. The glowing embers within the dragon's maw cast an eerie light on the faces of the men, highlighting their fear and desperation.

“However, if you choose deceit, declaring yourselves loyal now only to crumble and submit to the pressures of your duties, putting myself or my family in danger,” Maera paused, looking up at her dragon, then back at the men. “Know you will die. Screaming.”

The guards' faces paled as they realized the gravity of their choices. They could feel the weight of their mistakes bearing down on them, the threat of imminent death a very real possibility. One by one, they knelt before Maera and Ebrion, heads bowed in submission. Their bodies shook slightly, and the stony ground beneath them felt cold and unforgiving.

The silence was heavy, the only sound being the low, menacing growl of Ebrion and the crackling of the fireball in his throat. Maera looked down at them, her expression stern and unyielding. She had their attention, their fear, and their submission.

The Princess sighed, her expression softening slightly as she knew she had won the men’s respect. “Rise now and remember your oaths.”

She looked at the men before her as they stood, their faces a mix of fear and hope. They had families, loved ones, and a cause they believed in. Their mistake had put her and her child at risk, but they were still assets in the war they were fighting. Maera knew she had to find a balance between asserting her authority and maintaining their loyalty.

“Let this be a new beginning, and may you never forget the consequences of breaking your word.”

Each of the men bowed respectfully, their movements hurried and jittery as they made their way back to the horse and cart that had brought them there. They were eager to leave the presence of the fearsome dragon and the Princess who had so sternly chastised them. The sound of their hurried steps and the clatter of armor filled the air as they mounted the cart and quickly urged the horse away.

As the men departed, Maera exhaled deeply and leaned back against Ebrion, the strength to hold herself up any longer waning. The adrenaline that had sustained her was ebbing away, replaced by a wave of exhaustion. After steadying her breathing, she turned and looked up at Lord Unwin, who was staring her with concern.

“Do you think I was too harsh on them?” She asked earnestly, taking a few more deep breaths.

“Not at all, Princess,” the Peake lord reassured her. “It is about time that those idiots learned that abandoning your duties have consequences.” Lord Unwin then chuckled to himself. “I think it is wise that you were the one to deliver the warning, Princess.”

Maera raised her brow. “How so, my Lord?”

“Well,” he began. “As terrifying as I can be, I am nowhere near as terrifying as someone with a dragon at their disposal.”

The Princess giggled, not noticing how the Maester had departed from their carriage and was striding towards them, the chains on his body clinking as he walked.

“May I suggest we return to Harrenhall, Princess?” The older man asked. “We do not want you overexerting yourself.”

Maera had no more energy to argue and nodded in defeat. Maester Cain and Lord Unwin each offered an arm to Maera, supporting her limping form as they guided her back to the carriage. Her legs felt heavy, her wounds aching with each step. She was grateful for their support, though she resented the weakness that necessitated it.

As she walked away, she turned to see Ebrion preparing for flight. The dragon flapped his gigantic blue and black wings, the powerful beats stirring up dust and leaves around him. With a final, majestic leap, Ebrion soared into the sky, his roars echoing across the valley as he disappeared into the horizon.

Maera watched him until he was a distant speck in the sky, a pang of longing in her heart. She missed the freedom of flying with him, the feeling of leaving all her troubles behind. But for now, she had to return to the confines of Harrenhal, her mind already grappling with the many more battles that had yet to be fought.

Notes: Floriography girlies I’m looking at you 👀 also is it just me or did Maera fucking EAT this chapter? She is literally fed up of everyone’s shit at this point 🤣

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

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