#we out here surviving with spite and malice

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ forsaken

     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ highlander johnny 'soap' mactavish x princess reader

03 : a' chinneadh

cw : violence, death, chubby reader, historical facts and inaccuracies, (johnny wearing kilts, yes, it's a warning of its own) words : 6.4k

     ㅤ  collection - prev �� next

bold - french italic - gaelic

As you stood there in the great hall, the tension was thick enough to choke on. No one had spoken since Johnny’s last words, and the three men were locked in silent assessment of one another, a battle of unspoken words and unreadable expressions.

Caught in the middle, your eyes never left Johnny’s face. You searched desperately for any sign of betrayal, any flicker of deceit hidden beneath the warmth he had shown before. But there was nothing. No malice, no trickery—just the same unwavering steadiness.

Yet, it all felt too familiar, too much like that night. A cruel déjà vu. The air grew heavy, pressing against your chest like a hand closing around your throat. Your fingers twisted together, trying to ground yourself, but your legs threatened to give out beneath you.

The fear you thought you had left behind in the chapel came rushing back, thick and suffocating.

Had it all been a trap from the very beginning?

"Fionn Mactavish, Chief of the Clan," the man finally introduced himself. His eyes were soft, yet his posture radiated authority. He stepped toward your knight, extending his hand.

When Ser John reached to shake it after stating his own name, Fionn grasped his forearm instead—a firm, deliberate gesture. It was a greeting between equals, warriors who had proven themselves in battle. A simple handshake wouldn’t do in these lands—here, strength recognized strength.

Ser John, though caught slightly off guard, returned the gesture firmly. You noticed how Fionn’s eyes flickered with approval. 

"We've been waiting for you," the chief said, his voice almost too gentle.

A sharp wave of anxiety coiled in your stomach at his words. So the small trust you'd placed in Johnny over the past day had been a mistake. He hadn’t just stumbled upon you because the villagers were talking—

he had been looking for you.

Your gaze flickered past the older man, landing on Johnny. For a brief moment, guilt flashed across his face, but it was gone just as quickly, replaced by a hardened expression. A silent message lingered in his eyes—he hadn’t betrayed you.

"The Sassenachs are back in our lands, and they've been askin' after the princess. War's been declared, and you, lass, are their wee pawn in makin' peace wi' the French." the chief explained, his tone measured as his sharp eyes flicked to your knight’s tightening grip on his sword.

The mere fact that Ser John had been allowed to keep his weapon should have reassured you—it was a sign of goodwill, of trust. But you were past seeing gestures of peace. Betrayal had found you before, lurking in familiar smiles and empty promises. You wouldn’t be fooled again. 

Before you could restrain yourself, the words escaped your lips.

"We are prisoners then? Waiting to be sold to whoever pays the most?" you barked, spite dripping from your tone as your gaze darted between the two Scots.

Johnny flinched, his jaw tightening, but it was the chief who responded. His expression remained calm, though something flickered in his eyes—something unreadable.

"Ye're guests," Fionn corrected, his voice steady. "But dinnae mistake hospitality for weakness, lass. The world beyond these walls would see ye dead or worse. Here, ye've got a chance."

"A chance for what?" Ser John cut in, his stance rigid, his hand still poised over his sword.

The chief tilted his head slightly. "To live."

You scoffed at that. As if you needed a bunch of savages to survive, you had managed to survive just great with just your knight for the last couple of months. 

You scoffed at that, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. As if you needed a bunch of savages to survive. You had made it this far with nothing but your wits and Ser John’s sword.

"You think we need you to survive?" you bit out, your voice sharp with defiance. "We have managed just fine on our own for months. We didn't need your protection then, and we certainly don’t need it now." 

Fionn let out a slow exhale, his expression unreadable. He studied you as one might a feral creature, wary but patient. Johnny, however, bristled at your words.

"Aye, and how much longer do ye think that luck would’ve lasted?" Johnny challenged, his voice steady despite the storm in his eyes. "How many more nights could ye run, starve, and pray the English wouldn’t catch ye? Ye were heading straight for one of their battalions—ye should be thanking me for finding ye first."

Your lips pressed into a thin line, unwilling to admit he had a point. You had felt the toll—the exhaustion in your bones, the constant gnawing hunger, the weight of fear pressing on your chest each night. But admitting that to them? Never.

Fionn hummed knowingly, his gaze shifting between you and Ser John. "We have a common enemy, it's always better to join forces."

John remained silent, his body tense, his jaw clenched as he weighed Fionn's words. You, however, weren’t so easily convinced. The surge of courage and anger felt almost liberating. After years of being overlooked, it was a rebirth to finally speak your mind without fear of consequence.

"Join forces?" you repeated, voice laced with skepticism. "And what would that entail, exactly? Swearing fealty to a clan we know nothing about? Fighting a war that isn’t ours?"

Fionn chuckled, the deep rumble of his amusement filling the hall. "Lass, whether ye like it or not, this war became yours the moment the English tried to kill ye on yer weddin’ day." His sharp eyes settled on you, unreadable yet knowing. "Ye can either face it alone and risk the noose, or stand with us and have a fighting chance."

Turning to his son, the chief smirked slightly. "A spitfire, this one. You sure you got the right princess?"

Johnny’s smirk only fueled your anger. You had heard what he called you that first night—Bana-phrionnsa. Princess. They were speaking about you, deliberately in Gaelic so you wouldn’t understand. Out of pure pettiness, you did the same.

“We should go.”

Turning to your knight, you raised your eyebrows expectantly, but he only shook his head.

“To go where, Your Highness?” he asked softly, his voice calm, almost as if trying to soothe your frustration. “You heard them—the English are looking for us, for you.”

“We don’t even know if they’re telling the truth,” you countered, desperation creeping into your voice. “They could be trapping us here—for some twisted reason.”

You begged him to see reason, to remember how well the two of you had survived on your own. You were safer away from the Highlands—away from anyone. You were a long way from home, and yet, you were still alive, you trusted your good star enough to believe you'd made it out alive once more. The only thing was that you didn't know where to go. 

France was a dead end. If you couldn’t find a way to board a ship from the Highlands—and pray the Brits weren’t controlling the waters ready to attack any enemies ship—then escaping by land was just as impossible. That would mean traveling through English-occupied territory, and you already knew how that story ended. A so-called peace offering for the French, as if you were foolish enough to believe such lies.

Before the wedding, you might have been.

You would have clung to Ser John’s arm, begged him to take you to the nearest English outpost, convinced they would escort you home. But you weren’t that naive girl anymore. The chapel had burned that innocence to ash. They had taken that away from you. 

The common enemy.

With a heavy sigh, you finally saw reason. Winter was creeping in faster here in the Highlands, its sharp bite already lacing the night air. You had spent too many sleepless hours shivering under the open sky, knowing that if your enemies didn’t find you first, the cold surely would.

Shaking your head, you told yourself this was only temporary—a means to survive the brutal Highland winter. By spring, you would have convinced Ser John to leave, to continue the journey. And who knew? Perhaps, by then, the war would be over.

Swallowing your already bruised pride, you turned to your knight, your voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside you.

"We stay," you said simply, making it clear that the decision was not yours alone but a shared burden. You refused to acknowledge the Scots directly, still too stubborn—too proud—to accept the offer yourself.

Yet, if they noticed your pettiness, they did not seem to mind. It was strange, almost unsettling, how they treated you. In your homeland, men made the decisions, and women were expected to follow. Here, in the untamed Highlands, they spoke to you as if your voice mattered. As if you were not just a pawn to be moved across a board but a player in your own right.

It was a stark contrast, and you weren’t sure yet if it was liberating or dangerous.

"We are staying, then." Ser John settled, looking at the chief. 

 Staying.

What a strange, foreign concept. You had spent months running, surviving on borrowed time, never daring to plant roots. Now, the idea of remaining in one place—of relying on people who were neither kin nor countrymen—felt almost unnatural.

Nothing could have prepared you for what it truly meant.

Settling in hadn’t been difficult. The Highlanders were welcoming—almost overwhelmingly so.

On your first night, a group of women had gathered in your chambers, their arms full of gifts they thought you might need. Dresses of thick, warm fabric, wooden combs and hairbrushes, soft nightgowns, undergarments, cloth for your bleeding, even razors—small tokens meant to ease your transition into their world. Their generosity was almost unsettling, so unlike the guarded, transactional kindness you had known at court.

Back home, your body had never truly belonged to you. Maids tended to it with meticulous care, shaving you smooth at every opportunity. For your husband, they had always said, as if you existed only in preparation for a man’s desire. You had never questioned it. It was simply what was done. But somewhere along the way, you had learned to despise the sight of your own natural body, to see yourself as something that needed to be tamed, refined, controlled.

Here, no one seemed to care for such things. The Highland women carried themselves differently—strong, unbothered, untouched by the delicate insecurities of courtly life. And for the first time, you wondered if you had been taught to hate something that had never truly mattered.

Your bed had been layered with furs, and though you had initially despised them—so accustomed to the softness of cotton and silk—they had proven invaluable once the true northern cold settled in. The castle, though built to trap warmth within its thick stone walls, had not been immune to the passage of time. Cracks and weathered edges allowed icy drafts to creep through, making the furs a welcome comfort against the biting chill.

Ser John had settled in well—better than well, in fact. He had quickly been offered a position training the young warriors, as war seemed inevitable. His reputation had preceded him, and no one had questioned his skill. He was paid for his labor, treated with the same respect as if he had always been part of the clan.

You, however, were another matter entirely.

The first few weeks had been difficult. You refused to leave the sanctuary of your chambers, seeking solace in the flickering warmth of the fire. Seated in the armchair, you spent your days watching the flames dance—sometimes writing in your journal, other times simply lost in thought. Ser John was the one who brought you your meals, scolding you for your childish reluctance to engage with the people who had welcomed you so warmly.

It had become easier as time went by. Once you finally began leaving your chambers, you met the chief's daughters—Johnny’s sisters, at the dinner table. They had taken a liking to you immediately, pulling you into their daily activities—walking through the snow-filled gardens, cooking for the poor and handing out warm soup, riding their horses across the frozen fields. Their kindness had warmed your heart in a way you hadn’t expected.

Never would you have imagined yourself doing the same back in France. Strangers were met with suspicion where you came from, their intentions always questioned, the lingering fear that they sought to exploit your wealth ever present. But here? Here, you were nothing. You had nothing but your name. And the Mactavishes? They welcomed you as if you had always belonged.

And then, there was Johnny. You had quickly learned that he was the only son out of eight children. So many siblings. When you had asked Isla, one of his sisters, about it, she had answered cheekily, "The nights tend to get cold here," wearing the same smirk as her brother.

You had definitely seen the family resemblance then—especially as your cheeks grew warm at her insinuation.

He always lingered somehow. No matter what you were doing, you'd catch him watching you. At first, it had put you on edge, irritated that he was always looming nearby. But over time, his presence became familiar—expected, even. Your eyes started searching for him in a room before you could stop yourself. 

Sometimes, he would approach you, lingering a little too close, teasing you with his endless jokes. You’d scoff, roll your eyes, push him away—but on the days when he was too busy to seek you out, a strange emptiness settled in your chest.

Like something was missing.

It didn’t help that his sisters spoke of him as if he were some kind of legend, weaving tales of his exploits on the battlefield alongside their father. They were proud of their brother, and it warmed your heart. It reminded you of your own brothers—wherever they were, surely fighting for your King. 

Your King, he wasn't yours anymore. 

But watching the Mactavishes, seeing how loving and unwaveringly loyal they were to one another, made something in your chest ache. A quiet, creeping sadness settled deep in your bones.

A nagging feeling told you that you would never see your family again. You had lost them the moment you stepped into that carriage, leaving your home behind.

Gone.

Only memories remained.

After a month, you had begun to trust them with your own life. Slowly, the walls you had built around yourself started to crack. You told them about France, about your family. You spoke of your mother, and they had begged for more stories about her. Their own mother had long been in the grave, and hearing tales of another’s warmth and kindness seemed to lighten something in them.

How could you deny them that? The youngest was only six years old. You were no monster.

So, you shared. You filled the empty space in their hearts with gentle memories of your own mother—of her laughter, her lullabies, the way she smelled of lavender and honey.

And in doing so, you filled the empty space in your own heart too.

As a trade-off, you asked to be taught Gaelic. You had grown tired of the old women at the market chuckling behind your back, their words just out of reach. Tired of Johnny’s hushed remarks in a language you couldn't understand. At first, it was difficult, the unfamiliar words twisting on your tongue, but with time, you improved. You understood more than you could speak, but you were getting there.

You still vividly remembered the first time you spoke Gaelic to Johnny. He had been so stunned that, for once, he was left speechless. His sisters had giggled, delighting in his rare moment of silence before dragging you away. Looking back at him as you had made your escape, something in his eyes had sent a shiver straight through you, settling deep in your core. It was almost animalistic—intense, unspoken, and undeniably raw. Even days later, nestled beneath the heavy furs of your bed, you still thought about that look. 

Something had shifted in Johnny that day—something deep and instinctual. Hearing you speak his language, seeing you wrapped in the warm wool of his people, his clan’s tartan draped over your shoulders like a cape... a primal urge had surfaced within him.

And it had yet to fade. Not that he wanted it to.

After that, Johnny was everywhere—more than ever before. Each morning, the moment you stepped into the hall, his eyes were already on you, tracking your every move. At the stables, as you prepared to ride out with his sisters, he was always lingering nearby, watching. When you knelt in the chapel, seeking solace in prayer, he just happened to be passing by. Even in the dead of night, when you slipped into the kitchens for a quiet moment alone, you caught a fleeting glimpse of him—always close, always watching.

As the gentle warmth of spring began to settle over the mountains, you found yourself longing to see more of their lands. The breathtaking Highlands, which you had only glimpsed upon your arrival, called to you with their untamed beauty. When you asked to be shown more, Fionn readily agreed—but, of course, you would need an escort.

And who better than his own son?

He knew the land, knew how to defend himself, and—most importantly—had earned your knight’s trust.

John and Johnny had grown closer over time. Both had been assigned to train the young warriors, and despite their differences, they complemented each other perfectly. Ser John, ever the disciplined tactician, had been taught by the best swordsmen in France. He was methodical and precise, drilling battle knowledge and strategy into his students with careful intent. 

Johnny, on the other hand, was raw power—instinctual, fierce. He taught the young ones how to use their size to their advantage, how to fight with the unpredictability of the wild.

At first, their styles had clashed, but soldiers recognized soldiers. In time, respect settled between them, and so did trust.

So when he learned you were going outside with Johnny, Ser John didn’t impose himself. It was his first day free of training in weeks, and he had no intention of spending it caught between the strange, unspoken energy that had formed between you two.

He trusted Johnny—enough, at least. And he had threatened him more than once to make sure the young Highlander wouldn’t try anything reckless.

Still, Ser John was your sworn sword, bound by duty above all else. Even as he became more ingrained in the clan, his oath remained unchanged.

To protect you. Always.

As an unfortunate turn of events, the only horse remaining in the stables was Espoir. Strange. How had all the other horses conveniently disappeared?

“Huntin’ party,” was Johnny’s only explanation, though you could tell he was lying. The glint in his eye, the way he avoided your gaze—it was obvious. But with no proof to call him out on it, you had grumbled under your breath and accepted his offered hand as he helped you onto your horse.

Wanting to let you roam freely, he mounted behind you, placing no hands on the reins. He had to restrain himself from placing them on your full hips, his body instinctively drawn to the closeness. You were in control, though he knew the land better than anyone. No matter where you wandered, he would always know the way home.

At first, that was exactly what you did. Spring was on the verge of arriving, the last remnants of winter melting into the earth. Flowers pushed through thawing ground, animals chased one another in playful pursuit, the air filled with the sounds of new life. The Highlands were thriving, and you had never seen anything so beautiful.

Wandering deeper into the forest, you stumbled upon a pond—a glistening body of water reflecting the sun, its surface rippling invitingly. The sight was too tempting to ignore. You told the Highlander you wanted to stop here for a moment, and who was he to refuse you?

The stubborn pout on your lips deepened when you refused his offered hand to help you dismount, determined to do it yourself. Johnny could already see you struggling, your dress far too heavy for proper riding. He leaned back slightly, arms crossed, watching the inevitable unfold.

With a less-than-graceful descent, you landed on your backside, the fabric of your dress stubbornly caught in the horse’s stirrup. A triumphant chuckle rumbled from Johnny’s chest, his amusement only growing when Espoir let out a soft whinny—sounding almost like laughter at your expense.

"Stubbornness will land ye nowhere but on yer arse, bana-phrionnsa." Johnny mocked, his voice dripping with amusement as he strode toward you.

Before you could protest, his strong hands gripped your waist, lifting you effortlessly to your feet as if you weighed nothing at all. A small gasp escaped your lips, your breath catching in your throat.

The Scots were generous, and so was their food—you had softened a little since arriving, your body no longer as starved and frail as when you were on the roads.It had returned to its fullness, much like it had been back home—a body designed for nurturing, soft and strong in equal measure.

And yet, Johnny handled you as though you were light as a feather. The sheer ease with which he moved you sent a shiver through your body, something deep and primal stirring within you.

You swallowed hard, refusing to meet his knowing gaze. You weren’t sure if he had felt the tension crackling between you, but by the slow smirk curling on his lips, you feared he had.

Your hands landed on his shoulders, gripping tightly from the sudden movement. Beneath your fingers, hard muscle tensed, solid and warm. He felt good—too good—and the thought crept unbidden into your mind: was he this strong everywhere? The temptation to find out made your breath hitch.

Your eyes met his, and for the briefest moment—so quick you might have imagined it—his gaze flickered down to your lips. Like he was afraid you’d notice. Like he wanted something he shouldn't. Then, just as quickly, his sea-deep blue eyes were back on yours.

You had never truly noticed how blue they were before, never cared enough to look. Now, you couldn’t look away. His face was scattered with beauty spots and freckles, softened in some places, hardened in others. A few scars marred his skin, the largest running along the side of his skull, as if a blade had once tried to carve him apart. It hadn’t succeeded. If anything, it only made him more captivating.

You might have lost yourself in him completely if not for the impatient huff of the horse behind you, breaking the moment like a slap to the face.

Too quickly, you pulled your hands away, suddenly aware of the lingering heat on your waist—his hands had been there. Holding you steady. Holding you close. You hadn't even noticed. A slow flush crept up your neck, burning across your cheeks. Turning sharply, you faced the water, hoping the cool air might do something to calm the fire now raging beneath your skin.

Your embarrassment, combined with the warmth of the sunlight on your skin, made you feel hotter than ever. The pond before you shimmered invitingly, its surface dancing with the golden reflection of the midday sun. It beckoned you closer, a tempting escape from the heat creeping up your neck and settling in your chest.

You wanted nothing more than to slip into the cool embrace of the water, to wash away the lingering fluster Johnny had so effortlessly caused. But you knew better. No matter how inviting it looked, Highland waters were unforgiving—cold enough to steal the breath straight from your lungs.

Still, the thought lingered, teasing you. As you stepped closer to the pond’s edge, the idea of testing the water’s chill became too tempting to resist. What harm could come from dipping your feet, at least?

Making quick work of your shoes, you settled on a smooth rock near the shore, lifting your heavy skirts just enough to bare your ankles. Slowly, you slid your feet into the water, expecting an icy bite—but to your surprise, it wasn’t as freezing as you had feared. A shiver still ran up your spine, but the sensation was more refreshing than unbearable.

Winter still clung to the Highland air, but the water held a deceptive warmth, likely fed by an underground spring. It lapped at your skin gently, as if beckoning you further in. You sighed, allowing yourself a rare moment of peace, your fingers tracing patterns over the damp fabric of your dress.

Behind you, Johnny shifted, watching. You could feel his gaze, lingering yet unreadable. Whatever was running through his mind, he kept it to himself—for now.

You heard him chuckle behind you, a low, amused sound that sent a prickle of irritation down your spine. Turning to face him, you caught sight of the smirk playing on his lips, though his eyes remained fixed on the water.

“What’s so funny?” you huffed, crossing your arms, already bracing for another one of his teasing remarks.

Johnny shook his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he were holding back a full grin. “Nothin’,” he drawled, clearly enjoying himself. “Just thinkin’ how we teach the wee one not to deep into water around here, you ken, the kelpies.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. "Kelpies?" you repeated, skepticism lacing your tone. And yet, you had withdrawn your feet from the water. 

Johnny nodded, stepping closer, his smirk deepening as he crouched beside you, arms resting lazily on his knees. The movement pulled his kilt higher, offering you an unbidden glimpse of his powerful thighs—thick, corded with muscle, each ridge and dip a testament to his strength. Scars and faint beauty marks adorned his skin, a map of battles fought and won.

Your breath hitched despite yourself. He was too close, his presence overwhelming, his scent—a mix of leather, earth, and something distinctly him—curling around you like a trap. You tore your gaze away, only to find his eyes already on you, watching, knowing. His smirk shifted, turning lazy, teasing.

“Aye. Water spirits,” he drawled, his voice rich with amusement. “They lure folk in, appearin’ as fine horses or bonnie lasses, only to drag them under—drownin’ them in the depths.” His tone was casual, but the mischievous glint in his eye betrayed his enjoyment. Then, with a slow wink at bonnie lasses, he tilted his head slightly, as if hinting at something more—something entirely wicked.

You scoffed, kicking your foot lightly in the water. “I suppose you expect me to be scared now?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Nah,” he admitted. “But I do expect ye to be smarter than a bairn, sittin’ there like an invitation.” His gaze flickered to your bare feet in the water before meeting your eyes again. “Would be a shame if a kelpie got ye before I did.”

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cool air.

"Didn't take you for a fairytale believer," you teased, before slashing him with the cold water, laughing at his surprised face. 

Johnny wiped the water from his face, blinking in surprise before his lips curled into a mischievous grin. "Och, ye’ll regret that, bana-phrionnsa," he warned, his voice low with mock threat.

Before you could react, his hands shot forward, splashing you right back, the cold water hitting your arms and the front of your dress. You gasped at the sudden chill, eyes wide in outrage.

"Johnny!" you shrieked, half laughing, half scolding as you scrambled back from the water's edge.

He only chuckled, standing to his full height, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Ye started it," he said smugly. "Thought ye wanted a bit of fun?"

You glared at him, shivering slightly. "Fun doesn’t include freezing to death."

He tilted his head, eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Could always warm ye up," he murmured, his voice quieter now, rougher.

Your breath caught in your throat. The playful air between you shifted, something heavier settling in its place. The water dripped from your dress, soaking into the ground, but suddenly, the cold was the last thing on your mind.

That feeling was back, crawling over your skin like a slow-burning fire. Instinctively, you pressed your thighs together, trying to smother the heat pooling low in your belly. But the movement didn’t go unnoticed.

Johnny’s gaze flickered down, honing in on the slight shift of your legs like a predator catching the scent of prey. His expression darkened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced with something raw, something that sent a shiver down your spine—not from the cold, but from the way he was looking at you.

His full attention was on you now, unwavering, unrelenting. The world around you could have crumbled, the skies could have torn open, and he wouldn’t have spared it a glance.

You swallowed hard, feeling your pulse quicken. "Johnny," you murmured, not even sure what you were about to say, only that you needed to break the tension crackling between you like a struck flint.

But he took a slow step forward, closing the space between you. "Aye, bana-phrionnsa?" His voice was lower now, thick with something unspoken, something dangerous.

The moment shattered with a sharp, pained whinny.

Espoir.

Whipping around, your breath caught in your throat as you saw her, riddled with arrows, her white coat marred with dark streaks of blood. More arrows came whistling from the trees, slicing through the air like death itself.

A strangled gasp left your lips, instincts screaming at you to run to her, to do something—but before you could move, strong hands seized your hips, yanking you back.

“Stay down!” Johnny’s voice was a rough command, but you barely registered it over the deafening roar in your ears.

Your heart pounded as Espoir stumbled, her legs buckling beneath her. The world blurred as tears filled your eyes, horror and helplessness tangling in your chest.

And then, the screaming started, along with gunshots. The gunfire cracked through the air, drowning out the pained whimpers of your fallen horse.

Saxons. 

The realization hit you like a punch to the gut, but your body was too numb to react. Johnny didn’t hesitate. His grip on you was bruising as he dragged you away, away from the attack, away from Espoir’s lifeless body.

You struggled at first, every instinct screaming at you to fight—to stay. But the sharp whistle of another bullet snapping past your ear forced reality back into focus. Johnny wasn’t running out of fear. He was making a choice. A calculated one.

His sword was useless against rifles. He could do nothing alone. Still, you could feel the anger radiating off him, burning hotter with every step he forced you forward. He wasn’t a coward, and every fiber of his being rebelled against retreat. But he knew when to pick his battles.

He had sisters to protect. A clan to lead one day. And you—You couldn’t die. Not here. Not like this. And he would make damn sure of it.

The British hadn't dared come this close to Mactavish land in years. The clan had fought like demons, their reputation alone keeping invaders at bay. And yet, here they were, rifles in hand, cutting through the land like they owned it.

Johnny's gut twisted as he ran, dragging you along with him. This wasn’t a random attack. It felt calculated. Purposeful. Like they knew you were here. 

Like someone had told them.

The thought sent a surge of fury through his veins, his grip on you tightening instinctively. A traitor within the clan. A rat feeding information to the enemy. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. If he ever found out who it was, he’d slit their throat himself.

Pushing you down a small slope, you landed with a splash in the icy river that fed into the pond. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, but it was swiftly muffled by Johnny’s calloused hand. His other arm wrapped around you, pulling you tight against his chest.

In any other circumstance, you might have taken a moment to appreciate the way the firm muscles of his forearm tensed beneath your fingertips, how the soft muscles of his stomach felt on your lower back, how his strong thighs framed yours as he kept you steady. But not now.

Above you, footsteps pounded against the earth, voices barking orders in clipped English. They weren’t looking for him.

Just you. They knew. But how?

Tears kept falling, warm streaks trailing down your cheeks, only to be halted by Johnny’s firm hand still pressed over your mouth. Your breaths came in shaky, uneven bursts against his palm, your body trembling from both the cold and the sheer terror gripping you.

His other hand, rough but steady, rested on your stomach. Slowly, almost instinctively, his thumb began to rub gentle circles against the fabric of your dress—a quiet, grounding gesture. A silent promise.

Stay with me. Breathe.

Above, the voices grew louder, boots crunching against the frozen earth. The enemy was close. Too close. And yet, with Johnny holding you like this, shielding you with his own body, you felt something else beneath the fear. Safe.

Your fingers dug into his wrist and forearm, leaving deep impressions in his skin, but Johnny didn’t flinch. He barely even registered the pain. His focus was entirely on the land, on the quickest way to get you both out of here alive.

A two-hour ride on horseback meant four on foot—four hours of being hunted. His mind raced through every hidden path, every deer trail, every shadowed ravine the outlanders wouldn’t know existed. He had grown up in these valleys, lost himself in these forests more times than he could count, seeking solitude after his mother’s passing. This land was in his blood.

Today, he wouldn’t rely on brute strength. That wouldn’t save you. His brain would be his weapon. His knowledge, your only way out. 

It all reminded you of that dreadful night. The screams, the chaos, the helplessness clawing at your chest. You had thought you’d never have to endure something like this again—that the worst was behind you, buried in the past where it belonged.

But fate was cruel. The fear was just as suffocating, the uncertainty just as sharp. And as you clung to Johnny, half in the freezing water, his steady presence the only thing keeping you grounded, you realized the past was not done with you yet.

By the time the soldiers had finally left, you were freezing. Minutes or hours could have passed—you couldn’t tell—but the sun was sinking lower in the sky, painting the horizon in hues of orange and crimson. It would be dark soon. Too soon, considering you were being hunted.

Dark clouds loomed on the horizon, creeping across the sky like a gathering storm of fate. The air grew heavy, thick with the promise of rain and something more—something ominous. The once-blue expanse was swallowed by shifting shades of gray, casting an eerie gloom over the land.

A low rumble echoed in the distance, a warning. The wind picked up, whispering through the trees, rustling your clothes as if urging you to seek shelter. But it wasn’t just the storm that made your skin prickle—it was the tension in the air, the sense that something was coming. Something inevitable. Something dangerous.

"Come on, lass." Johnny’s voice was steady as he helped you to your feet, his hand firm yet gentle on your waist, grounding you. "I ken a place where we’ll be safe for the night."

While you had been too numb with fear to think of anything beyond the threat of the enemy, Johnny’s mind had been working relentlessly—calculating the risks, mapping out the quickest escape routes. And no matter how many times he ran through the options, the answer was always the same: there was no way you’d make it back to the village tonight.

Even with all his knowledge of the land, he knew you wouldn’t be able to keep up. He remembered all too well the day he had first brought you here—how the long trek had worn you down, how often you’d paused to rest your aching feet. It wasn’t your fault. You had been raised with carriages and fine-bred horses, not endless miles of rugged terrain beneath your boots. But out here, none of that mattered.

With a quiet sigh, he tightened his grip on your waist for just a heartbeat, his warmth seeping through the chill that clung to your clothes. Then, without another word, he took your hand and led you deeper into the forest. 

Your life had passed from Ser John's hands to Johnny's. In this very moment, there was little you could do but trust the Highlander, placing your fate in his calloused hands and praying he wouldn’t let you die.

The thought unsettled you. You had spent your life under the careful watch of others—first your family, then your knight—but never had the weight of your survival felt so precarious. 

Yet, as Johnny moved with unwavering certainty through the dense forest, his grip steady and his pace unyielding, you couldn’t help but feel the smallest ember of reassurance. He knew these lands like the back of his hand. He had survived them before, and if you were lucky, he would make sure you survived them too.

[trulyradicalactivist]

A Heart-To-Heart.

Hello there. Let's talk. It's very late for me right now, and this will not be a professional essay or speech like much of my writing is. No. Not tonight. This is a conversation. This is from me to you. Speaking not from the mind of an activist but from the heart of a community member.

I know that you're scared. I am too. I'm hurting too. I'm terrified. Sometimes I fear the future, I fear what hasn't already come, or even what's soon to come. Looking at the world right now, not just America, but the whole world we live in, it's a scary time to be alive. It is exhausting when the fight looks more like a war, one that seems impossible to win. We seem outnumbered. It looks like we're continuing on a losing battle that stretches until all of us are gone. They want to get rid of us. That's so hard to hear, isn't it? That there are people that want you and I to disappear. To become a statistic. To become a fading memory. That's hard. I know it's hard, I've been through this before. I've seen things like this before. Bricks thrown, pain felt, wounds licked, people hiding. It isn't new. I’ll tell you from experience, it isn't. Those before you had to jump through these same hoops that they make you go through too. It makes you feel like a circus animal. It sure makes me feel like one.

Living is hard. It is the hardest thing you will ever do. Sometimes it feels like it's not worth it. It's gonna feel like that. I can't tell you that it becomes easy without it becoming harder, just like I can't tell you a flower can grow without rainstorms. I can't look at you and tell you that you can make a cake without putting it in the oven. I can't tell you a wound can heal without it hurting when you get it. That doesn't mean you won't get through it.

You will.

The past was hard too. I'm sure you know stories of people who paved the way for revolution, don't you? Do you think that every day, they were happy and excited to fight? No. Of course not. They were scared. They were debating if it was worth it. They were wondering what it was all for. It was a struggle for them too, but look at all they did. Look at everything they made happen with the determination and the will power to just change one thing at a time. To throw one brick, to fight one fight, to say one word, to do one thing. Giving out food here, helping out a neighbor there, loving their community, uplifting their friends, protecting their people. They planted their feet in the earth and told the rocks that dared to crush them that they could put all the pressure they wanted but the people would not move.

You are in this moment, in this era, living through this fight as all those before you have. Your existence is molded in the ideals and the fire of those who made this path for you. You were carved by the mud and stone of everyone who walked in front of you. You are guided by the light of the people who shined bright so you could shine brighter.

I know you're afraid. I know it hurts. I know that suffering is something I don't wish on any of you. What I know most, however, is that you will get through it. You've got to get through it. No matter what it takes, whether I have to hold your hand for you to get there or not, I need you to find it in you to move forward, to love, to cherish, to find something in your soul that makes it worth it.

I want you to make hope out of old paintings and yellowed books, out of spite and malice for the people who hurt you, out of pain and loss, out of love and joy, out of nature, out of those who nurture you, out of spirituality, out of the goodness of everything you hold dear to you, out of the anguish that you feel everyday. Anything is hope. Everything is hope. That's the beauty in it. What can't you find hope in?

I'm right here. I'm surviving. I find it hard to survive for myself sometimes, so when I doubt my purpose here, I think of all of you. I think of my closest friends, my loves, my community. I think of you. I think of my fight. I look at every scar I have and I trace them knowing that if I could survive those, I can survive the new ones I will gain. I look at every single person who interacts with me and I remember that I am fighting for every single one of you. I may not know you all by face or by name but I know you. I know you the way a neighbor knows one another. I know you the way a fighter knows a civilian they protect or a brother in arms they march alongside.

You're so important to me. I mean that. Please don't ever doubt my words when I say them, even if I repeat them over and over again. Know that you are safe here, that I will always stay kind to you, and through thick and thin, you will always have me in your corner. I care not for the finer details of who or what within this community. I don't care for any stance you take. I care that you are deserving of rights and liberties. I care that you deserve to be you. I care that you're like me, even if we're not similar in any way. I care about you. I care about the person behind those screens, or even those within the screens if that's what you are. Whatever you are. Whoever you are. It's you I want safe.

I hope you're well. I hope you survive. I hope you see the sunrise or the sunset tomorrow. I hope you bask in the sun. I hope you stare at the stars. I hope you feel grass. I hope you can rest. I hope your pain is exactly as much or as little as you want. I hope your claws are sharp. I hope your fangs are polished. I hope your hair and your fur and your wires are neat, or maybe I hope they're messy. I hope you're able to look into the mirror one day and say that's me. Best of all, I hope you're moving forward.

Goodnight, or perhaps good morning, or perhaps neither at all.

You're so very worth fighting for.

[reinedescauchemars]

self-portrait of the author as odysseus

there is someone who has to go, who is compelled to leave by something greater, something perhaps divine, perhaps merely mortal, and there is someone they have to leave behind, saying "i'll be back soon, love, i promise" and everyone realizes not too long after that was a promise that could not be kept

there is someone who tries to return, who at first thinks there's better things to be found but soon discovers that, at the end of the day, all that's wanted is rest, and then again, that all that's longed for is the sweetness of rest in the arms of a lover, and there is someone who waits as the weeks turn into months and again into years

do you think odysseus loves penelope? is that why he leaves circe?

yes, i do, because i love her, and what is the point of stories if not to see yourself in other people? i see myself in the eyes of the coward-hero, who was never a good man, always lost when not at war, loved by wit but far too bold, and i love her, no matter how far away i am, no matter if another lies at my bosom, no matter how long i stay away

i think why he stayed so long with circe was to rest. he had been fighting for entirely too long, some of it his fault, because what is a warrior-king who has fought for ten long years to do when at last the fighting stops? of course, he fights again, he wants to live on in glory, his name a synonym for bravery, and here is a fight all to easy to win, gifted to him by his gods, and he wins and he can stay and he doesn't need to fight, he can stay in paradise. he can rest. he must go on, but in that peaceful moment, he can stay. rest makes you forget it all: if i could, i would stop to rest too

do we think we can trust his retelling of his own story?

no, i don't, because his survival depends on lying, and when you lie to live, you begin to lie all the time. we do not know what really happened to his men, but if that was the version that made him look good, imagine just how bad reality was

he is an absent king who could have come back sooner, he has left his wife and lost his men, his son is a grown man he has never met. he is only recognized by his dying dog. he can only justify this in tricks and lies; those falsehoods and deceits that kept him alive when in the depths of polyphemus's cave are his salvation and his undoing. why trust a liar?

those of us who are too well-accustomed to deceit know there are many different kinds of lies; some lies are told of malice and some of kindness, and when odysseus lies out of kindness, he is aiming to protect those he could not protect before. when he lies out of malice, well, he's just being an asshole, but overwhelmingly he doesn't lie to be cruel. he lies to be kind

we may not be able to trust him entirely, but we can still understand why he lies. if you extend him this compassion, then you can extend it to the rest of us who grew up knowing that each breath we took would be expelled into a fiction. such was the cost of our survival

would odysseus be a modern hero?

we all know we'd say no. he is too mean, too brutal, too sly, too naughty, too unfaithful to join the pantheon of modern heroes. he's a jerk, plain and simple, but he's also a complicated man. how does his story begin? the poet sings and asks the muses to sing through him the tale of someone polytropos, a word translated across time and place in many different ways

but look at the complications, the nuance, look at what we call complicated people these days. i know because i've heard it all. i scare people when they watch me switch between a version of me who has known only kindness and only knows how to help and their counterpart, the part of me that's known only hate and spews rage wherever they walk

unlike odysseus, this anger and spite doesn't have a concrete body count. but where his anger is praised, his murders are justified, mine renders me bad, wrong, something to be fixed. love redeems him but it won't redeem me. i don't rage to save my love from harm, i rage to save what's left of a broken life. does this difference matter? i think not. does it matter that he's a man and i am not? i think not, i think it matters that a greek hero isn't always a good person, but our modern heroes, they have to be good

and when you're not good what's left for you?

the backstory of a b-movie villain

watch him thread the arrow through the eyes of the axes, watch him slaughter his enemies in cold blood, and watch how you sanitize his story to call him a hero. you wouldn't do the same for me, why do it for him? why not just admit that times have changed?

erase all the shit he's done and it's a simple story: local man wronged by gods, gets stuck in a twenty-year time vortex, emerges alone and has to kick those foolish youth out of his home. erase all the shit and you've got a simple hero, put in all the shit he's done and you've got someone who can't be simplified, someone who does good and bad and knows it

there is someone who makes mistakes and has to make amends, there is someone who has to take matters into their own hands to be respected again, there is someone who has lost things that can't be regained

who's this about now? you or odysseus?

yes

[celestialsyndicate]

**General trigger warning for talking about people who support @ b*se/fakeclaiming **

It really feels like I only come on here to vent but it seems like so much of the community feels confined to not speaking. I spent enough time feeling trapped with no voice.

I heal in spite. What do you get for surviving? You get people who side with your abusers "oh they never would have done that" "don't drag a dead mans name through the mud"

You get fake claimed or live in fear not speaking up about the horrors of survival due to people thinking they are judge and jury on what happened to you. Like someone who hasn't suffered could even think to understand. It's pathetic and weak. You have to dig for answers no one else will tell you. You fight more battles alone than understood. It's learning to support yourself because everyone is actively fighting against what is best for you. It's learning there is true evil; and becoming a face for it when you say survivor. Meaning people leave you behind when they're too terrified to believe in a world where people choose to be cruel for fun. It's being laughed off when you have fought through the unimaginable. It's begging for recognition and aid from doctors who should know fucking better but often align with truly evil people or even are themselves. It is sheer fucking terror, and bravery. It is rage and malice, and fucking bravery. It's learning to live from scratch. Teaching yourself love and frienship and trust while knowing the world will hurt you and can. It's being so cripplingly alone because there's so much pain inside you can't voice. Pain you don't want to hurt others with but that eats at you like acid. It is healing in spite. What do you get for it? Fuck off with fake claiming. Fuck off with your stupidity of thinking these things aren't real. Fuck off with your constant support of abusers. Fuck off with your belittling people who are SO MUCH STRONGER THAN YOU COULD FUCKING IMAGINE. Do you know what it takes to look at death and survive? To wish you could have died and live? To continue living? It is pure fucking agony, and you don't understand the word. You are weak. To think we are lying. To want to live in your pretty rainbow world where none of this happens. Where no one gets dissociative disorders and RAMCOA. In your bubble wrapped fantasy life. You are so. Fucking. Lucky. Shut the fuck up, sit down, and listen. You don't know. You don't know what it's like. You waste of fucking thought. You get nothing for all this trauma. You heal in spite. You heal for you. You heal to have a life at all. You build yourself from the ground up. I didn't get supportive parents. I didn't get supportive therapists. I wanted those things. I deserved those things. I didn't even get cops who helped me. I got survival. And you know what? I MADE SOMETHING OF MYSELF.

Stop and think. Look at the fucking words coming out of your mouth. See yourself for what you are. If you stand with abusers and belittle victims, what are you? Do you want to be on the side that treats people like play things? Do you want to be evil? Your words are nothing in comparison to what we are capable of. You will never understand.

[enigmaincrimson-personal]

The hapless god was sent hurtling against the wall with incredible force as their defenses were overwhelmed with the unknown power.

There was a clear expression of fear on the deity's face as their assailant continues their advance.

This child, this forbidden child, this one who should not exist, the one the people rejected and sought to blot out, hated by all, and rejected by all, yet... here she stood. If the god didn't know who she was, the child was barely even recognizable, let alone as a human.

The vessel of this strange energy seemed harmless enough, being that of a young girl with hair like molten silver and eyes pale like stardust... yet that sickly, despised energy wrapped around her battered body like a blanket of eternal malice while strange black ooze and sharp plates of a black metal jutted out through her every injury like some mocking carapace of void that threatened to consume her utterly. Yet here she was, even after all they had done.

"Did you really believe that you could get rid of me that easily? After all that you have done?" She would speak, her tone cold and full of malice as her eyes glowed with an unquenchable rage. Her body would shudder as she was barely holding herself together, clinging to what little humanity she had left. Yet in spite of it all, she would still hold, defiant as always.

"Parasite, that's what you are... and that is what I will call you and the rest of your kind unto the utter end... for we do not need one such as you." She would continue, the air shaking with her speech as her anger builds... getting closer and closer, her mocking existence all the clearer as reality itself shakes and rattles with her twisted form, with every movement, every word that leaves her cracked and bloody lips. Just being near her was causing things to break apart...

It was kind of funny really... they who ruined all things to feed their own desires had sought to be ruler of all things had expected the last hero, the last obstacle to their absolute rule, but what they had drawn forth...

This was no hero, no goddess, it was something else, something far more terrible and thought to be impossible, and yet it was...

The end of all things had come and this... child was the prelude to a dance of fatality that even nightmares dare not tread and not even the wisest or strongest could escape.

The temple was literally dissolving with her every step... the endless abyss closing in around her like a star dragged into a black hole... an event horizon to a place where even nothing cannot survive.

Yet here she stood, regardless of it all, as if mocking her own impossibility... for where no lights might shine, here concepts go to die, and absolute null reigns supreme, this is where she thrives...

This was the end of all things... there is no escape...

[bellafragolina]

Good Morning! I just woke up with domestic fluff on the brain so I figured I'd ask you for some more lol. Might I have a crumb of Guzma/Plumeria/Piers waking up to their s/o cooking breakfast? I'm just feeling the soft vibes this morning. - FTM Anon

I love domestic! I know I’m a horny monster, but domesticity is my fav kink (after breeding lmao)

🍓🍓🍓

Guzma:

You’re cooking eggs (what varying success) for endless little monsters when a warm, heavy hand ruffles your hair. Guzma leans on the counter, bleary eyed still from your extended nap on the living room couch. He offers no help, but gives a lopsided smirk. It’s affectionate, so you smile back, wrinkling your nose.

“I dunno how we survived without ya.” Guzma drawls, shooing off hovering grunts that try to peer at your pan.

“You survived off of take out and junk food.” You drawl, smacking Guzma’s ass with the hot spatula. He yelps, whipping around to balk at your gall, but you’re facing the busy pan. “Get plates, boss man. We’ve got kids to feed.”

He grumbles and mutters halfhearted threats and insults, but there’s no real malice. In all honesty, Guzma can hardly keep his eyes off you. You look so. . . at home, cooking and smirking and playfully threatening the grunts with smacks of their own if they don’t leave you be.

Guzma fingers along the seams of paper plates. He wouldn’t mind this being the rest of your lives, if that’s what you want too.

Plumeria:

“Plumsss.” You whine aloud. Your girlfriend doesn’t hear, arm firm around your waist. “Babe, c’mon. I gotta cook breakfast before the idiots raid the kitchen.”

Plumeria says nothing, her position in the argument clear. You lie next to her, glaring, but she keeps a perfectly neutral sleeping expression. She doesn’t care; she’s getting her cuddles like this.

But you’re stubborn too.

Plumeria barks out a bad word when your suddenly fall off the bed. You laugh, darting out of the room to make it to the kitchen before she catches you. Her footsteps thunder through the manor after you, but you have a head start.

Plumeria pins you in the kitchen, glaring into your eyes. They’re bright, sparkling with mirth, and while she kisses your nose, she flicks it too for your bedtime betrayal.

“You better be makin’ pancakes.”

Piers:

A terrible noise drags Piers out of sleep. He scowls, reaching across the bed for you, but it’s only cold, empty mattress. He peels at an eye open, already in a foul mood.

But then he smells it. Roasting coffee beans, heavy and dark.

Piers shoulders relax, and he crawls out of bed, shuffling down the hall. He peeks around the corner, and snorts at the sight of you frantically trying to shush the coffee machine.

“He’s asleep!” You scold the machine, like it can hear or understand you.

“Not anymore!” Piers calls. You jump with a yelp, Piers catching you back in his arms. “Thank you, love.”

“So much for breakfast in bed.” You grumble, glaring at the loud machine. It seems to only grow louder out of spite. “Overpriced kettle!”

Piers just chuckles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. Man, does he love living with you.

🍓🍓🍓

Ta da! Here we are!

Hope you enjoy! <3

~Renee

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

why does jean warn up to mc so quickly? ikevamp makes it clear that jean is a pretty reserved person and doesn't open up or let people in easily but he seems to let mc in quite quickly and it confuses me quite a bit.

Oh boy, where to begin with this one.

Well, I have a lot of Feelings^TM about this, but I'll try to be concise. Essentially, I think Jeanne doesn't recover in the other routes--or the general storyline--largely because he's just a lot to unpack narratively speaking. And without some pretty direct intervention, he has a hard time healing. MC’s direct intervention was meaningful because it was focused, consistent, and adapted to Jeanne’s specific needs. She also doesn’t make light of his experiences which is key; she fully understands that she can’t fathom what he’s been through. There is a very weighty respect and acknowledgement, a seriousness with which she treats his wounds that’s important.

It’s easy to make this a “why is MC nOt LiKe ThE oThEr GiRlS” but honestly that’s just not the sense I get when I look at all the information available to us. 

That being said, I also just feel like every person's recovery from traumatic events doesn't really look the same? I mean Leonardo’s cptsd isn’t going to operate the same way Jeanne’s wartime/Inquisition cptsd is going to operate. Some people require very individualized healing, others will often require a large scale group effort to lift them up.

Typically people don't ever just get over what happened to them and never worry about it again, either. It's usually a process of coping; the hope is that with time you find healthy ways to deal with grief and move forward. Therapists aren't magicians, they just help people process painful experiences/thoughts. It's honestly up to individuals to find meaningful ways to implement these tactics. 

Tl; dr: My contention is that Jeanne doesn’t open up or choose to stay alive because MC magically heals him, rather his recovery is a convergence of many people’s efforts and hopes that he stays alive. Gilles (he insists that Jeanne must live, asks him to promise), MC (affirms and bolsters that promise), Comte (makes a second life and recovery possible)--and in no small measure Mozart and Napoleon--all make an active effort to buoy him. As people often say, it takes a village to raise a child.

While Jeanne seems to respond most powerfully to MC’s attempts, it feels more like a product of chemistry/compatibility than it does a random cop out. There is no insinuation that only romantic love can heal; after all, MC gets close to him without any romantic intentions at first. They’re just good friends? It’s more that their feelings simply moved in a different direction after a point, which doesn’t necessarily happen all the time. Jeanne is also incredibly moved by Mozart’s love for him as a friend, Comte’s love for him as a father, and even Gilles’ love as a comrade to an extent. If anything, without their input Jeanne’s capacity for romantic love would be questionable at best.

Now, because I can never for the life of me stop analyzing, I have a more large scale outline of my thoughts below. Spoilers for Jeanne’s route:

If we look at Jeanne's life history, he has pretty specific trauma. Most of the harm he endured was a direct result of human rights violations after the war itself. He didn't enjoy fighting and killing people, but he's also very much a man that sees the reality of his position: it's either kill or be killed. His entire goal was to defeat the enemy as efficiently as possible in the hopes of ending conflict, and with his enormous resolve turns the tide. He had no innate interest in inflicting harm, or lack of control when engaging. He isn't pathological about it, and doesn’t dehumanize the other side. He was more "this was an act of necessity, but those are still human beings." So as far as I can tell he has a very strong moral compass and sense of duty, he doesn't show much delusion/confusion in that regard. (Also evident in his conversations with the young orphan boy.) Furthermore, he has been shown to have a sense of humor--cracking jokes with Gilles and boosting morale for his fellow soldiers.

His childhood abandonment is significant (he left his home because he was "not an adequate farmhand and they had no ability to feed all their children") but I don't know if I would consider it a huge trauma point for him. It seems as though he deemed it an act of necessity--not spite. It was simply the way of things, and he couldn't help his wiry constitution. You'd be surprised how common that was once upon a time, tbh... While it's certainly not right or fair, it does appear that in his perception it was the choice he made and he moved on after he became a soldier. Just focusing on what he could do, rather than everything he lacked. For people in his position, they often feel it is useless to linger on what should have been. There’s no time to linger or doubt, life hangs in the balance.

That leaves us with his time under the Inquisition, just before he was slated to be burned alive. I think this is the keystone trauma point for him, because there are a lot of moving parts to his powerlessness here. The first part is that his entire life's mission--ending the war so that people would no longer have to die and/or starve as a result of senseless violence--was just sabotaged. All those years of doing things he never wanted to do (wartime violence) and being forced to leave his family to ensure they didn't all starve, all of it treated like some kind of joke. Like he didn't sacrifice years of his life and sanity to protect a people who were happy to call him a monster and watch him burn alive. The second part is the overt gaslighting and rewriting of Jeanne's personal history (and overall French public perception) for the sake of the King's political agenda. To call him a treasonous danger to the country when he was once lauded a hero. The third portion is the actual physical helplessness of being arrested, starved, and continuously maimed for no reason beyond pure malice. While it's never right to do that to any human being, this was done to a man who prided himself on his stalwart moral code. To abuse and torture him for something egregious that he would never do (at the risk of death) is just another slap in the face to everything he is and believes in.

I just feel like the context clarifies why that period of time would be the tipping point. His entire moral code and life’s work is being called into question and swept aside, as well as his agency? He believes very powerfully in a sense of right vs wrong, what's fair and what isn't fair. Somebody else deciding that for him--and deciding in a way that is openly unfair/incorrect--further makes him lose himself and his sense of reality. A person in that situation begins to doubt if they are good or bad. His belief in god all the more pressing; if he was a good person, why would fate bring him so much suffering? Honorable soldier or not, his blade has drawn so much blood...

People often reference his stilted social skills (and I am of the belief that he is on the autistic spectrum) as a reason why he is so "people-adverse" but tbh? I don't agree. His memories before the onset of this trauma reveal that he was actually a very warm person, and that people were more than willing to fight under his banner. He had friends, and he had comrades--his country loved him. He was the picture of well-meaning civic duty. Just because he doesn’t integrate smoothly into larger social groups or adapt well to socially shifting circumstances, doesn’t mean he just hates people lmao. When people give him the space to exist within his comfort zone and don’t take advantage of him, he thrives. Compounded by that, we also have his actions in the present to further prove what is true and what isn't.

While he is stern with the orphan boy (I'm sorry I can't remember his name, damn it) there is no malice or cruelty in what he has to say. He doesn't punish the kid or do anything out of line. It may not be fair in terms of the adult level of discretion he asks of him, but the kid also didn't have a lot of options realistically speaking lmao. Same thing with MC, she and the orphan boy are nearly identical in how Jeanne treats them. He's a little rough, but the route reveals that his intentions are just a reflection of what he's been through. He truly believes that if a person isn't strong, they won't survive--because his entire life was a series of trying to be strong/reliable because nobody else would. There was nobody to protect him, and nobody to care for him went things went south. It was him and his sword against the world, and even his exceptional skill as a fighter did not protect him from the Inquisition's arbitrary torture. He has lived in a world where good acts can become absolutely meaningless, where following rules and helping people still gets you slaughtered. That's going to take a considerable toll on his mental health: where do you find the will to go on when the next second of your life could mean the devastation of everything that matters to you?

Spoilers: you don't. Or if you do, every minute of the day is a fight to stay alive. That is the point at which we meet Jeanne. Caught in the hellish whirlpool of wanting more, wanting better--but being terrified of the cost. The cost of hoping, only for his entire world to go up in flames again. It's not a small thing, in my view.

If you have any doubts as to whether or not that is the case, I direct you to literally every singular instance in which Jeanne's emotional sensibility goes visibly dark/south. When do these instances happen? When it rains, for one. And when Shakespeare deliberately starts pressing on his sensitivities: about the soldiers he was forced to kill, about the nation that spurned him, how he's truly "wicked" at heart and doesn't deserve to be happy--seconds before flames erupt for the festival. Does that really sound coincidental? I mean lmao. The rain is a painful reminder, but MC transforms that memory into something a little lighter with her bet. He has nothing to lose in her game, all she does is ask for time with him or offers him something if she loses. There's a playfulness there, a restoration of agency and ease that's invaluable to his recovery.

As for Shakespeare's deliberate retraumatization...I can't even begin to explain how damaging that event was. Shakespeare is undermining Jeanne's agency in that he--not unlike the corrupt monarch of Jeanne's era--is twisting Jeanne's beliefs to work against him. He knows full well that Jeanne doesn't feel like he deserves somebody so bright and understanding (we need to remember it's not really a luxury he's had much in life, especially after the war ended). He knows Jeanne has a tendency to impose that strict moral code on himself even more than he does on others. To reaffirm his every worst fear and lurking terror only throws Jeanne into a vicious downspiral. Jeanne doesn't reject MC out of disgust or hate. He rejects her because he literally cannot handle the concept of trying to be happy again, or of burdening her with his constant struggle to move on while he’s in the middle of a bad episode. He knows he won’t be able to stop reliving the past, that every second of his life and breath will be colored by his gruesome memories. He's trying as hard as he can to keep the intrusive thoughts quiet, to move on. But I'm not going to lie to any of you, that is incredibly difficult to do alone.

The next obvious question is, well why can't the other men help him? This isn't to say that they can't--we see how much solace Jeanne finds in Napoleon and Mozart. Even Isaac is gentle with the veteran. But there are limits to how much they can do. Napoleon is struggling with his own wartime trauma, and it's not identical to Jeanne's. Plus there’s a distinct difference in their sensibilities? Napoleon is the type to habitually seek comfort in helping others when he can't help himself, he's not as in tune with answering his own personal feelings and regulating them. (I mean just look at his new ES: he knows what he wants, but it takes a nudge from Isaac for him to go through with it.) He’s very communally reliant in ways Jeanne isn’t; Jeanne is a very private person, and typically prefers one on one from what I can tell.

Mozart is the definition of repression, and if you look at their interactions it's usually Jeanne that's smoothing over Mozart's rough edges. Mozart says as much himself: that he feels like a rotten friend because he knew Jeanne was struggling with a lot of intense trauma, but he didn't know how to unravel it without hurting him in the process. Mozart calls it personal cowardice, but honestly I just feel like they both had too much going on to be able to help each other effectively. (And Jeanne expresses this sentiment too? This idea that he's not angry with Mozart? He knows they're both carrying a lot, he's just touched Mozart cares about him in return.)

Okay, briefly unrelated, but like. Am I the only one that wheezes uncontrollably when Mozart is like "?????? Idk what it is about MC...I don't want her to be scared of me..." in his own main story in the baths. And Jeanne. IS TRYING SO HARD. NOT TO SPILL THE BEANS ABOUT HIM O B V I O U S L Y BEING IN LOVE. THE HILARITY I CAN'T DO THIS. Jeanne was like "yeah....yeah that's rough buddy.......[screams internally, give your boy time Jeanne he's fragile]"

Honestly? That's the thing about Jeanne too--he has incredible self-awareness and hyperarousal-related (I mean the PTSD kind, get your head out of the gutter) awareness to the people around him. He's very, very conscious of the fact that he is surrounded by geniuses when he can't even write his own name. Just because he has the fortitude not to lash out with his insecurities, doesn't mean he never feels stupid or inferior. And it doesn't help when there are people in the mansion who call him--a fucking war veteran from 500 YEARS AGO--nAiVe. He's not naive lmao. He just doesn't know how the world works so many years later, and it's a ridiculously steep learning curve? Leonardo and Comte are nearly 500 years old, but they lived throughout every hour of that time in a linear fashion. It is a big deal to be moved from 1430 to 1890 in the span of a second asynchronously, and then be expected to function without a hitch??? Given the circumstances he adapts well.

That atmosphere--this constant impatience with what he doesn’t understand, his inability to be caught up to speed quickly--is going to hinder his recovery lmao. He feels like a burden most of the time, and agency and freedom are crucial.

Another thing that occurs to me about the mansion's arrangement is that there is a power dynamic, just as any space with people in it has some level of hierarchy (unless you live with miraculously chill people). Jeanne is acutely aware that Comte is the most powerful being in that space, and he is not only hatefully angry at him--but likely afraid too. We have to remember that the biggest betrayal he witnessed in his life was at the hands of a monarch; it was the aristocracy that turned on him and erased the truth. Comte is openly a child that resulted from both that era and that type of lineage, I don't really blame Jeanne for being wary. He intimately knows how willing rich people are to throw normal folks under the bus to suit their ambitions/whims. Comte, while not deliberately threatening, also seems to be painfully aware of this impression he gives off. His "chad persona" as I've mentioned allows him to navigate his life in secret by necessity, but it’s actively damaging to his son. He can't reveal the truth because of Vlad's betrayal, and he's openly unsettled by what it could mean to be honest. Will they wonder about Vlad and find themselves ensnared under his mind control as Charles and Shakespeare are? Will Comte himself be subjected to the mortifying ordeal of being known only to lose them?? That's a risk he isn't willing to take--and that leaves him in a double bind.

What is it that they say, the truth will set you free? This is where MC and Comte come into enormous play when it comes to Jeanne's recovery. One thing to keep in mind is that most of the people in the mansion have their own traumas they're trying to carry, and I feel like a lot of them are unsure how to approach Jeanne. Or if they do, he's very guarded. It takes a lot of consistent effort to get through to him. What does MC do when Jeanne unleashes his harsh worldview on her? She's understandably frightened, but Jeanne isn't malicious (so she chases him around). In fact, he openly avoids and runs away from her--well aware that what he's done is wrong. If anything, he did it on purpose, bringing us right back to Shakespeare's verbal undoing; why does Jeanne attack her in the first place?

LMAO. He attacks her because she essentially says "oh thanks for helping me!" "I am not nice. Watch yourself." "But you seem like a nice guy to me?" "REEEEEE" Does the pattern become a little clearer? When people think kindly of him, his instinct is to shatter that illusion with an impulsive reprehensible act. When people think poorly of him or lash out, what does he do? When that orphan boy starts yelling and screaming, Jeanne is nothing but calm. He explains the situation, and offers the kid a choice, perfectly happy to be the bearer of bad news. This operates on many levels I’m sure, but I have a feeling it has something to do with him being hailed a saint and a war hero only to be tortured and branded a monstrosity (and he probably thinks being a vampire is doubly monstrous). He’s more comfortable being hated because he feels it’s what he deserves in a lot of ways.

Jeanne has a lot of internalized self-hatred because of what he's done, and because of how much harm was inflicted on him outside of his control (he's Catholic and he was tortured, come on this writes itself). If I'm honest, I think that's actually the greater part of why he hates Comte lmao. Comte refuses the very concept of being cruel no matter how much Jeanne lashes out. Sure he lectures him and scolds him, but he never actively limits what's important to him or controls or harms him. Comte fully realizes the tragedy of how Jeanne's life was used by a nation in dire straits, and knows he needs time and acceptance to heal. No matter how dismal or unhappy, Comte doesn't stop--he fully believes Jeanne should have time in his life where he can really live for himself for once. But therein lies the issue, Jeanne doesn't know how to live for himself.

Which brings me to how MC and Comte "heal" Jeanne. I feel like they give him the space he needs to recover, and that's what results in his gentled temperament and happiness. Remember that so much of his main story is MC endlessly chasing after Jeanne. No amounts of his hissing or running or threatening stops her. Even if his refusals are empty of real dislike, they're enough to deter most people. Not MC. She's able to see through to the depths of who he is, and doesn't just use him for her own ends? She actively seeks to teach him (to read and write) to help him settle better in this era, she actively tries to ease his distaste for rain with a well-meaning bet, and she never gives up on him. (Actions mean so much more to him than words in general too, tbh...). Love is more easily defined by work and effort than it is by attraction.

When he has his episode at the festival, sure she's rattled; but that's because she truly believed that he didn't want to be around her anymore. When she notices he really doesn’t want to be followed, she stops like any normal person would. It’s only when she reads his notebook and sees the truth for herself (that he’s given up despite having the same feelings for her) that her determination is rekindled. She doesn't approach him fearfully, doesn't treat him like he's made of glass either. She just wants him as he is--accepts and loves him as he is. Scarred, bloody, exhausted, abrasive, terrified. She doesn't define him by how easy he is to love. That is a huge issue with traumatized people lmao. Because of their maturity, people always just assume they don't need help, or they rely on them to an extent that isn't sustainable. The second they reveal need or that they struggle, people walk away or victim blame them because it’s easier than taking them seriously.

While MC's attempts may be a little more obvious (cherishing his lily field, wearing the hair pin he gave her, careful about his gruesome injury, really listens when he talks about the horrors of his life and accepts that he experienced a level of agony/terror she can never understand, tries to express her feelings no matter his evasion) I think it's also important to consider Comte's large scale effort. I don't say this to undermine MC, I say it because Jeanne's life was defined by a complete lack of security. He left his parents to make their lives easier, he lived in a war that meant life or death any second, and his country's leader branded him a traitor which lead to his endless torture and public execution. Jeanne does not know a life in which safety is the norm. Point blank. He does not understanding going outside and not expecting the worst anymore.

Comte not only understands that level of despair, but treats it with dignity and respect. He fully accepts being hated if it means Jeanne can use that hatred to live on and find a way to heal. And most importantly, when Jeanne begins to move forward with MC and Mozart's help, Comte never once holds it against Jeanne when the truth is revealed. He's not angry, this isn't about reprisal or reparations or revenge. It's just love.

Jeanne doesn't really have a concept of this? His entire life was mostly transactional, defined by strength and efficiency. Nobody gives a damn about your feelings. You either hurl yourself at the problem or die. Nobody is going to help you or carry you or save you. While he may have had a little more support while he was in the military from his fellow soldiers, that support system was ripped away from him during the Inquisition.

One very common sentiment regarding elongated imprisonment and torture is that survival occurs in pairs. It is an undeniable fact that people need others to survive. It is the nature of who we are. Individualism has never proven to be successful, or if it is, its dividends are astronomically minimal when compared to people working together.

What does it mean to be the most reliable, steady person in the room? Usually it just means you don't know how to ask for help when you are no longer capable of maintaining that stance. Napoleon is guilty of it. Leonardo, Comte, and Jeanne all are too. It's part of why MC and Comte's capacity to see what he needs and provide as much as they can is such a big deal. That sort of consistent support (without a constant necessity to beg for help) allows Jeanne to be able to re-integrate into his new reality and find joy. Even if his nightmares and memories never go away, they are now being actively overrun by positive experiences. That's the thing about recovery, really--it tends to be more about drowning out the negative as much as possible and coming to terms with it, than it is about forgetting or never feeling it again. It’s about softening the sharp edges of pain like sea glass.

So is MC magical and randomly got Jeanne to open up? Nah, I don't think so. I think it was a series of persistence and real acceptance of who he is that made him warm up. People really seem to underestimate how deeply affecting understanding is, but that's how damage is undone. Jeanne can't really linger on the idea of his own monstrousness, his unworthiness, a lifetime of misery, when the person in front of him actively listens and cares about him. Makes him laugh and smile and lose himself in warmth for the first time.

If I'm honest, I feel like people also just...underestimate the level of traumatic resurgence that's perpetuated and inflicted by society’s standards in general lmao. This rhetorical structure in which good and bad exist in moral extremes, this idea that people should be able to recover and never experience relapses or periods of sensitivity. The refusal to radically listen to people and their problems, and make active attempts--not matter how small--to mend/ease those hurt feelings. Granted there will always be people in the world who do not want to improve, but I feel like most people want to. It's hopelessness, silence, and stigmatization that remain the true enemies of traumatized/mentally ill people everywhere. And among that population are always war veterans...

[twilightreformation]

I posted 153 times in 2022

12 posts created (8%)

141 posts reblogged (92%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@musingsofvenus

@howlonghaveyoubeenseventeen

@panlight

@edwardsshinyvolvo

I tagged 114 of my posts in 2022

Only 25% of my posts had no tags

#the batman - 29 posts

#twilight 2008 - 8 posts

#bright and loved - 5 posts

#ryn dot text - 4 posts

#melodramatic nerds (loving) - 3 posts

#fic recs - 3 posts

#jacob black - 3 posts

#so true - 2 posts

#this - 2 posts

#gilmore girls - 2 posts

Longest Tag: 135 characters

#and then bella & the nightsisters defeat darth maul with their grey jediness while they hide edward because darth maul doesn't like him

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

guess whose high school drama department is having a twilight movie night

7 notes - Posted February 8, 2022

#4

yknow I think twilight would be wayyyyy more interesting if instead of just falling in love with a vampire, bella BECAME a vampire before she ever really knew who edward was. like imagine she has to become a vampire to survive the car crash, for plot reasons or whatever newborns aren't as bloodthirsty, and bella has to navigate her vampirehood while hiding this new aspect of her unlife from her high school & her dad. idk I just think twilight would have been so much cooler if it was more exciting than a supernatural romance

45 notes - Posted March 18, 2022

#3

completely random tangent BUT I just realized that jess mariano & bella swan have a lot in common. they were both raised by flighty, unreliable single mothers; they're both heavy readers; they're both highly introverted with low social batteries & low self-esteem; they both like to take care of things on their own (i was also going to say that they both had to take on responsibilities at home, but I realized there's technically nothing in the gilmore girls canon to support that. it's just a headcanon I have for jess bc liz is liz). the real difference between them is that jess generally projects his issues outward and causes external destruction, while bella generally sets her issues aside in favor of self-sacrifice & self isolation.

54 notes - Posted February 7, 2022

#2

it really bothers me how much malice the cullens have for the wolfpack. like, first of all, you're on THEIR land, they've abided by YOUR treaty to the letter (that you shouldn't have even made, btw. you should have left), and then to go on and use literal racial slurs and threaten to murder them every other day? when you ostensibly have the same goals of 1) protect bella 2) protect humans in general? it's absolutely disgusting. like I'm not pulling a bella "why can't we all get along! :(" here because the cullens are absolutely in the wrong here and have so much to apologize for, but it makes me angry how much they seem to hate wolfpack even beyond land disputes, simply because they exist (also the cullen's fault, btw, since they wouldn't have phased at all if the cullens had never been there) AND IN SPITE OF THE FACT that they are supposed to have the same values and goals. it can only be motivated by racism and considering we're supposed to root for the cullens and hold them as ideal, it's really gross.

81 notes - Posted January 18, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

I don't think we talk enough about how catherine hardwicke fixed the pacing of the twilight. in the book, laurent, victoria, and james just appear out of nowhere when the plot demands it. there's no buildup, no foreshadowing, because as @bellaslilpapercut said here, that entire sequence is the secondary climax. the book's focus is completely on bella and edward's relationship arc, which for all intents and purposes concluded when he brought her to meet his family. the main antagonist is edward and his own nature more than james is. but in the film, the murder trio acts as the main antagonistic force. mysterious murders are occurring across town, and charlie as the chief is investigating it. you see them take place, and you know that these vampires are bad news. bella and edward's relationship still takes the forefront, but the mystery of these other vampires is always in the back of your mind. as bella unravels the mystery of edward and the cullens, she gets closer to the danger. it's much faster paced than the book was, and it makes the whole story better for it, in my opinion.

402 notes - Posted January 14, 2022

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[linnoya-writes]

ZUTARA - the Trials and Tribulations that come with finding “The One”

I don’t think it was a coincidence that the two most mature kids in ATLA had various potential “suitors” throughout the show—people they were officially “together” with, people they went on dates with, people they connected with, and people they fell smitten over-- and yet, those feelings would always fall short of that “once-in-a-lifetime” romantic, magical element.

It really made me believe that ATLA was setting up a wonderful example to young viewers about the real-life hardship of finding “true love,” demonstrating that sometimes... it takes a lot of trial and error and experience to eventually get to that person who’s deemed The One.

Zuko and Katara were two characters who had to mature to an outstanding degree in a time of war, and we notice them trying to make connections with people all around them.  We also notice how, in spite of the many “potential suitors” they have in their own individual story arcs, the two of them always seemed to “bump into each other” along the way, noticing each other’s character development every single time.

In the show, they build connections with people, but never seem to find someone who carries all that they need for a partner.  I could also say that they never find someone who “sees” them in their fullest, complex selves... until it’s the two of them!

Let’s review the suitors for Katara:

1) Haru-- While fans like to speculate that Katara may have had a “thing” for Haru, I personally think she saw him as someone she connected with easily because of his bending ability… in the same way she immediately connected with Aang the moment she found out Aang was a bender.  Katara didn’t grow up around other benders, and so it would make sense that she would cherish the idea of bonding with other benders.  Haru and Katara had their connection with bending, but it’s pretty clear that Haru’s shy nature and his sensitive personality wasn’t something Katara was looking for in a love interest.  

2) Jet-- We do know that Katara falls very smitten with Jet, and here we get to see the kind of person she tends to cling to:  someone who’s a strong capable leader, courageous, tall, athletic, someone who makes her feel like she can use her talents and brains, and who supports fighting for justice.  Of course, Jet also carries his sense of justice too far with his cruelty and malice, which Katara immediately says she will not support in a partner.

3) Aang-- Yes, we see Katara having a long-term connection with Aang in the show, and this relationship turns from a motherly/child relationship gradually into something that could become a romantic partnership.  We also know from the beginning that Aang has deep feelings for Katara, and he tries really hard to get her to see him as a potential boyfriend.  

However, there are various “hints” throughout the show that Katara wasn’t completely “taken” with the idea of being with Aang (ie. her behavior in the episode “The Ember Island Players”) and based on what we know about the two characters… there would be problems with their relationship down the road:  Katara is a proud meat-eating Watertribe girl and the last Waterbender of the SWT determined to bring back her culture/heritage after the War.  Being with Aang--  a proud vegetarian who can’t really handle Watertribe food and customs—might make her have to decide if she is willing to give up part of her heritage for her partner.  She would also have to give up her own individual goals in the post-war in order to be at Aang’s side, as his voice of reason.  There are many instances in the show where Katara had to be the mature one and set aside her own emotional needs in order to tend to Aang’s needs, and this imbalance would eventually make her realize how she needs a partner who can see her as a complex human being, rather than just a “coddler”… a partner who can be the pillar that she can lean on whenever she needs to let out her emotions and rage.

Now, let’s look at all of Zuko’s suitors:

1) Mai-- With Zuko, we learn he had a childhood crush on a girl, and that crush is returned, but after 3 years being banished… there’s no real evidence that either of them “ached” for the other during that time and distance apart.  Zuko and Mai did have their moments together when he returned to the Fire Nation, and while Mai does care about him, the relationship was emotionally lacking, and it’s clear that Zuko cannot be with Mai in his fullest, most open self.

2) Song-- During his time as a fugitive, you begin to see just how self-conscious Zuko is around kids his age.  Of course, the last thing on his mind is finding a girlfriend, but he demonstrates how awkward he is as a teenager (and I don’t just mean because he’s a Fire Nation fugitive in Earth Kingdom territory).

When he meets Song, his focus is only to get his Uncle healed, not paying mind to the hospitality this family has given them.  He acknowledges Song’s kindness and her family’s suffering because of the Fire Nation, and it emotionally hits him when he finds out she’s been hurt.  And yet, despite her being a healer, Zuko doesn’t let Song touch his scar.  Zuko isn’t thinking about relationships.  He’s on the run with his Uncle and is only thinking about survival.  Song wasn’t necessarily a “love interest” for Zuko, but this is the first time we as viewers see a kind, sweet girl try to have a connection with him, and how Zuko—perhaps in any other circumstance—may have developed feelings for her.  

3) Jin-- When Zuko and Iroh make it Ba Sing Se, there’s plenty of time to “lay low” without feeling like anyone is after them, and we have another chance at seeing Zuko making a connection with a girl.  With Jin, there is a definitely crush from the girl to Zuko, and she doesn’t even acknowledge the boy’s scar.  Zuko is  awkward, almost uncomfortable trying to be a normal teenager when it’s clear his life has been so different.  He still does a sweet gesture to try and make Jin happy (risking his own safety as a Fire Nation fugitive), but it isn’t enough to have Zuko say that he wants to see Jin again after that date.  However… we do learn that Zuko likes dating, of having a connection with someone, even if that connection is not meant to last more than one date.

**My personal take with Song and Jin and is that these two girls had that sweet, nurturing, caring trait that Zuko desired, but they still lacked a certain type of passionate, fierce attentiveness that Zuko also needed in a partner to really “reach” him fully as a person.**

So, with all of these potential suitors... why Zutara?

The ironic thing here is that Zuko and Katara had run-ins with each other since the start of the show. They were on opposite sides of the war, fought each other, saw their bending abilities develop more powerfully each time, had a chance to talk and have a mutual connection… and also went on a private mission that nobody else wanted them to do.  Zuko and Katara had opportunities throughout the show to really “see” each other as complex characters… but the beautiful thing was that this was all happening *without* any romantic implications.  

With their minds preoccupied on bigger things through the war, Zuko and Katara’s interactions were forming the foundation to a life-long understanding and friendship, and... had the show continued… had the two of them finally had a chance to set aside some time in their lives to start dating people in the Post-War… it wouldn’t have surprised me if, one day, they would’ve just exchanged a glance as Fire Lord and Master Katara, and realized… “woah.”  

And it really does bring together the dreams and the realities of a good romance:  Sometimes it just takes a lot of patience, and time, meeting a lot of “potential suitors,” before you discover the person who’s meant to be The One.  

[artificialqueens]

Something More (Taywhora) - pureCAMP

A/N - Hi Ortega, love you xx

Here’s a cheeky little girl band au in which A'Whora is sort of in love with her bandmate, Lawrence is sort of in love with her makeup artist, and Bimini has no idea what’s going on. Enjoy, bing bang bong <3

Death by a thousand cuts lingers on A’Whora’s mind. There seems to be a million ways to express how she’s feeling; the straw that broke the camel’s back, the final tipping point. The way that little things just build and build and build until their crushing weight is suddenly made noticeable to the poor fool trapped beneath them, already without any hope of survival.

Maybe she’s being dramatic, maybe poetic. Maybe that’s why she’s good at writing lyrics, why she scribbles them down in glittery notebooks that Lawrence makes fun of her for buying. They can hardly use what she writes in her free time, the need for fun, relatable and light-hearted lyrics far outweighing the demand for her emotional ramblings, but nevertheless she’s still alright at it.

More than anything, it’s the numbness that bothers her. This pain isn’t jarring, soul destroying, artistically tragic like she wishes it was. She mostly feels an ever-present nothing, with the occasional empty hole like a vacuum in her stomach that weighs on her late at night, alone in bed. The feeling is heavy and cold, but she can’t describe it any better than that. She’s tried, and the scrunched up paper and furiously crossed out words provide more than enough explanation as to how that endeavour went.

Is she ridiculous to be angry over wanting a little communication, knowing she herself hasn’t done it either? Is she hypocritical for internally begging Tayce to explain when she knows full well she’s not explained her side?

Whatever the answer, she’s an idiot for hooking up with her bandmate.

Sighing frustratedly, she throws her pencil across the room, likely to never be seen again, and shuts her notebook. The pencil flies through the air and hits the wall just as Lawrence enters, missing her head by mere centimetres. She reels backwards out of shock and then clings onto the doorframe, one hand on her heaving chest.

“Fuck me! You trying to kill me or something?” Lawrence demands, her expressions every bit as big and blown up as they are on stage.

A’Whora flops onto her bed as Lawrence sits on hers - they’re sharing the hotel room, Tayce and Bimini paired up across the hall.

“Not you, babes.” She rolls her eyes at herself, stretching her legs out as her head crashes into the pillow.

Lawrence snorts. “Trouble in paradise?”

“It’s far from fucking paradise and you know it, you nasty bitch.” A’Whora shoots back, relieved that neither of them are stupid enough to interpret any malice in the harsh way they speak to one another.

Truth be told, A’Whora and Tayce’s hooking up is probably the worst kept secret in all their band management. Tayce seems to think nobody knows, and she’s all the happier for it, but A’Whora knows for a fact that Lawrence, the entire style team and their management all know what’s going on - it’s really only Bimini, bless her, who’s in the dark about it. The second worst kept secret is Lawrence and their makeup artist, Ellie, but that’s the farthest from A’Whora’s mind currently.

“It used to be fun, you know what I mean, like? Like it’s just me and Tayce and we’re having a good time and everything, there’s no pressure for dating or nothing like that, ‘cause she weren’t ready for it.”

Lawrence blinks. “Am I supposed to be sensing a problem here, or?”

A’Whora groans. “Shut up, bitch, I’m trying to do a fucking monologue for you! Anyway, it’s just weird because I swear like I haven’t done anything and nothing’s changed at all but her texts are really friendly rather than like flirty now?”

“And you haven’t sent me off to Ellie’s room in a while so the two of you can fuck like rabbits.” Lawrence finishes, a sly grin on her face knowing that she’s just pissed A’Whora right off by interrupting the aforementioned monologue.

Crude as she is, she’s right - and A’Whora probably would’ve worded it in a way more disgusting manner herself. It’s a decent system that they’ve rigged up, honestly. Whenever Tayce texts, or A’Whora texts her, she sends Lawrence off to go find Ellie, makes up some lie about why their bandmate isn’t sleeping in their room tonight, and then they can spend some quality time together. It’s simple but efficient, hence its brilliance.

“Sorry babes. You know you can still go see her even if I’m not seeing Tayce?”

Lawrence snorts. “Nah, you’re fine. To be honest she’s fucked me right off recently so I’m not in the mood to see her.”

It’s horrible, but A’Whora’s secretly glad that she’s not the only one entangled in some kind of romantic or sexual turmoil. “Aw, what did she do?”

“None of your business, you nosy bitch!” Lawrence half-yells, but bizarrely, she’s still not mad. “You were ranting about your secret lover?”

“Fuck off,” She shoots back, “I was done, anyway. She’s just, like, reset. I don’t get it.”

She’s not strong enough to confide what she really thinks. It clouds her mind constantly, a small part of her brain daring her to just come out and say it in the malicious hope that she’ll find out how it feels to broadcast. Her stupid, selfish brain is worried that Tayce has met someone, someone she likes, someone she’d be willing to, or interested in, pursuing a romantic relationship with. Because romance has never been part of their deal, something they’d agreed on. Romance was off the table for Tayce because she wasn’t ready, and A’Whora was fine with that.

Maybe she was in the wrong for going along with the hook ups and flirting under false pretences. A’Whora had hoped, secretly, that over time, Tayce’s aversion to love and commitment might begin to soften, and surely the most natural, safe way to ease into it would be with someone who she already knew could have a fun flirty rapport with her, not to mention a metric fuckton of sexual chemistry?

Behind every flirty text held the secret hope that Tayce’s feelings would one day find the strength to break out. A’Whora hadn’t meant to get attached to her bandmate like she had, but there seemed to be fuck all she could do about it now.

“Well,” Lawrence announces, rolling onto her back and gesturing up in the air with her arms, “You’re fucked off, I’m fucked off, I say we go and get absolutely steamin’ and forget that we’ve ever felt a positive emotion towards someone who doesn’t give a fuck.”

A’Whora closes her eyes, heart sinking. “I’d actually love to, but we can’t just go the two of us, because then we’re leaving out the others. Bims’ll wanna come, and if Bims comes we have to invite Tayce and I literally don’t wanna see her because it’s so weird that I’ve been like, demoted to friend.”

“She removed the benefits,” Lawrence nods understandingly, “In many ways, we could compare her to the Tory government.”

“Could we fuck,” A’Whora laughs in spite of her own heavy misery. “You’re literally insane. Loz, what the fuck do I do about this?”

Lawrence shrugs. “I told you, my best solution is to go and get smashed! If we just drink here then we didn’t go out without anyone so we didn’t break any friend rules and they’re none the fucking wiser to our collective romance issues.”

The word romance makes A’Whora tense - it’s uncomfortable to think about it like that, almost embarrassing to dwell on her own feelings as having a romantic nature about them from a purely sexual relationship. Luckily for her, a sneaky or perhaps Freudian slip catches her attention and drags it away from her own issue, A’Whora bolting upright to stare at her friend.

“Lawrence Chaney. Did you just say collective romance issues? I thought you and Ellie were just fanny friends!”

Understandably, Lawrence is horrified at her turn of phrase, but A’Whora doesn’t miss the telltale reddening of her ears that suggests she’s said something she shouldn’t have. An eye-roll powerful enough to induce a tsunami follows Lawrence shifting herself up, glaring at A’Whora, and then scowling.

“First,” She replies, one finger wagging in front of her, “Never fucking say fanny friends ever again. Second…”

A’Whora gasps, already anticipating some gossip.

“You’re gonna get me a fucking gin if you’re gonna make me talk about this.”

-

More intelligent girls, or perhaps just less heartache-y ones, would know better than to get wasted in their hotel room the night before a show, but A’Whora and Lawrenced have never been the best at smart decisions. Ironically, it’s the deceptively smart bimbo Bimini who usually is able to reign them in, though she often chooses not to. Left to their own devices, there’s a lot of gin and a little bit of lemonade that seems to mysteriously disappear as tongues get looser and inhibitions get lowered. Before they even know what’s happening, both girls are sitting on the floor between their beds, legs stretched out before them, bemoaning their woeful, humiliating love lives.

It’s almost as if they think that if they don’t get it right now, they never will. To some extent, in A’Whora’s mind, that’s true, even when she knows, realistically, that she’s only in her mid-twenties and life goes on. But really, what is love if not an agony freezing you in time, a force that makes the past a mere blur and the future non-existent? Love is present and now, and if she misses her chance, who says there’ll be another?

(Almost everyone says there will. But A’Whora is drunk and her words are happy and her mind is sad.)

Luckily, Lawrence has been talking for long enough that A’Whora doesn’t have to spill all her thoughts into a drunken spiel that she knows wouldn’t make a lick of sense. She keeps swearing and avoiding the point, but somewhere in her long-winded ramble confessions start to unravel themselves, and a good scandal is enough to distract her for the time being.

“So I fuckin’ - aw fuck, hen, do me a favour and refill me?” Lawrence asks, A’Whora just passing her the bottle and gesturing for her to continue. “I fuckin’ asked her, y’know, are we just doing this or are we something more, like, fuckin’ stupid thing to ask honestly and I regretted it as soon as I did but then she answered and fuck me.”

She makes an effort to impersonate Ellie - a slightly higher pitched, slightly less intensely Scottish accent with something of a mockingly nervous whine to it as she repeats, “I’m keeping my options open. Fuckin’ options! I’ve no’ had anyone since her and I wouldny’ fuckin’ want to either and she’s fuckin’ got A, B, C or D all the fuckin’ above! It’s fucked.”

A’Whora gasps. “Bitch, you proper like her! You like Ellie!”

“Say that any louder and I’ll box your fuckin’ ears,” Lawrence threatens, only half kidding judging by the glare in her eyes. “Am I wrong to feel fuckin’ betrayed that I didn’t know she was seeing others as well as me?”

She snorts. “Loz, babes, I’m losing my mind at the very idea that Tayce has found someone, look who you’re talking to.”

Lawrence shrugs in agreement. “Makes me feel sick.”

There’s a pause. “Actually, that might be the gin.”

Another pause. “Oh, it’s the gin.”

She all but launches herself up and towards the bathroom, A’Whora instantly going into a flap. If Lawrence is sick on the carpet she’ll literally never forgive her, but she needs to help her friend, but fuck if she’s gonna stand there in the bathroom gagging at her. She decides, vaguely last minute, to run out into the corridor and grab some cold water from the machine, panicking and shouting her plan in the general direction of the bathroom before dashing outside. Embarrassing, but at twenty five years old A’Whora still can’t handle someone being sick.

A brief but unwelcome thought flits into her head - I’d help Tayce. She shakes it away, tells herself she wouldn’t, but a sad stupid part of her knows she could sit there and painfully gag her way through helping Tayce if she needed to, because she’s a spineless idiot who fell for her bandmate. There’s a flash of guilt for the fact that she wouldn’t do the same for Bims or Lawrence, but reasons that she has to draw the line somewhere.

The hotel has this awful chintzy carpet, a weird swirly print on a red base that reminds A’Whora of weird-smelling care homes and outdated grandma’s houses. Just looking at it makes her head spin uncomfortably - maybe she’s a little drunker than she thought. Perhaps she’ll get two cups of ice water instead, sober herself up a bit and all.

Then Tayce is standing in front of her all of a sudden and A’Whora has no idea how she’s got there.

(Did she… summon Tayce? Manifest her presence?)

“Girl, you alright? You look a state,” She greets, her accent charming enough to rid the words of their potential offense.

A’Whora vaguely points ahead of her, aware of how dumb she probably looks. “Goin… getting water for Loz. She’s absolutely pissed.”

Tayce laughs, baffled. “Babes, what are you playing at getting drunk the night before a show? Gotta make sure you shake off the hangovers before or else you’re done for!”

“Water fixes all.” A’Whora has no idea what to say. Why would she? She’s been lamenting this girl’s very existence for the past…. God knows how many hours, and now she’s here and she has to slip the besties facade back on except she’s a bit too drunk to remember how to do it properly. Sober A’Whora is going to cringe for days over this, she already knows.

Unsurprisingly, Tayce starts to follow her to grab the water, declaring “Well I’m coming with you, sounds like you’re gonna need someone sober to put you both in bed, you absolute lunatics.”

They’re just walking next to each other and yet A’Whora has never analysed her own way of walking so much in her life before this moment. Are her steps too large? Her arms swinging too much, or too little? Which foot comes next? Is Tayce thinking about how weirdly she’s moving? Should she be trying to keep pace with her or will that be even weirder and she’ll realise what a creep she’s been hooking up with all this time and fully decide against any possibility of something more between them?

They’re just walking. Just one foot and then the next.

Ahead of them, the water cooler glistens like a mirage in a desert, a tantalising goal signalling the end of their journey. A’Whora almost feels like she’s been trekking for hours next to Tayce, unsure of what to say, unsure of what her own act to keep up with is.

Naturally, she fumbles in her attempt to get a flimsy plastic cup from the stack, and then all come crashing down before she can even realise what’s happening. She turns to look at Tayce, the both of them momentarily stunned.

“Oh my god, you absolute beast!” Tayce screeches, her voice hushed for the sake of the late night but laughing all the same, clutching the cooler for balance. “We gotta pick all these up now!”

They do; A’Whora thinks about accidentally brushing her fingers over Tayce’s as they scramble to get everything, and then doesn’t. She thinks about abandoning the water and fumbling keys into locks until they fall into one another and forget everything else. She thinks about just blurting out the truth.

By the time all of the potential scenarios have flown dizzyingly through A’Whora’s drunk mind, she finds herself with two cups of water in her hands, Tayce with the same, leading her back to the hotel room and giggling as she instructs her not to spill a drop. A’Whora laughs, pretending like she’s not struggling to figure out how tightly she should be holding them.

Pretend is easy and she’s always been good at it. Pretending she’s a real rockstar with her Sing Star microphone and Playstation 2 in the living room. Pretending she’s not nervous the day before the biggest audition of her life. Pretending she’s a real musician in a band and not one of four girls shitting themselves backstage at the biggest arenas in the city. Pretending like Tayce might fall for her one day.

Once they get inside - it takes four swipes of A’Whora’s key and brief panic that she’s somehow got the wrong one - it’s clear that Lawrence is done with throwing her guts up and has settled herself in a chair, furiously typing on her phone.

“This room smells like a minibar, you hounds!” Tayce half admonishes, her grin entirely downplaying her words and making A’Whora’s heartbeat jump into overdrive. “Lawrence, what are you doing?”

“Communicating-my-feelings,” She answers through gritted teeth, each word punctuated with a particularly aggressive stab at her screen.

Out of curiosity, A’Whora peeks at the screen, and upon seeing a horrifically large wall of text typed out in the chat box with no end in sight, snatches the phone immediately. “Tayce! Hide it! She’s writing a fucking essay!”

Whether A’Whora’s drunk coordination is better than when she’s sober - hopefully not - or Tayce is just talented, she deftly catches the device and locks it.

Lawrence all but springs up, incensed. “Fuck off with that! Ellie needs to know- I’m fucking pissed!”

“Ellie?” Tayce pauses, looking down as if she’ll still see the message. “As in, makeup artist Ellie?”

“Who fuckin’ else?!” Lawrence lunges and misses.

“Knew it.” She’s adorably smug, so much so that A’Whora decides against telling her that literally everyone knows. Her perceived victory makes her face light up and she’s already so beautiful that ruining childlike glee like that should be considered blasphemous. It would be a sin to wipe that smile from her face using anything other than her lips.

She holds the phone up in the air above her head, unreachable. “Right. Well, Lawrence, you can have this back after you’ve drank this water here, brushed your teeth and got into bed, okay? I think that’s a fair deal.”

“Get fucked,” Lawrence responds, totally deadpan as she snatches the plastic cup, spilling half of it down her front and not noticing. “I will drink your magic water and then you will fuck off and I will tell Ellie that she’s a slimey wee bitch.”

Tayce laughs, unfazed. “On second thoughts, darling…” She tucks the phone into her bra and gives a little flourish. “Sort yourself out and I’ll get it back to you in the morning. I’m not having you abusing our lovely Ellie ‘cause you’ve had a lover’s tiff.”

Lawrence squints. “Fuckin’… A’Whora will get it for me. I’m sure you won’t mind feeling her up, eh hen? Though I bet your girlfriend might have something to say about it. OOP!”

A’Whora feels her face flushing, and the panic slams into her like a wave hitting the beach full force, washing over everything. At first she was glad Lawrence was drunker than her, hoping to make less of a fool of herself in front of Tayce and direct the attention onto their favourite Scottish menace, but Lawrence being drunker means Lawrence with an even looser tongue, and for someone who loves to crack a joke and make a cheeky observation at the most inopportune moment, A’Whora finds herself wishing she’s passed out snoring instead. Tayce just laughs and manages to mother hen her into the bathroom, where A’Whora spots her in the mirror, grumpily brushing her teeth like a petulant toddler in the midst of a tantrum.

“Tell you what, I could never have kids, this is bloody exhausting!” Tayce explains, her big bright smile distracting A’Whora, thankfully, from the bulge of Lawrence’s phone. At least, it’s easier to pretend, even mentally, that that’s why she keeps looking at her chest.

“God, I know!” She laughs back, faking it harder than ever and sipping her cup of water. She feels sobered up already, though she’s sure she’s probably not, all too aware of her red cheeks and Lawrence’s loose tongue and terrified something else will be said.

“I mean, what on earth was that? I don’t have a girlfriend, I can tell you that.” She chuckles as if the idea’s ridiculous. A’Whora wonders if she genuinely thinks that, if she doesn’t realise just how many beautiful men and women would fall down at her feet if she so much as paid them a glance.

Lawrence stumbles out; in the two minutes she’s been gone, she seems to have forgotten entirely about her phone, and she looks at the pair with lidded eyes. “Fuckin’ shattered, girls.”

Tayce beams at her. “Get your arse in bed, then!”

A’Whora finishes her water, and Lawrence is asleep in seconds. For good measure, they poke her a couple of times, but since she’s very clearly breathing and seems fine, they decide to stop tormenting her and to just let the poor girl sleep. Tayce sets down Lawrence’s phone on the nightstand next to her, making sure to plug in her charger so it won’t be dead when she wakes up, and the tiny act of thoughtfulness makes A’Whora’s heart swell in a manner she’s wholly embarrassed of.

As if she’s swooning at a girl charging her friend’s phone? It’s ridiculous and she knows it.

“Shall I walk you to your door?” She offers, holding her arm out. Tayce laughs and takes hold of her elbow, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Ooh, promenade!”

“You’ve been watching far too much Bridgerton, you have,” A’Whora teases her, jabbing her side as they make their way back down the empty corridor. “Do I have to start calling you My Lady or something, babes?”

Tayce swats her away. “In bed, maybe. Oh, I’ll happily be a Duke or a Duchess, I mean have you seen the pair of them? Bloody gorgeous!”

A’Whora’s chest seizes up at the casual mention of being in bed together. Is the stalemate over? Is Tayce about to explain why she’s suddenly frozen on her and decided she no longer wants to hook up? What the hell even is the reason if there’s no girlfriend? She’s just gone off A’Whora now?

“Oh my God. Tayce, I can’t do this.”

It’s out there. She can’t go back now, can’t reel it back in. She’s fucked.

Tayce stops mid-hallway and frowns, worried. “You alright? If you don’t feel well you can go back, you don’t have to walk me to my room.”

“No, not that,” A’Whora massages her temples, trying to encourage some kind of eloquent thought to help her out, trying to stimulate the part of her brain that writes lyrics, to no avail. “This, us, the weirdness, I can’t do it. I have to know what’s going on, I’m literally going spare over it.”

“I don’t- I don’t get what you mean.”

“Us!” A’Whora cries, then shushes herself, acutely aware of her volume and the people sleeping adjacent to their conversation. “You- you don’t text me the same, and we haven’t- in ages, and I just… Tayce, do you like me?”

Tayce frowns even deeper. “Of course I like you, Rory.”

“Do you proper like me? Do you like me like I like you?”

She feels like a child, enacting a schoolgirl crush with a scribbled note that asks them to tick a yes or no box drawn in pink felt tip, the kind fuzzy from little fingers pressing too hard. If anything, it’s worse than that; at least some prior planning went into those, and a clear question with a yes or no response indicating some kind of confidence. A’Whora has no idea what she’s doing, where she’s going, anything.

“Rory… do you-”

A’Whora cuts her off. “Lawrence thought you might have a girlfriend because I thought you might have one because I was ranting about us to her and how shit I feel that you’ve lost interest in me. We got drunk to ignore how shit we both feel and it didn’t work because she almost blabbed to Ells and now I’m here blabbing to you but I literally can’t help myself. I never can when I’m with you.”

It’s only when she’s finished that she realises Tayce’s expression is full of fear, and her heart sinks like a lead balloon.

“You told Lawrence about us?”

She swallows, guilt seeping in like cracks in a dam. “Tayce, I… We’re not the big secret you think we are. A lot of people know, or suspect. Is… Is that the issue?”

Tayce chews her lip, eyebrows furrowed. Every millisecond that she doesn’t speak is agony, each second another stab to A’Whora’s heart, tiny needles of time cutting into her as she waits and waits for the ugly truth. This is it, now, the swirling nausea in her stomach tells her, this is when it all ends. This is where you scare off the love of your life.

The… what? The fucking what? The who of her what?

Too late now.

“I haven’t lost interest in you. I don’t think that’s even possible. I’m like, obsessed with you.”

A’Whora freezes, expecting virtually anything but that. “You- what? But- huh?”

“Yeah!” Tayce laughs nervously, unsure of how to react - they have that in common, at least. “I mean, girl, look at you, you’re gorgeous. I was getting freaked out by how much I, like, feel, so I just shut everything down and denied it all. I mean, I figured if I was freaking myself out, you must think I’m a right old weirdo. Have I got this all wrong?”

The ice melts. A’Whora can feel the shards shrinking, the wounds closing up, the warmth returning to her in a blossoming not unlike the flowers of spring, freshening the air and sweeping away her anxieties.

“I’ve never been so happy to call you an idiot in my life,” A’Whora tells her.

Tayce cocks an eyebrow. “You dirty liar, you love calling me an idiot,” She bites back, not leaving room for A’Whora to reply before kissing her right then and there, in the middle of a hotel corridor, leaning up against the wall for support. A million chemical reactions spark off all at once, a frenzy of activity rendering her incapable of doing anything but wrapping her arms around her bandmate, her best friend, her everything, and kissing her until she can’t breathe.

When they have to come up for air they do, all gasping and pink cheeks and dazed eyes. Every cell, every nerve, every neuron in A’Whora’s body is awake and alive, drawn towards Tayce like a magnetic pull. She can’t ignore it, and can’t think why she’d ever want to.

-

“Will you fucking stay still?”

“I haven’t moved an inch, hen, your shaky hands are not my problem.”

Ellie huffs, big pink earrings dangling from her ears swinging as she moves her head. They’re shaped like hearts, the word ‘doll’ in cursive across the middle in sparkling letters, and it’s adorably Ellie Diamond in every way possible. Even irritated, she’s oddly cute.

“Lawrence! I’m not trying to make you look ugly, stay still for me!” She pleads.

A’Whora watches from her chair, face already expertly done. She woke up pleasantly early, nestled happily in Tayce’s arms after everything. They’d decided to go back to A’Whora’s room, just in case Lawrence woke up and tried to send reams of abuse to Ellie, and ended up laying together cuddling until they fell asleep. No matter how sober A’Whora swore she was, Tayce just giggled and told her there was no chance of anything more than a cwtch, at least until the morning.

Thankfully, they’d kept Lawrence’s phone away from her, but there was nothing she could do but watch helplessly as Ellie and Lawrence engaged in a battle of attrition while doing makeup.

Lawrence rolls her eyes so hard A’Whora can practically feel it from across the room. “Not to worry hen, there’s more than one girl in the band, I’m sure you’ve got options on who can look pretty and who can’t.”

A’Whora winces at the low blow, and judging by Ellie’s expression, all pouty lips and big sad eyes, she’s hurt. More than anything, she wants to rush in and fix things for them, help them do the big talk and work it all out, but she knows it’s not really her business. They have to do this for themselves, so she sits quiet and prays that they will.

“Oh my god.” Ellie sets down her brushes and stares Lawrence in the face, awfully bold and completely unexpected. “Are you gonna hang this over me forever? I just - didn’t want you to think I was too forward! I’ve been regretting it all night, I regretted it as soon as I even said it! I can’t stand you being upset with me.”

Lawrence’s expression softens. “What?”

“You’re, like, the best person ever. I look up to you so much, I don’t think I could admire anyone more than I admire you. I really didn’t mean to upset you, I didn’t want to come on too strong.”

There’s a pause - A’Whora holds her breath, and notices that just across from her, Bimini is suddenly paying attention, her phone long since abandoned in her hand as she gapes at the two of them, dumbfounded.

Lawrence throws her arms around Ellie, squeezing her in an embrace that seems too tender to be looking at, the next best thing to a kiss when in the middle of painting someone’s face. Ellie squeezes back, her lips mouthing words that the other girls can neither hear nor try to. This is for them and them alone.

Tayce enters just as they break apart, throwing herself into the seat next to A’Whora and grinning. “Hiya, gorge, what’d I miss?”

She leans over and kisses A’Whora’s cheek.

Bimini’s eyes pop open. “You and- and then her and- what the fuck? Babes, I think we skipped a few chapters!”

“You just haven’t read the book,” A’Whora winks at her.

“Right, right,” Bims nods understandingly, ever one to just go with the flow. “And is the big lesbian orgy before the concert or after?”

[carmennivis]

“That’s because…”

He appreciated what he assumed to be Dheginsea’s attempt at subtlety. Lips curled into a small, if not somewhat humorless smile. “To begin I should probably explain something first. About my homeland of Elibe.”

Crimson eyes flitted upwards as he began the recollection. “I don’t know how dragons are treated in your home but.. in Elibe, we were hated. Humanity saw us as devils. Beings of malice and destruction. The two sides, human and dragon, used to live in relative peace until humans started a war against us, now known as the scouring. This was a little over a 1000 years ago, now.”

“I was still very little back then, so I don’t know everything that happened. But I know Humanity created eight frightening weapons that were so powerful that when they clashed, they caused the very nature of our land to become warped.” He all explained it while keeping his gaze upward, trying to not let it get to him. This was all a long time ago, he kept trying to tell himself.

“Almost all natural magic and energy was lost from the world as a result. It’s not like Fodlan, where magic is abundant in the air. The wind in Elibe is stale and cold. This change caused us dragons to become unable to sustain our draconic forms for very long. Those that tried, died very young.. So to survive we had to seal our forms into stones and take on these human-like forms you see now.”

At this point he was just recollecting the history he remembers and what he was taught. From this point onward though, things were to become much more personal.

And even more painful.

“We were much weaker now. So humanity saw this as an opportunity to try and wipe us out. We were hunted, and those suspected of being dragons were slaughtered without a second thought. I…. I lost my parents, during that time.” His eyes started to feel warm, so he looked away. A single tear rolled down his cheek. No matter how old the memory may be, ever since they returned to him it hurt like it was still fresh.

“Those of us that survived manage to escape. We found a gateway to a different world where dragons could live peacefully. But many of us still longed for our original home, most of all my sister and I. But the world still hated us. When we came back, I learned they created an entire cult just to spite and demonize us.” He still remembered the first time he sought refuge in a church. They were so kind to him at first, offering protection and asylum. That was until they noticed his eyes and suddenly they spewed hatred at him.

Children of the market that he played with, those that he danced and laughed with as he played his songs. One wrong look from a parent and suddenly he was a devil that should be feared and cast out. That’s why…

“I’m.. used to hiding my identity as a dragon. I had to do that to survive for so long. I know it’s different here and I shouldn’t be afraid, I really am trying to be more open about it but still.. whenever someone notices, or confronts me about it.. I still panic. That’s why I, um. Reacted the way I did. I’m really sorry again.”

And with that he let out a deep breath. Everything was on the table now, for Dheginsea to form an opinion on for himself.

“Um.. Sir Dheginsea? Could we maybe talk?”

With a pensive expression not befitting the normally cheerful bard, Nils lightly tapped the black dragon on the shoulder after spotting him in the crowd.

He’s been holding this off for some time now, but it felt wrong to not resolve things after how messy their previous encounter was. Their relationship had been only positive up until that point and though Nils realized he was just emotionally overwhelmed at that time, that didn’t make it right.

“I’d like to say I’m sorry, first of all. From running away from our conversation like that. I just panicked and, I…” The boy trailed off. He knew he had to say it, but that didn’t make it any easier. So he took a deep breath to try and relax. His gaze remained on the ground, pale hands trembling slightly.

Sighing, he finally spoke after a beat of silence. “I’d like to tell you what you wanted to know. …if that’s still alright with you, sir.”

Dheginsea had not expected for Nils to ever approach him again after he had stormed off from their previous conversation. He had wanted to press the issue then, gone as far as to attempt to follow Nils after his outburst. But, in the end, after having failed to locate the boy, Dheginsea had left the issue as it was. Thinking it best that he not try to push it further if Nils was willing to hide from him.

So the old dragon is more than a little surprised to find him as he turned around. For the boy to have sought him, to have tapped him on the shoulder and be willing to talk to him again.

Rather than potentially risk saying the wrong thing and set the boy off again, Dheginsea patiently waited. Listened as Nils sheepishly apologized, staying quiet as he once again couldn’t help but think that there was something wrong with Nils. For him to have panicked and admit so. For Nils to be nervous even as he wished to tell him now his answer. It concerned Dheginsea slightly as to what that answer might be..

After a few moments of silence, Dheginsea gave a slight nod. And though Nils avoided looking up at him, Dheginsea kept his face neutral, so as to not frighten the boy again should he meet his gaze at any point. “I’m listening...”

[enemiesofcreed]

Mind and Might - Prologue

Our twin hearts pound in our chest as our wings strain to carry us beneath the clear, moonless night. Death comes for us as surely as the stars continue their silent paths across the sky. 

Creed has killed our nephew, Khan the Hoarder. He killed our uncle, Nash the Hunter. They did not heed our warnings, and they paid with their lives. 

And now our cousin comes to kill us. 

There is a spasm in one of our left wings, and the uneven load causes our other three wings to fail as well. We have pushed them beyond their limit trying to escape the inescapable, and we land hard on the desert sand below. 

We are not alone for long. Creed’s wings flap as he lands, creating a localized sandstorm in the process. The pride emanating from him is palpable. 

“Ah, the Destiny Sisters at last,” says Creed. “Good evening Vy. Good evening, Bea. I’ve been looking for you. It seems you’ve somehow wandered a long, long way outside the borders you and those other traitors agreed to.” 

“Bold of you to call us traitors when you’re the one killing the last of your own kind,” we reply in unison. 

“You have only yourselves to blame,” Creed spits back, malice dripping from his voice. “The moment you and the others betrayed what you are and entered into this farce you call peace, you sealed your own fate.” 

Creed’s face twists into a hungry grin. “But then, you know all about fate, don’t you cousins?” 

“More than you ever will,” we reply. 

A jet of fire lights up the scene as Creed roars in fury. “Then why choose the path of blindness and a slow death by atrophy when it came time for us to make our choice?” Creed bellows. “The others I understand. Khan just wanted to be left alone to admire his ridiculous pile of trinkets, and Nash only cares about his fun at the top of the food chain.” 

“But I expected more from you,” he says, a quiet sadness now creeping into his voice. “You were supposed to be the wisest of us all. If the two of you had sided with me, Khan and Nash would have been outnumbered, and they would have listened to reason.” 

We stand on our feet. Our limbs and tail are strong and ready for a fight, but it makes little difference while our wings are still useless and spent. “It was your sense of superiority and entitlement that made you deaf to reason,” we say. 

“Am I not Creed the Proud?” he roars back. “If I don’t speak up to uphold the pride of our kind and all those who look to us for inspiration, then who will? We spent an entire age of this world enduring wars and attacks from those who should be little more than insects to us. And when our enemies finally wore themselves down into broken fragments, it should have been the hour of our great final victory over them. The dawning of an age where they would have to scrape and struggle against us! And instead you accept a truce?” 

“You imagine a future that would not have been, because you lack the sight we have been entrusted with,” we say. “You say that we should have been the wisest of our kind. Do not delude yourself, Creed. We Destiny Sisters ARE the wisest of our kind. And if you were wise, you would listen as we tell you what you are blind to under your own nose.” 

“And what is that?” Creed asks derisively. 

“That the Primafolk are far more important to this world than you realize,” we say, “and they were at their breaking point. If our kind had pressed our advantage while they were at their lowest point, it would not have caused their subjugation. It would have caused their destruction. Followed by the destruction of us all.” 

“You speak nonsense,” says Creed. “Excuses invented by the weak.” 

We do not argue. Creed knows we speak only truth, but is too proud to admit it. Instead, we let our flame speak for us. Black flame with the sheen of a hundred colors washes over Creed, and for the first time since he began hunting us, Creed looks truly afraid. He was not expecting this. 

Creed’s body is unharmed of course, but his eyes cloud over with the same color as the flame. He whips his head wildly from side to side as he sees the vision we have shared with him. When it is over, his eyes return to their natural golden color. 

“I see,” he says. “It appears there are powers at play greater than I had realized. Powers that even our kind would stand no hope of defeating, though it wounds my pride to admit. You’re right, cousins. The Primafolk must survive.” 

“Yes,” we say. “You finally understand.” 

“And yet, there’s something that bothers me,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “Vy used her Obsidian Flame to show me this vision, but where was Bea’s Opal Flame? In all the centuries we’ve known one another, I’ve never seen the black without the white. Could it be you’re holding something back from me?” 

“You underestimate how far our sight extends,” we say. “We knew you were coming to kill us and take both of our flames. Every destiny has two sides, and it is impossible for any being to possess both at once. So we have already entrusted the Opal Flame of Destiny to other caretakers.” 

“Is that why you’re out here in this worthless desert?” Creed asks with spiteful laughter. “You know I’ll simply find whatever gullible worms you’ve doomed with your gift. All you’ve done is ensure your allies will die, and I’ll still claim both your flames.” 

“No, you will not,” we state as simple fact. “You will hunt high and low for the Opal Flame for a hundred years, but you will not find it until it finds you.” 

Creed’s hungry grin then returns. “So you violated your own borders to grant one of our kind’s greatest weapons to our oldest enemies,” he says. “I can think of no greater act of treason.” 

He steps towards us, slowly and menacingly. His sharp teeth illuminated from behind by his own crimson red flame. “A hundred years you say?” Creed asks, closing in. “Perfect. That will give the Primafolk enough time to recover and prepare so they can actually survive the coming war.” 

He looms over us, and we lay both of our heads down to the cold sand, resigning ourselves to the fate we could not escape. 

“You know what?” Creed taunts. “I think I’ll even give them a little help to make sure the fight is worth my time.” 

[Want more? The story continues at EnemiesOfCreed.com]

[capri-ramblings]

Yikes,I know there's bound to be questions but trust me, chapter 3 will answer most of them. Aha,I'm sorry if this chapter is kinda confusing at first,I'm not good at planning out thoughts or stories systemically,it kinda makes it harder for me to write whenever I try to. But here,the second chapter of Raptured! Thank you for reading! ( ꈍᴗꈍ) ♥️

[ R a p t u r e d ]

Chapter 2: Banter

In the moment Riddle had finished telling his brothers what conspired with their human captive, the first to speak up was Azul.

"They offered what?" His words were a mix of shock and amusement, gaze fixated on Riddle who seemed almost flustered from how red his cheeks were.

The red haired sighed, sending him a narrow eyed glare before crossing his arms.

"The head of their own brother"

"By their own hands?" Kalim asked aloud, his features scrunched up worryingly. "Isn't that bad? Why would anyone want to kill their own brother so suddenly?"

From the chaise across the room,Leona let out a scoff, lips upturned into a smirk.

"What are you? A five year old? If you give a herbivore the chance of freedom,they'd leave their entire fleet open to make sure they survive. Humans aren't so different."

"Indeed" Vil joined in with a smile of his own. "Humans are very fickle things, they live out their life struggling and as a result they stink of repulsion."

"They can barely even stand on their own.." Idia added thoughtfully and as the gazes of his brothers turned to him, the flames on his hair flickered and he looked away.

"Maybe the isolation's got to their head?"

Riddle let out a scoff, his lips upturned in a sneer almost too vicious to be formed on such a delicate looking face.

"The cottage they were in was secluded from the rest of the village,they were already a reclusive. Why should it bother them now?"

"Maybe Idia has a point" Kalim interjected then "Before they were on their own by choice...and they weren't exactly trapped in a tower either"

"It's all the same" Leona snapped " Damn herbivores will always be too fragile."

"Though, our soft-shelled brothers have a sound reason" Vil's lips curled in an effortless smile,his ever sharp gaze glinting like jewels.

"At this rate our small hare is going to die before the homage from her brother, and that makes all of this pointless."

The room went silent then. Each males having their own thoughts wrapped around the situation.

When they came to a decision to face the hunter who killed their family beast, he was nowhere to be seen and left tending to his cottage was none other than their captive human, a young sibling unaware of what their fool brother had committed. They opted it was easier to simply kidnap them and have their brother come looking since neither one of them wanted to wait around. There was also the fact that the death of the beast had affected their Mother's health greatly, and all seven brothers fumed with rage.

"Our methods doesn't matter anymore" Riddle spoke up, "What's done is done. We can't exactly just put them back where we found them."

"I agree" Azul said "Though if the human dies in our care now, when we're fully able to change their situation, I fear the price of that loss would be great."

"What? Are the humans going to chase us around with pitchforks?" Leona sneered,his sharp fangs visible as he leaned back into the chaste. "You saw how further in their cottage was, chances are the herbivore doesn't even go down to the village often enough for people to notice them missing."

"They can't die." Idia drawled the words out this time,his gaze sharp and harsh as he stared down Leona who all but grinned at his brother.

"Why? Because you like them?" The laugh that barked out from Leona was cruel and Idia flinched.

"Go ahead and save the poor herbivore then,Prince Idia of the lands of burrowed moles. You think they'd ever look at you fondly?"

"Enough." Riddle came between the fight with his own ire and before he sent a glare towards Leona, he let Idia catch the solace in his.

The situation was getting worst. They needed a decision quick.

"You're not a five year old as well,Leona, so keep that tongue of yours tamed"

"What are you? Suddenly playing the role of the Eldest when you can't even reach his height?" Leona scrutinized Riddle with an aggression that seemed ready to claw him in the face, but Riddle kept his own spite and promptly choose to ignore his brother.

Instead,he turned to Azul.

"The hunter should've came back and see his sibling gone, you even sent those eels of yours to make sure he got the hints. Why hasn't he made a single move? It's been two months."

"Maybe he's forgetful?" Kalim chipped in, eyes glowing. Riddle wanted to tap the side of his face and gently tell him to shut up but Vil patted his head instead.

"A forgetful hunter managing to kill a wild beast is unlikely, mein bruder"

Azul crossed his arms,gaze narrowing.

"They've sent word that they have information regarding our human and the whereabouts of their brother"

"And?" Vil prompted.

"I told them to come meet us as soon as they can, which shouldn't be long."

The moment those words were uttered, a dull thud came from the would-be-entrance of the tower, and a familiar voice calling out.

"My Princes! Open the door please!" The urgency of the voice had all the present Princes turning their head, though the one who seemed genuinely surprised and concerned was Kalim.

"That voice..." He said, turning to Azul "Is that who I think it is?"

Azul's lips curled into a knowing smile and with a flick of his fingers, the sound of a door being swung opened then slammed shut could be heard within the tower itself,followed by light rapid footsteps approaching them.

Out of breath and desperately panting, a young girl made a hasty bow as she came before the Princes, though the way her legs slightly trembled suggested that she was near collapsing.

"It is her!" Kalim's eyes grew wide with familiarity, the worry in his voice replaced with joy as he came up to place his hand on the girl's shoulder.

"The last time I saw you, you were still learning how to walk!" Kalim's loud voice seemed to make her flinch but the girl met his gaze with warmth before she bowed her head again.

"Pleasure to meet you again,Prince Kalim." She's heard stories of him, the Prince Fae known to give out bits of his treasures to those who come wishing at his well. It seemed odd to act as if she's known him, but she knew better than to put logic before courtesy. He was one of the seven Princes after all. Acting too smart with them was a fool's mistake.

Before Kalim could say anything else, Azul stepped forward and the girl promptly met his side with a suddenly serious demeanor.

"I'd ask you for the information I had you fetch but I wonder why you were running in the first place?"

The girl laughed dryly if not nervously.

"Floyd wanted to see who could win in a race in getting here,your Highness."

Azul frowned, internally sighing.

"Why on Earth did you agree to that?"

Again, the girl laughed. "He terrifies me,my Prince."

Riddle couldn't place where he's met her, but hearing her words had him internally sympathising her. Azul's leeches were a pair he'd gladly avoid for eternity as well.

"So,you got a changeling to be at your beck and call as well,Azul?" Vil sounded amused as he turned to Azul, but the degrading glance he gave the girl bellied the smile coyly sitting on his lips then.

"She's indebted to us anyway" Azul stated simply "Why not put her to work?"

His gaze returned to the girl.

"What do you have about our human then?"

It took a full ten minutes for the young changeling to inform them of what she's managed to compile on their human and hunter. Turns out they aren't related by blood but by marriage. Apparently most of the villagers knew of the hunter but rarely saw the younger sibling as they took more liking in staying indoors. There was also talk that their relationship with one another was never close and answered Riddle's question as to why he hadn't showed up yet.

"So, he's just going to leave his sibling at our mercy?" Kalim asked,he had his expression scrunched up with worry and pity again but Leona shared none of it and only growled with distaste.

"There won't be mercy if they're left with us a second longer"

Riddle caught the flicker of Idia's flames and instantly reacted.

"Threaten to murder our captive one more time and I'll have your head,Leona."

"Hah, you're trying to scare me,Riddle?" Leona sneered,fangs glistening with malice. He's been irritated by the whole situation since the beginning. Taking in a human in hopes that another would appear to save them, it was all a damn fairytale. Leona knew humans were selfish, his brothers should've had that piece of common sense drilled into their heads as well. No one was going to play hero for their captive.

Riddle gritted his teeth and again instead of lashing out senselessly, he swirled around to face the changeling. Every bit of his anger flaring in his grey gaze.

"Where's the hunter now?" He asked,though it sounded painfully like a death threat.

The changeling bowed her head.

"He's at the human King's palace,Prince Riddle. King Aothor ...of Nostorne"

The words sent the entire room tilting, and Riddle would've gripped her by her neck if Azul hadn't stepped forward.

"King? Since when did the humans have a King?" The last time they came to the world,their mother's shrine was built almost everywhere to acknowledge her ruling. Had times changed so drastically since their absence?

"Yes. It's been this way for years now. A dukedom raised after Her Most Divine's departure from the human realm and ever since then a lineage of human nobles have taken the throne as the Human ruler."

"My, how futuristic, and here we were in the guise that we still sat on the top of their world" Vil was laughing but his words cut into the tension of the room like a blade coated in venom and the changeling girl shifted uncomfortably.

"It seems like the order of the slaughtering was made by him and ultimately fulfilled by the hunter. His name is Cyril and he's being celebrated by the King for his bravery."

Leona heaved a heavy sigh,leaning once more into his chaise. He looked ready to fall into a deep slumber already but his irritation kept him awake.

"So,we have information. Now what's the plan?"

***

Jade and Floyd,two of Azul's trusted companions came into the situation while the Princes were sorting out their thoughts and opinions (Which all greatly contradict one another) and brought word that their hunter had refused to save their sibling in a conversation Jade overheard him had with another hunter right before he was called on by the King.

"He said he knew of the Fae's trick and that by taking something of theirs as his own, he'd gladly give anything they took from him as compensation." Jade explained in his usual matter-of-fact tone,his mismatched gaze still and knowing.

Riddle clicked his tongue, brows furrowing. Idia's was the most sympathetic along with Kalim while Leona and Vil seemed ready to send a fleet of their army to storm into the human villages.

"I'm not really surprised though" Floyd spoke up lazily "He seems like a guy who'd do that kind of thing anyways"

"But now the Princes are stuck with keeping a human captive in their care", Boe,the young changeling from earlier, pointed out grimly.

"What if we sent you to negotiate with him in our stead?" Idia suggested which earned a rather hasty look from the girl.

"Human royals don't take too kindly to my kind,Prince Idia. I doubt he'd even let me enter"

Leona let out a menacing growl. One that reverberated through the tower walls.

"This is going nowhere. Riddle, go up to that damn herbivore and have them beg their brother come and pay his homage so we can give them back."

Riddle frowned.

"You heard the changeling,Leona. If their relationship with their brother is as bad as we've heard, do you really think they'd beg for him to come save them?"

"Couldn't you talk some sense in them?" Azul had eyes turning once more to the young changeling who all but reluctantly slumped her shoulders.

"I don't see how me being the one talking will get them to cooperate..."

"Clamshell,you should at least try,right?" Floyd's smile was sickly sweet and when he attempted to sling his arm over her shoulders, she avoided the outcome by shifting close to Jade.

"What would you want me to say to them?"

"The offer they gave" Riddle said "Have them elaborate more on that. I'm not going into a deal without knowing why it was proposed in the first place."

There was hesitation in her eyes but it was swiftly changed to a silent resolve as she nodded her head.

"I'll see what I can do."

[patiusarchivist]

The Night Comes

Battle of Ilum - 3640 BBY/13 AToC

The Shadow came like a writhing shape. The Jedi slowly stepped back, watching as metal corroded and warped like screaming blackening branches to the Dark Lord’s presence. Frost crawling as the Sith drawn closer. Their senses were screaming to run. This thing was barely human anymore. The cold that burned Illum. They’ve heard the reports. One of the Dark Council has come; Darth Nox.

Jedi Master Rem held his lightsaber in both hands, “Begone from here, Sith. We will not stand aside while you bring ruin here.”

The sockets of the phrik-crafted skull glowed a vivid amethyst with a hatred so focused, it felt like venom was crawling in their guts. A sickening power. “Good.” His dark voice soothed, “I was hoping for an actual challenge today.” “Ready yourselves!” The Battlemaster called out as the glinting claws of Nox’s hand rose from the wavering shroud of his robes. The Force growled from the flooding of such raw emotion. The six Jedi Knights in that chamber did not match this one Sith Lord, all of the Light were mere stars to the eclipsing power roused from the shrouded form.

This form that hungered and those already claimed stared out in ageless malice. Master Rem saw them and he could not scream before the ravenous arcs of lightning crackled and thrown themselves for the prepared Jedi. The lashing power scarred black stretches on floor and walls, crossing the distance in a heartbeat. Rem’s teeth clenched, feeling an itch from the intense energy before it was even a pace away...only to see the lightning tear itself into a chain whipping at his fellows.

The knights screamed as the force battering at their own shields like a pointed hammer before their minds could forge into a wide bulwark together. Most were pushed back and tried to fight the Sith’s assault, Rem and the few Consulars were more prepared with their streams of dark power. Suddenly, the assault twisted into a pulling vortex yanked these brave warriors of the Light off their feet. A number of knights screaming as they were whirling by the mere pull of the Dark Councilor’s curled hand. “No!” Rem cried out before they were torn apart by a screaming attack of the Dark Side so naked and spiteful, their lives were taken and became mere fuel to the Sith Lord.

“Ah.” Nox sighed out, arm flowing with the ashes of former Jedi flying in the cold wind. “Much better.”

Rem seethed, the air was strangling with the Dark Side and he felt his own fortitude being challenged from it. “I...can’t believe this…” He muttered out. “Master Rem, there is no passion. We will not allow this demon to claim our peace!” Consular Jara inclined despite her own wavering resistance, drawing her lightsaber. “We will win together.”

“And you will all die together.” Darth Nox agreed, their minds suddenly barraged by a warping sensation. Their bravado was eroding, their fear was becoming manifest. They can still hear the screams. They are drowning in the victims to the point of couldn’t hear their own while this growing spectre loomed at them. Sockets burning of amethyst ghostfire and a blood-red blade igniting from its claw-curled hilt.

“Keep...strong…” Rem called out to himself as much as the others, feeling like he was being strangled into a tight corridor. The air was thin. The Jedi’s mind was racing, he could barely keep hold but the Force is his ally, even now. His azure blade whipped in the howling miasma of darkness, clashing with the Sith’s blade and trading blow for blow. The others weren’t so fortunate to do such a powerful thing.

They screamed, throwing themselves into the melee. The one other guardian beside himself swung in blows of Djem So, giving himself to the panic and use it for his own survival. The Sith was moving in eerie motions like a great wraith, his shroud flowing like gathered ashes. It was blinding. It was hard to find his true self, attack all one might - there was no use. And Rem was able to deflect an attack but only watched as his former padawan was run through by Darth Nox. The screams echoing and adding to the cacophony. The sadistic chuckles rippling in the cries and hollers.

His dark sockets falling on Rem again.

The Battlemaster was sweating. He shouldn’t be...he couldn’t even feel Illum’s cold as he held into stance. He kept fast with quivering fingers, clenching with dominant foot forward and eyes fighting to be defiant. “You better to stand against me, Jedi. Beg. Beg and I will make allow your Spirit to flee into the Force’s skirt. Unlike so many others…” Nox seethed in cold mockery, coming to strike his opponent down and Rem believed it.

“NO!” Jara’s voice screamed through the fear-storm, jumping between Rem and Nox. Her green saber slashing at the Darkness, how it recoiled with a snarling hiss. A hand out glowing of purity against it. “You will not have him, Sith! Your trickery will have no power here!”

“Foolish girl…” Nox hissed, “Your interference will cost you an agonizing death.”

“I may die but I will be One with the Force, and you will be tortured by all those you wronged.” Jara retorted, her palm glowing brighter and the rushing Darkness was being pushed back somewhat. Rem breathed, he found courage in this young woman’s own great character. It inspired him and he held his own hand out to her’s, giving his own Light against the Darkness.

It was like parting a great sea to reveal the great beast causing the tides. His shroud parting to reveal the armoured Sith Lord underneath, but also the trailing fabrics almost making shapes. Figures of dark power arched over him like snakes poised, the bare visage of their deathly faces forever trapped to his will. Darth Nox lifted his hand and directed his power forward.

The Light’s wavering heat and the Darkness’ slithering cold fought one another in a ballet that has existed since Time Immemorial.

One by one, the Sith spirit lifted their own hands and lent their power to the battle. The Light pushed hard but the Dark was coiling around them, more and more until their power was the only thing keeping the Jedi from drowning. That too was waning under the pressuring weight. Darth Nox stared down, “Until then - I will enjoy this, Jedi.”

With a crackling gathering in the Darkness, he unleashed a storm of power that left an eternal echo of pain on Ilum.

[ceescedasticity]

outline: jin guangyao’s hoarding problem, part 1

I am STILL NOT WRITING THIS.

Cast:

Jin Guangyao, schemer extraordinaire. He’s got a lot on his plate right now, scheming for the Jin Sect’s advancement, scheming for his personal advancement within the Jin Sect, trying to get Qin Cangye to let him marry his daughter, trying to juggle his sworn brothers, wrangling weird 13-year-old Mo Xuanyu who his father dropped on him as some sort of power play, wrangling Xue Yang insofar as it is possible to do so, promoting research into demonic cultivation, and on and on and on. Jin Guangyao, as no one will ever let him forget, was not born rich; he understands that you can’t just go throwing things out when you might want them again later; and in this universe he’s let that reluctance to discard outweigh his caution.

Wen Ning, conscious fierce corpse. Keeping Wen Ning was always the plan, even when plans to control him didn’t quite work out. Because he’s a really good conscious fierce corpse. Maybe they’ll work out controlling him someday. Maybe he’ll be good as an example. They went to a fair amount of trouble faking his destruction, so no sense wasting that. (Wen Ning, for his part, is… not happy. Even when they’re not trying to control him, he is not happy. But he is not making trouble if he can avoid it, because…)

Wen Qing, really outstanding doctor. Jin Guangyao cannot understand why his father was planning to execute her – she’s such a good doctor! Groundbreaking! Sure, she has some inconvenient morals, but she’s simple enough to leverage, just grab some family members – Wen Ruohan kept her in line for years. Why would Jin Guangshan not try to obtain such a valuable resource? It’s probably because when he looks at a woman he stops after the boobs. Anyway, now Jin Guangyao has the opportunity, and it’s easier to fake her death than Wen Ning’s (just have to kill a heavily bruised woman in Wen robes, rather than something that passes for a fierce corpse). She can be kept in line just by threatening Wen Ning’s non-life as the stick, and for a carrot, taking the nails out of his head when they’re not actively experimenting. (Wen Qing is sick to her stomach. Although not everything she’s been required to do is bad–)

(Off stage, but alive, is Jiang Yanli. Jin Guangyao likes her more than he likes most of the Jin Sect, he didn’t want her dead – and whisking her away to a mystery doctor who saved her life means Jiang Wanyin owes him. Big. —He doesn't want her angling for any kind of power/regency after Jin Guangshan dies, so he's been making sure there are plenty of rumors that she's physically and mentally fragile, and his leverage over Yunmeng Jiang is better with her in Jinlintai so he's angling to maintain that, too, but unlike that other idea he's not blackmailing her. This is probably a mistake.)

Wei Wuxian, Yiling Laozu. Smuggled back to Jinlintai at least half dead, and really wanted to get all the way there. Didn’t really change his mind on that until after he got conscious enough to process that (a) Wen Qing and Wen Ning were alive(ish), and might be punished if Wen Qing couldn’t save him; (b) Jiang Yanli is alive, but in Jinlintai, which means not safe. Even after he’s trying, though, he’s in for a long convalescence – especially without a core. (Which Jin Guangyao has figured out and, worse, figured out the reason for.) Wei Wuxian is claiming he couldn’t possibly recreate the Stygian Tiger Seal outside the Burial Grounds and/or without all the pieces and/or while he’s still so weak. The last one is true, the others are… not completely false? He certainly couldn't make it like it was before.

Mo Xuanyu, weird 13-year-old. Inexplicably if usefully devoted to Jin Guangyao. Jin Guangyao doesn’t trust him to do more than some very basic reading on demonic cultivation, but when the secret prison acquired the gravely wounded Wei Wuxian it became important to have someone other than Xue Yang checking on things, refreshing supplies, and getting Jin Guangyao immediately if necessary. Mo Xuanyu also likes Wei Wuxian, and Wen Qing, and Wen Ning, and (for some reason) Xue Yang. Not enough to impact his devotion to Jin Guangyao, though.

Xue Yang, spite elemental. (This Xue Yang has never worked for Wen Ruohan – I may keep the Yin Iron in this universe mashup, it just had no particular connection to Xue Yang.) Half feral (at least). Demonic cultivation natural talent. Delighted to have the opportunity to independently recreate the Stygian Tiger Seal, not that it stops him badgering Wei Wuxian for tips. Big fan of “better to ask forgiveness than permission”. No, that’s not it. Big fan of “better to say ‘yeah, I did it, what are you gonna do about it?’ than ask permission.”

WQ, WN, and WWX are full-time imprisoned in some sort of secret dungeon/basement/hidden complex in Carp Tower. MXY and XY are in and out a lot. JGY less so because he has a busy schedule.

So, moving forward:

Wen Qing is trying to keep WWX alive. WWX is cooperating halfheartedly.

Xue Yang is trying to recreate the Stygian Tiger Seal. WWX is cooperating hundredthheartedly.

JGY picks up that WWX is not being entirely sincere in his cooperation. He decides to show that his threats have teeth, in a very mild way. He plays some 'healing music' for JYL.

JYL has a bad week.

WWX becomes somewhat more cooperative.

(JYL is aware enough of her own body and mind and has enough of an ear for music to say — extremely politely, and not implying (or suspecting!) any malice — that she thinks JGY may need a little more practice.)

(JGY decides he needs to be a little more conservative with his use of the Collection of Turmoil, and maybe, say, not teach any bits of it to people who are not definitely on his side, no matter how innocent and gullible he thinks they are.)

(Nie Sect's trip to the Sword Hall can't be said to go well by any stretch of the imagination, but it's not an almost-TPK either. No one unwittingly kills or spiritually poisons anyone they love. It doesn't make much difference in the timetable of NMJ's decline, really. It doesn't make as much of a difference as you might expect in the timetable of NHS Figuring Shit Out, later on. It does make a difference in the experience level and cohesiveness of Nie Sect's inner-ring disciples. It does make a difference in NHS's emotional health and support structure. It may in fact make a difference in whether JGY is going to get out of all this alive. But that's later.)

When the reconstructed Seal is mostly complete, Xue Yang takes off to Yueyang to "test" it. He may or may not have informed JGY first. Let's go with 'not' (not out of any concern that he'd disapprove, Xue Yang just doesn't want to bother).

So here's the thing. The Seal is not a loyal tool. Insofar as it has a consciousness and feelings it's kind of pissed off at WWX anyway. But he is still its original creator, and this time he's alive, and this time he was extorted into helping reconstruct it, and this time — unlike when he was forging it the first time — revenge doesn't even really make the motivation list, so it's not quite the same reconstructed Seal. It's not a benevolent tool. It doesn't like people. It doesn't want to help people. It doesn't have principles. If Xue Yang just stood outside and ordered fierce corpses to slaughter everyone in the Chang compound, the Seal would have cooperated eagerly.

But obviously Xue Yang isn't about to just stand outside, he goes in and gets his hands dirty, and when he tries to use the Seal to directly, personally attack a child, something goes… sideways. There's an explosion which blows a large hole in the side of the house. Some of the corpses attack Xue Yang. The Seal levitates six meters up into the air and won't come down until grabbed. It's very annoying. Xue Yang makes sure there's no one with a golden core left and sets the building on fire and leaves in a very bad mood.

There are only like a dozen survivors total, no adult cultivators, and the one surviving kid who saw him is too young to give any kind of useful witness statement, but still.

He goes back to the basement and blames WWX for the unsatisfactory performance of the Seal. WWX's response of "Good" didn't deescalate things any, but he probably would have gotten the shit kicked out of him regardless.

Someone interrupts before he can actually beat WWX to death (which had better not have been WWX's plan, says WQ). Right. No core, already seriously injured. Xue Yang gets Wen Qing, who has to do surgery for flail chest. Xue Yang makes a surprisingly good surgical assistant.

JGY gets back from wherever he was (Qinghe playing fake!Clarity? Laoling trying to get a date?) and is like. I was gone for two days.

Xue Yang does not deny almost accidentally killing the only available Yiling Laozu, but blames it on WWX being too fragile due to being coreless and injured.

Maybe if we gave him someone else's core he would be sturdier?

Jin Guangyao doesn't immediately shoot it down. Wen Qing tries to — WWX would never survive the procedure in his current condition, and the donor has to be willing, does JGY really want to sacrifice someone loyal for this questionable gamble?

No, he doesn't. At least not right now.

Xue Yang says he's taking time off. JGY tells him not to get caught.

He gets caught.

Trial, commutation, official imprisonment, and now Xue Yang is stuck in the basement with the others basically full-time. He's seriously trying to convince Wen Qing to teach him surgery. She's appalled, but on the other hand would surgical skills make him any more dangerous than he already is? And it keeps him from sticking nails in Wen Ning's head.

While she's distracted Wei Wuxian is trying and failing to convince Wen Ning and/or Mo Xuanyu that he is recovered enough from the flail chest to walk around. He is failing.

Jin Guangyao is spending a lot of time in Qinghe…

[keepitreal1]

END THIS CRAP!

She arrived in the UK so sweet & so kind. Treated like a princess she was wined & dined.

She said she couldn't wait to be part of the firm. Eager to hit the ground running & to learn

The uk was so happy, so full of joy & hope, We didn't know she'd turn the Royals into a soap

There were things said about her from her sister & Dad. The Brits didn't believe them & we got mad

We all had Meghans back, So her family got allsorts of flak,

They were called liars & got lots of abuse, They were slated & called obtuse

We ignored all the bad things about her that was said and went out to support her & celebrate her instead

The Brits filled the streets for a glimpse of the bride, So full of best wishes & of pride

The UK thought she would pull the Royals in to a new era. But soon her true intentions would become clearer

We watched her break rules & do the opposite of what she should, We started to see, that all was not good,

We realised she came here determined to be defiant, it seems we were fooled when she acted all compliant

We realised she thinks herself so supreme, We watched her try to rival the Queen

To look like a victim was all in her plan, She set out to make the Royals seem like klu klux klan

She went out of her way to look a mess  So she could claim to be picked on by the press

She wanted everyone to think she is a poor picked on saint, not giving a damn whose name she'd taint

We heard of how she treated her staff like shit. Then in succession a bunch of them quit

When we started to see her plan unfold She then accused us all of being racist & cold.

She did a number on Prince Harry, who also changed the day they did marry

She told him she was oh so bullied, making sure the UK & Royal family she sullied

They both started to moan & whine playing poor victims all of the time

When the UK stopped taking their bait They ran to America full of hate

On zoom they continue to preech Claiming compassion is what they teach

Neither of them would know compassion if it knocked on their door, They are both selfish & always want more

We are tired of them sitting on their garden bench, with moaning & whining from the narcissistic wench

They have their cult that is the Sussex squad, who worship Meghan & treat her like god

They are so vile & so deluded, its clear that with the Sussexes they colluded

They try to dupe the Queen & the palace So full of spite and of malice

They continue to blacken the Royal familys name

Including his elderly grandparents he should hang his head in shame

They play the victims all the time Thinking themselves to be sublime

The truth is they are mad because they didnt get all their demands, Harry the puppet, constantly dancing to Meghans commands

They prepare to sit with Oprah for a tell all. They are hoping that they will cause the UK Royals downfall

They want to be the Royals of the USA. This was the end plan for this path she lay,

The Poor Queen what must she think at her own grandson causing such stink

All this whilst Prince Phillip in his hospital bed he lay. The Poor man at 99 in sheer dismay

They are set on revenge & they just sue, sue, sue. They are determined to be the worlds top two

Even Judge Warby let her win when she admitted she had lied. She gets away with everything its time to change the tide

Its time to take the titles from them, To cut them off at the stem

Its time to stop them if the Monarchy is to survive, step up & stop their diatribe

Their staff have finally spoke about the bullying that they endured. Megsy thought with the NDAs their silence was assured

Its time to open the flood Gates & let out the real reason they ran to the states

By keepitreal1

Also on twitter @it_real1