#whatever was under there was undoubtedly horrific....

[xehanortsreport]

woe...world of chaos spam be upon ye...

[slyvester101]

After everything that happened with Crunchbite (the bastard) and Junior’s probably horrific and painful birth, I imagine Tucker is more than a little wary about letting strangers near him.

He gets this hollow feeling in his gut when he’s around people he doesn’t know, gets an itch in his skin if he’s touched by someone he doesn’t trust. His throat tightens and his heart squeezes and his hands shake. He’s not able to sleep well around strangers, has to keep his back to the wall or else he’s waking every five minutes to make sure no one’s snuck up behind him.

He spends his whole diplomacy curled up in a ball in the corner of his room with Junior tucked under his chin, keeps his distance from the soldiers stuck on his missions and keeps them away with sharp smiles and horrible flirting that would make anyone cringe away.

At the desert temple, when he’s all alone with nothing but hostiles banging on the door, Tucker laments in how much he misses touch, misses the freedom of being able to hug someone without fear of harm, of being able to know if a touch was friendly or manipulative. He misses Blood Gulch. He misses blue team. He misses his son.

Even after Sidewinder, Tucker still isn’t in the clear, isn’t allowed some respite with his team because the latest member is yet another Freelancer who was chasing to kill them not even less than twenty-four hours ago.

His skin is buzzing the whole time they’re being shown around their new base by Caboose, his heart not settling despite the action being long over, his brain screams as someone grabs his shoulder. He screams out loud too, it seems, because the hand is pulling back quickly and a soft apologetic voice is echoing through his head.

“Are you okay?”

“Don’t fucking touch me, asshole.” Tucker all but hissed before he stormed away, unwilling to let this new prick see the way his hands shake and the way his face has gone pale.

He hates it. He hates it. He hates how he can’t even stand close to the fucker without feeling ill, can’t help but track his every movement and every word for some kind of malice or cruel intent.

He finds none.

He’s kind to Caboose, politely nodding along to whatever he rants about and keeping him out of trouble with much kinder words that Church was probably physically incapable of speaking. He’s kind to Tucker even though he’s been nothing but a paranoid asshole the whole time they’ve been at Valhalla, never taking offense to the distance Tucker puts between them and respecting whatever lines Tucker draws.

It takes a long time for him to feel comfortable enough to let Washington touch him, not quite as long to start giving him shit like he would’ve with Church. Slowly and cautiously, they fall into a groove that’s uniquely theirs and Tucker feels like he can finally breathe in his own goddamn house.

His trust in Wash is cemented when Carolina comes into the picture and constantly steps in as a barrier between the two, Washington knowing that Carolina would try to scruff or yank Tucker around for his big mouth and that Tucker would probably rip her hand off if she tried. He’s the only reason the two aqua soldiers don’t kill each other. That fact becomes undoubtedly true when Wash choses Tucker over Carolina, pointing his gun at her as she threatens Tucker.

Caboose was always a steady presence to the chaos in his head, the gentle giant sometimes being the only reason Tucker didn’t fall apart at the seams while he cried his fears into his chest, but Wash is a different kind of support that Tucker didn’t know he needed, one he doesn’t think he’s ever had.

It doesn’t stop him from getting that itch in his skin when he’s surrounded by strangers, it doesn’t stop the sick feeling he gets when he wakes up from a nightmare, it doesn’t make everything better.

But Tucker thinks, kind of incredulously, that maybe he can finally be safe with these two by his side. Maybe, just maybe, he can really let his guard down and have someone else watch his back.

Maybe he can finally let someone in.

[palmofafreezinghand]

guilt

Esme and Carlisle fight about discuss his motivations to change Rosalie.

twilight advent calendar day seven: Choose one Twilight couple (or an AU ship) and tell us about an argument they've had. How did they resolve it in the end? (prompts here) content warnings: references to sexual assault & domestic abuse.

June 1933. 

Esme sat on the back porch step, keenly aware her freshly styled hair was frizzing in the evening rain but lacking all motivation to go back inside. She would have been thrilled about the project at any other point in her life, a mansion that desperately needed life breathed back into it. She should have been content for years exploring the rooms upon rooms of things to do, planning her restoration, and studying the hundreds of years of history haunting the halls. Yet, the hastiness of the move, and the chaos brought by their new unexpected discontented roommate, meant she loathed what her husband believed was a gift. 

The back porch was as far as she could go, the vast wilderness she once spent days hiding in was strictly forbidden. The newest housemate refused to be left alone with anyone but Esme and was too new to their way of life to be left alone completely. Esme should have taken it as a compliment and not the death sentence she had come to regard it as. 

She heard the back door creak open — a reminder she still needed to oil that hinge — before she detected her husband, her inhuman senses overpowered by her inhuman imagination. 

“Hello,” he said, heavy footsteps walking across the porch, she could hear the oak creak under his boot. The porch would need to be replaced, or removed, which was fine it was a horrific addition, not the only one she had faced in recent months. 

“You are home early,” she observed. 

“I am an hour later than usual,” he responded, taking a seat next to her, the porch groaned, probably termites. 

She blinked, it was awfully dark was it not? “Oh, I must have been in my own mind, I did not realize it was so late.” She moved to stand — begrudgingly preparing herself to mediate whatever conflict had arisen in her mere hours alone — but his hand around her arm stopped her. 

“Please don't rush off, I feel I have barely been able to look at you without someone threatening to harm me these past few months,” her husband said in a manner he must have believed to be charming. 

She sighed, their home had been… tense, to put it politely. Although it was largely due to his own’s action. He was correct, they had not had a meaningful conversation since April. They had briefly run into each other in hallways, or spent mornings playing chess in the living room but always with an audience, and the understanding they could not speak freely. That moment, although lacking the privacy they typically preferred, was the closest they had gotten to a moment alone in months. 

“Edward is simply worried, perhaps a tad mad, but mostly worried,” Esme explained. “You know how he gets.” 

“He is not the one I am frightened of," Carlisle laughed, his hand landing on her thigh. "I am afraid she will bite my head off every time I touch you."

She attempted to laugh along but even she thought it sounded wrong.

Frightened. She chewed the word, turning the tone he had used over in her mind, it had flowed so naturally. As if the scared teenager currently listening to every word they said from the second story did not have every right to be terrified. 

“She is scared, it is not her fault,” Esme said, wrapping her arm around him.

“She could tone it down a notch,” her husband scoffed, “even Edward was not this aggressive .” 

“Edward had the flu,” Esme said before she could think better of it. She knew better than to talk back, especially weaponizing what was a traumatic experience of her son’s. ‘I am sorry, sweetheart. I did not mean it dismissively, I know that was horrific, I was trying to provide him perspective,’ Esme thought to the boy who was undoubtedly eavesdropping. She could hear the muffled first ten seconds of her favorite composition and knew she was forgiven. 

“You reacted far better,” Carlisle countered. “You have been through similar," he said quietly enough it would be barely heard by those in the house.

“I had wished for death. I recognized you. I did not have my life ripped away,” Esme said. Why was he refusing to understand? 

“Edward had his life ripped away, as did I.” 

“Not at the hands of someone you loved.” 

“I understand that, love, but—” 

“Do you?” 

Carlisle recoiled at her tone, but followed it by a tight lipped smile. “Are you alright? This is uncharacteristic for you,” he said in his familiar “doctor” tone, comforting, patronizing, a tone that meant to convey ‘I am an authority.’ 

“I apologize,” Esme said, squeezing his forearm lovingly, “I have had a long day.” 

The words burned as she heard herself say them. How many unnecessary apologies was she destined to give when a husband of hers disagreed with her conduct? No, the two were nothing alike. 

He smiled forgivingly, nodding in understanding. His hand, large and cold, wrapped around the back of her head, fingers through her hair. She flinched, he frowned and withdrew. 

“I apologize,” Esme said, like one of Edison’s eerie dolls fated to echo the same sentiment until their wax record wore out. 

“Does she know about?” He asked, dropping his voice to a whisper, gesturing with his hand rather than say the name they danced around as if it was a curse.  

“Charles?” Esme asked, speaking at her regular volume, he winced but nodded. “You can say his name. He is not the Prince of Denmark.” 

“Macbeth was attempting to be the King of Scotland. Hamlet is the Prince of Denmark,” Carlisle corrected her attempt at levity. 

“Yes, I have told her about Charles. Not every detail but many.” 

“Do you think reliving that has caused this?” He asked delicately, once again gesturing, this time to her, referencing her previous tone. Heaven forbid she speak frankly to him. 

“It did not seem fair that I knew every detail about the worst night of her life, under no account of her own, and she knew nothing of mine.” 

“You did not have to share anything with her. That is your story to tell how, and when you choose.” 

“Carlisle, I know far too well how dreadful it is to be alone reliving that pain, feeling completely out of control of your life.” 

“You felt alone back then?” 

“Of course.” 

His only response was a hmmph. She had hinted at this compliant many times over the years but had never said it in so few words.

Esme took the silence as an opportunity to continue speaking about the topic they had silently agreed to dance around. “I have been thinking about Ch- him a lot lately.” She noticed the way his nails dug into his palm, his glare at a puddle forming in the backyard, and yet she persisted, albeit less confidently. “I think… perhaps, I buried a lot of my memories in an attempt to move through it, and to not upset you two, but now it is all bubbling back up.” 

“You do not have to discuss anything you do not wish to. No matter how much she pries.” 

“She does not pry. I share willingly, I am thinking about him anyways, I figure I might vocalize some of it.” 

“I apologize. She should not be forcing you to think of that thing.” 

Esme considered her next move carefully. Very rarely did she challenge him blatantly, and never in front of others, but this seemed far more important than anything they had ever disagreed about previously and privacy seemed extinct.

“You brought home a young woman bloody and nude, who had been…” she swallowed the venom that felt like bile rising in her throat at her next word, “raped and beaten by her fiancé and his friends. You decided she should be frozen in that moment for the rest of eternity, and you do not believe I am going to naturally think about my husband and his?” 

“His friends?” Carlisle stammered, one hand in a fist, the other gripping his knee. 

“Do not act as if I have had complete permission to share freely about what went on in that house. You have torn a hole in your pants in your anger.” 

He glanced down at his knee where his nails had shredded the slacks. “Do you expect me to enjoy hearing about him? To revel in...picturing what he did?” 

“No,” she said definitively placing her hand softly on his torn pant knee, “but I lived it and sometimes I can not ignore that it happened.” 

“His friends?” He asked again, quietly. 

“We do not have to discuss it,” she said softly, squeezing his knee comfortingly. 

“No, you want to. Please, tell me every gory detail,” he practically spat. 

“Carlisle.” 

“I apologize my tone was inappropriate” he said, in only a slightly softer tone. 

The couple fell into an uncomfortable silence, punctuated by raindrops on brick. 

“Why did you change her?” Esme asked minutes later. 

“We have been over this before. She was far too young to die, I knew she was beyond the realm of medicine.” 

“You see young people die all the time. You see young beautiful women die often, I am not jealous enough to suggest that was the motivator. Why not any of them?” 

“This was different.” 

“Why?” He did not respond, she pressed further. “Why this young woman who had been through such familiar horrors? Why did you feel compelled to save her? Why not a woman like her forty years ago? Why now?"  

Her husband did not respond, but he met her eyes briefly, his mouth turning into a frown, and he abruptly looked away. It was confirmation enough. 

“That is what I was afraid of,” Esme muttered. It felt as if someone had punched her in the gut. She had suspected this was at least partly his motivation from the moment she pieced together what had happened to the girl. His needless guilt had been a topic of discussion on a number of occasions, had made him act irrationally more than once, but this… was too far. 

They fell back into silence, her hand on his knee drawing mindless shapes but it felt more like a rehearsed gesture than a sign of affection.

He moved one arm as if to wrap it around her shoulders but pulled it back to his body before ever touching her. 

“You could not save me,” Esme said quietly. It was truth they had never acknowledged but both knew. “You believe you could not save me because you left, correct?” 

“It is the truth.” 

“But I was not a victim," Esme said plainly.

“Es-” 

“No,” she said, moving the hand on his knee to his jaw, pulling his face to look at her. She shifted on the stair to face him directly. “Listen to me, please. I married him. I stayed with him for years. I chose not to knock him over the head with a frying pan and feed him to my father’s pigs. I chose to stay in our home when he was gone for a year. I chose him. A thousand times over.” 

“I do not understand what you are trying to say.” 

“Even if you were there, even if you had known what he did, you could not have done anything.” The hand on his face moved to his upper arm. 

“But I cou—” 

“No. If you had given me a choice, I would not have chosen you. I believed that was the life I was supposed to live. I would have chosen him, every single time. Do you understand me?” 

“Do you… love him?” Carlisle asked, frowning as if the words burned. 

“Don't be foolish, you know I do not," she scoffed, “I never did. But I was not brave, I would not have chosen to escape even if for some reason you were there and offered. The only reason I left was because I had too. You did not fail to save me.” 

“You do not know that. If I coul—” 

“Carlisle, no. What happened in my life, is no one’s fault but Charles’ and mine. You are not to blame.” 

“But if I had—” 

“This is not about you!” Esme exclaimed harshly.

He gulped.

"What I went through had nothing to do with you. What happened to her had nothing to do with you. The only way you are involved is because you changed someone because you felt guilty over what you could not prevent me from going through?” She finally asked. 

He looked away from her, eyes focused on their feet. 

“I do not believe I thought of it that rationally in the moment,” he said slowly, “But logically, yes, that was probably a motivating factor.” 

“Do you understand the position that puts me in?” 

“I do now, yes.” 

“Do you understand the position she is in?” 

“I never intended -” 

“I know,” she said earnestly, leaning forward so she could look him in the eye. “You never intend. I do not say this to hurt you, love. I do not say this to make you feel guilty, but I need you to understand the consequences this has had, for all of us.” 

He bit his bottom lip, a jerky little nod. “I do,” he muttered. He turned, she thought to avert her gaze, but instead his head dropped on her shoulder. 

She wrapped her arms around him as she felt his frame shake, “I do,” he trembled, no louder than a breeze. 

[goodqueenaly]

do you think tywin ordered gregor to rape elia, or did he "just" order gregor to murder her brutually?

Does it matter?

Is Tywin absolved of guilt for Elia's death (and the horrific manner of it) if he did not literally say the words "ok Gregor, now when you get inside the Red Keep I want you to make sure you brutally rape Princess Elia before you murder her"? Does Tywin get to shift the blame entirely to Gregor, as he asserts to Tyrion, for the rape and murder of Elia, because, he, Tywin, "did not tell him to spare her"?

Whatever Tywin told Gregor with respect to Elia (and I tend to doubt Tywin's insistence that he did not personally want to take vengeance on Elia, given how petty and thin-skinned Tywin always was), Tywin undoubtedly sent a brutal, sadistic young knight (along with Amory Lorch, another brutal knight) to murder an infant in the care of that baby's own mother. Tywin picked Gregor Clegane specifically and gave at least that specific order. This was not a situation like, say, the northmen who murdered the tavern women along the Red Fork, where an independent loyalist band for a certain faction took it upon itself to commit horrific crimes against the (perceived) enemies of its faction (though even there, I think, the story very much wants readers to consider how those actions reflect on the nobility of Robb's faction); this was Tywin giving an order to a hand-picked soldier - a man who was "huge and terrible in battle" - to terrorize noncombatants and murder an infant. The blood was on Tywin's hands for Elia's death and the circumstances of it, just as much as it was on Gregor's (and just as it was on Amory Lorch's for the murder of Rhaenys).

This is a point that the story underlines again and again - Tywin cannot escape blame for his crimes simply because he raised his hands and said "well, I didn't swing the sword, I didn't say 'do xyz'". Think about his attempts to outsource his terror program in the Riverlands initially to Gregor Clegane, a clumsy ruse that Ned saw right through back in AGOT. Think about Tywin's facially hypocritical declaration to the small council in ASOS that he would give Prince Doran Martell "the justice Robert denied him for the murder of his sister Elia and her children", a ridiculous promise that Tyrion gleefully (if silently) mocked. Think about Tywin's flimsy excuse when Tyrion points out the breach of guest right at the Red Wedding - "The blood is on Walder Frey's hands, not mine" - and his distaste at Tyrion referring to his, Tywin's, "plotting" with Walder Frey for the massacre - a recognition that he, Tywin, was no better than Walder in breaching arguably the most fundamental Westerosi socio-political tradition to murder Robb Stark and his men. The horrific rape and murder of Elia Martell is no different: Tywin not only specifically empowered two bloodthirsty, terrible men to carry out the murders of innocent children with the full knowledge that their mother was living with them (and so every reason to expect her to fight for their survival), but chucked the dead Amory Lorch's body under the bus to explain Elia's murder explicitly so that his favorite attack dog Gregor could live to terrorize another day. What Gregor did, in Tywin's name and with at least some direction from Tywin, falls on Tywin too.

[cardsofthemoon]

Demons and Religion

I haven't logged into this blog for two years and idk if I'm fully back but I've been undergoing some major DL brainrot over the past month, specifically about the lore and such.

We all know that the Church plays a role in the story, and while it might not be a major role as it should be, the Church is the main reason as to why Yui is even in this predicament in the first place. But I want to talk about religion as a whole, and the relationship between demons and religion, or more so, how religion could benefit demons in the long run.

While it’s no secret that demons aren’t the biggest fans of God and religion, I feel like there’s another aspect to religion that is often overlooked and can serve a greater aspect to the story, than simply just “demons hate god! Religion bad!”

In fact, I honestly think that demons and supernatural beings can more often than not benefit from religion or more specifically, benefit from how religious humans are. Throughout history, humans have undoubtedly done some horrendous and horrific shit in the name of religion (the Salem Witch Trials, the Medieval Inquisition, the Mass Genocide of Natives, etc.) It’s a pretty well known fact that human beings will do the cruelest things under the guise of religion, so wouldn’t it make sense for demons to use this die hearted belief humans had about religion and God, and use it to their advantage?

Sadistic tendencies aside, what exactly separates a demon from a God? If a human being encountered a demon, who has shown to have eternal youth, can use magic, has inhumane strength and speed, and is wise beyond their years, their first thought isn’t going to be a wicked demon, but instead a reincarnation of God. They could have used this naivety to their advantage, building a following of devoted followers, who sincerely believed that they are God, and therefore would do whatever they ask for them- including sacrificing their body and blood for the greater good of society.

In fact in most cults, followers would happily volunteer themselves as a “sacrificial bride” if they were devoted enough to the cause. And yes I say, cults because that’s exactly what this is, I honestly feel like demons would thrive a lot more in society if they had a cult following because that eliminates the need of hunting and suspicion, since no one in a cult ever questions the cult leader.

Of course in modern times, with the rise of vampire hunters and whatnot, that’s no longer possible, because now a demon would be targeted if they show even the slightest bit of supernatural ability, but I’m not talking about the modern times. I’m more talking about before, when the church and religion had such a large grasp and pull on the masses, before the invention of church and state, when the church was the government.

I know when we talk about the church, it’s often assumed to be the Roman Catholic Church, but it doesn’t have to be! Like there are so many religions out there, it would be ridiculous for Karlheinz to put all of his eggs in one basket and only have sacrificial brides come from one church. And if we really get into it, demons will have a much better time thriving under a Polytheism religion rather than a Monotheism one, because in a Polytheism religion there’s more than one God. Which allows more wiggle room and more leeway for several demons to take up the identity as "God", therefore having an easier access to prey, and therefore successfully infiltrating religion as a whole.

It’s kind of a bitter irony, humans who put so much faith in these “Gods” to protect them from evil, who shower them with praise and adoration, are unknowingly praying to the same people that they wished to be protected from.

We don’t know what age the diaboys are (but there are theories that the boys were children in the 17th century so I’m going to go base on that), and we don’t know when exactly they decide to come to the human world, but had they infiltrated religion earlier, a lot of things could have been so different. One of the reasons as to why the separation of church and state happened is because during the Enlightenment era, people were starting to believe in rationale, logic, and skepticism, religion was falling out of favor from the people, and was branded as superstitions, childish beliefs that have no substance. However if you have actual evidence that these deities and gods are real, then who’s to say if the separation of church and state would even happen?

In fact wouldn’t this phenomenon only strengthen the church more? And we know that Karlheinz made a deal with the church to send the boys sacrificial brides, so could you imagine the greater influence and power demons have over the church, now that church and religion as a whole is fueled by demons? And what would become of vampire hunters? Would the hunter organization still exist since demons are the reason as to why the state of their society is the way it is (for better and for worse), or would they still be anti-demons because of their inhumane treatment and sacrificial rituals of young girls, in exchange for helping the human society?

In the end, no matter what happens, whether it be sacrificial brides or willing cult participants, the only people that would truly suffer in the end are teenage girls.

[shadowmaat]

(white) kids these days

When I was a kid, back in the age of the dinosaurs, we had a time-honored summertime tradition of dunking each other underwater. Push someone's head under, let go, and laugh as they came spluttering back up. Then (usually) allowing the same to be done to you in return. No real harm done and no active malice intended.

Of course it was a given that the ones being dunked knew how to swim, and that they were, if not actively agreeing to it, at least not trying desperately to escape. You also didn't keep holding the kid underwater. And keep repeating the process on a sole target as they screamed and fought for air. (minor allowances where siblings are concerned, but for the most part even they know where to draw the line.)

You never used racial slurs. You didn't taunt their inability to breathe. And you didn't start this "just having fun" by throwing rocks at your so-called friend.

Apparently times change. Or, if you're Black, things stay exactly the same. Now a 14 year old white boy is being indicted for attempted murder. He and his 14 year old white cohort invited their Black "friend" to a pond, threw rocks at him, and called him the n-word. The boy put on a lifejacket, informing the duo that he couldn't swim (there's a whole grim history of Black people and water) and entered the pond.

Rather than leaving him alone, one of the boys grabbed him and held him underwater. This happened 4-5 times while the cohort laughed and made jokes about George Floyd. The victim finally managed to scream for help and was rescued by a nearby adult.

The bully's lawyer would have us believe that it was "just a joke" that got out of hand and that charging him with attempted murder is excessive. This is absolute fucking bullshit.

14 seems young and it still qualifies as "just a kid," but in the US a 14 year old is probably in their first year of high school (grade 9, or possibly 10). You can't tell me a freshman/sophomore isn't old enough to be aware of their actions or that they "can't tell" when to stop. Sure, there's "difficulty reading social cues" but I'm pretty sure that "holding someone underwater when I know they can't swim" is a whole different ballgame.

I hope the white kid gets convicted. I hope he uses the time to learn to be a better person and to drop whatever racist bullshit he undoubtedly learned at home. I hope his cohort does the same. That kind of hatred only festers, and with it starting so young it'll only get worse from here.

I also hope the victim manages to overcome this trauma and that it doesn't leave him afraid of making new- and better- friends. He deserves kindness and support.

The depressing fact is that racists, and other genocide-minded bigots, feel more empowered than they have since the 50s and 60s to act out on their hatred, and that's all due to certain political groups who keep getting away with saying and enacting horrific things without being stopped. In the US it's Republicans, but it isn't just us, and the hatred keeps growing in power across the world. It needs to be exterminated.

As incidents like this prove, you can't just wait for the "older generation" to die off because they're teaching the younger generations to hate just as violently as they do.

[tj-newton]

4. Lamb to the Slaughter.

The tent was unique in its design, square and reinforced compared to many within the camp. There is no sloping roof to allow the rain to run down its fabric, only its stilts to bear the weight of the water when storms rattle its foundations in the wind. A great building mass enveloped its centre, and each time the tent would groan under the weight of things, Myomtoth would be forced from his bedroll to push the water upwards until it could slide harmlessly away.

It was an endless process, a repeating cycle. Lay restless, listen to the wind, listen to the stilts groan, stand to relieve the pressure, repeat.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

It wouldn't be an issue if it weren't for how reliant he'd become on the routine. Each storm was spent memorising the unchanging patterns on his fabric ceiling, tracking how the light from outside lanterns spilt through his fingers when he held them up—letting them fall heavy on his chest, dragging over his eyes to rub away the bone-deep exhaustion. Sometimes, it felt like he was changing, each day a little more tired and more done.

Sometimes, he allowed his mind to wander. To flee to the dark places where memories flitted around like broken fireflies—twitching and broken somewhere inside his head, choking on the dust. Alen, Karvir, it was somewhere in their blood. Specific, somehow.

It didn't make sense. Astarion's violence was almost as exquisite as theirs, and Lae'zel had undoubtedly never been afraid to wave her… very pointy sword in anyone's face.

"…"

"…oth,"

"-mtoth, for fucks-."

A slap, a hard slap. Resonating in his ears, stinging sharp and bright where there had only been darkness moments ago. Eyes blinking open, an indistinct snarl rumbled from his lips, thrashing in his attempts to become upright. Something binds him, mind flaring angrily when a memory swims just out of reach - why was this familiar? - and instead, he stares in rage at the silhouette before him.

Vision hazy, body still heavy with exhaustion, it's almost laughable how easily the name falls into his lips, "Ast-" another sting of pain cuts him off. A dagger poked at his knee, still uselessly caught under his weight, "are you going to try and rip my throat out again, or can we talk like civil monsters, hm?" Now, on principle, he generally liked the pale elf, but never had he wanted to make good on that promise - again? - more than he did now.

"What the fuck are you on about-" it's strange. Not his inflexion or tone. The accent is correct, but the pitch. Taking the forced lapse to peer at his knee, the sting from Astarion's pointy knife still lingering unpleasantly along the white flesh.

White. The path his eyes take is slow, quiet and undisturbed as his companion keeps whatever words he has to himself for the moment. His feet, uncovered, are as white as his knee. Human shaped and soft when he reaches out bound hands to run equally as gentle fingers along the flesh. Fascinated and fearful when pale hair falls into his face, a ragged, matted mess that pools along the floor like vines in a protective curtain.

Alas, he'd never felt less safe, "fuck," is all he can choke out as he hunches over. Never more thankful for the rogue's quick reflexes when he lurches forward to slip a pretty blade through his bindings. Unfamiliar fingers attached to what must be his own hands find purchase in a blissfully nearby bucket, stomach emptying into it as he heaves in breaths.

The sensation of a panic attack is surely unfamiliar, the wood creaking dangerously under his grip. It’s only now that the other man apparently deems it safe to speak up without getting the now horrific bucket chucked at his head, “so,” Astarion was incorrect in it being safe.

Thankfully, it is not the bucket. A solid shoe hits the fabric wall inches from the elf's head, but with shaky, unfamiliar fingers, his aim is only slightly off: a shame.

“Don't shoot the messenger, darling. I’ll have you know I was very kind not to kill you when you tried to strangle me a few moments ago,” he tuts, with the tone of a mother scolding a child. It would have been comforting to hear him so casually talking if the wavering concern in his eyes wasn’t so clear.

It takes a moment of heaving, unsteady breaths for Myomtoth to turn finally. To collapse back against the pillows and bedrolls stacked in the wall of his tent and breathe. He doesn’t miss how Astarion’s breath hitches or how his glittering eyes stare daggers into his chest. Letting his eyes slip close, he doesn’t dare look, merely asks, “What.”

The rogue takes a moment to speak, perhaps finding the correct wording or… he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know much anymore, “Did you know about these-” A touch, paper soft, across his chest, fluttering along his skin.

His hand catches Astarion’s wrist more instinctually than deliberately, eyes snapping open to meet the others before he can even think about it. How the fuck did he keep getting so close?

Spare hand coming up in a placating gesture, Myomtoth’s grip loosens but doesn’t truly let go. The contact is grounding, and Astarion doesn’t pull away either. He sits back on his ankles and waits, giving the impression of an impatient housecat.

A frustrated breath billows from his mouth, “Does it look like I knew?” he spits, “well- okay, no. Stupid question, obviously. Still, it’s not every day that the camp’s resident Dragonborn turns into a… scrawny white homeless man.”

He’d be offended if he wasn’t so tired.

The two sit silent silent for a time. Myomtoth couldn’t name how long they just sat there, thoughts vibrating in their heads, though he couldn’t guess what the rogue was feeling or thinking. That wasn’t a new development; ** Astarion** was generally difficult to read despite their tents being neighbours. Not a coincidence, considering both of them were notorious for not resting at regular times.

“Come on then,” a tug on his wrist. Firm and demanding, Myomtoth doesn't bother fighting it. For once, the violence is dormant in his veins, and he allows himself to be tugged around and posed as the others please.

The position they find themselves in is… odd. Not the slightest bit what he’d expected with the elf at his back. Sat resting against the other with his legs framed by Astarion’s, and the difference is startling. There wasn’t any doubt that he was still taller by a head or so, but he was… skinnier like this, more lithe than bulky. He didn’t like it.

Panic, clawing back up his throat with a vengeance, unmistakable as his heart picks back up and fingers dig semi-circles into his palms. Violent, horrific, what was he, who-

Fingers draw his fringe back, running down the length of his hair with difficulty as they catch on knots and tangles. Scalp twinging painfully as the sensation repeated, drawing his mind back to reality and the confusion of what was happening set itself at the forefront of his thoughts. “Are you doing my hair-” he almost snorts at how ridiculous that is, but a particularly harsh tug sends him silent. It didn’t need to be worded aloud when the ‘shut the fuck up’ was so well delivered.

He didn’t care to ask what he’d meant about being attacked, didn’t ask why Astarion hadn’t left immediately.

The resonance the other found in his situation was that he both stayed and felt the need to calm and tend to him; he didn’t need more answers when the bone-deep tiredness that haunted the elf’s eyes spoke volumes, “figure it out later, rest. There’s always morning,” comes the smooth voice of the man behind him once more.

For once, he listened.

If in the morning, the two emerged well into the afternoon, closer than they had been for the weeks since meeting and disposing oddly of a bucket without a word. Hair, vomit and unspoken secrets dumped and forgotten.

Little could erase the shape of the Y scars from Astarion’s eyes, though. Like a brand, the raised keloid marks only begged more questions than they answered. Tracing the Dragonborn’s bare chest for weeks as if they would appear from beneath the midnight and white scales.

They didn’t speak of it again, didn’t dare break the spell the delicate evening had cast. Did it still exist if they mentioned it? Had it even happened?

Neither dared ask, a secret to the grave even if neither had agreed to it. Years later, Astarion was granted more freedom than ever to explore his companion’s body, only then dared to trace the outline they’d left behind. Hidden under a shapeshifter’s form, whispered the question out loud like a chant. Listened as a broken man wept, as Wikt breathed out his past from fractured memories and broken dreams.

[ooooo-mcyt]

Yknow what? I'd actually go so far as to say that, as much as ive seen it complained about, it's actually pretty hard to "UwU" or "Woobify" Grian within the context of yhs.

I mean. It's possible if you go really extreme with it, but it's hard.

Grian at his core is actually a primarily decent person most of the timeand is a primarily innocent party in most things. One who goes through a Lot.

If you really think about it Grian's moral compass isn't too far off normal basic human morality. He's often anxious and hesitant when faced with any involvement in criminal activity, he's frequently dismayed and offput by suggestions of violence (the less deserved the more dismay is expressed as well), he's disappointed and frustrated at seeing the people around him do fucked up things, he's almost always polite with a good head on his shoulders when faced with a kind or reasonable person. Even well into ts, long after first coming back to Japan, Grian is still incredibly uneasy and fidgety with the suggestion that he take part in violence, I mean, remember that time he, Taurtis, and Sam were tasked with killing Geode and Grian not only initially tried to refuse outright but then checked in shakily with the other two multiple times just to confirm if they were really going to kill someone. Grian's typically the character most likely in the entire series to be incredibly put off by and very hesitant about doing bad things (especially to people he's not one million percent certain deserve it).

And while one could argue that we can't really praise his moral compass for being hesitant about involving himself in crime/wrongdoing when he often ends up participating anyways. Actions speak louder than words and all. However I disagree. The fact that Grian vocally does not wish to be involved in this kind of thing and has proven to behave on the more reasonable and polite side when acting independently in relation to likewise level headed people....is Very important. In fact, in actual legal cases, oftentimes a factor in trying individuals is the question of whether they would commit the crime in question indepently or under normal circumstances. This is the basis for necessity, duress, and insanity pleas, amoung other's. People who would not act the way they did in a certain scenario under normal circumstances are often liable to be judged favourably in their actions. In fact, speaking of duress pleas, Grian's got a pretty solid one for a lot of his actions. The times Sam or Yuki held a knife to his throat or the times police threatened to kill him if he doesn't comply with orders or any alike incidents. In cases where duress isn't applicable to Grian's behaviour there are oftentimes incidents in which an outright case for violence in self defense can be made. In fact, most of Grian's circumstances leave him very viable to be judged sympathetically on a legal standpoint. The fact that he was a minor, the fact that he had no apparent history of violence or crime, the fact that he was in a severely abusive relationship with a criminal and entering said relationship marked the start of any sort of criminal behaviour from Grian, any criminal behaviour from Grian always being in a group setting never lead by himself, the fact that he always clearly and openly protests when pulled into these group settings, the duress and self defense pleas that are applicable to pretty much all incidents in which he does engage. Which are also all factors that can and should be accounted for on. a moral basis as well, obviously. And like, Grian has a reputation for being arrogant, cynical, and rude or whatever, but he's really not. He very rightfully calls out other people's horrible bullshit and makes snappy remarks towards his abuser but that's the opposite of a problem and Grian's proven himself more than capable of reasonable civility towards reasonable people. Grian just isn't the selfish arrogant disrespectful criminal that he's sometimes implied to be and in fact he's largely innocent- or absolvable, if you'd rather- in most of the things levied against him. Grian's not a literal saint giving to the needy and taking care of orphans in his spare time but he's a decent guy overall???

And hey, speaking of that super abusive relationship Grian landed in. Let's not forget the impact of that situation. Sam was undoubtedly abusive towards Grian. He threatened Grian's life various times, he basically told Grian he was nothing compared to Taurtis, he shoved plastic down Grian's throat and laughed when he choked, he got Grian locked up in solitary confinement through complete lies just because he thought it'd be entertaining I guess, he forced Grian to kiss an abnormally large amount of people against his will (some of these instances sam recorded despite being asked not to), he himself tried to make out with Grian without consent while Grian was sleeping in his own private room, he forcefully dressed Grian up in feminine cosplay meant to be ~attractive~ complete with fake breasts, he lied to Grian about the gender identity of someone Grian dated as a joke (his words) and lightly mocked Grian afterwards, he locked Grian in a basement for three days straight and it's unclear whether or not he was planning to let him out anytime soon, he dragged Grian into a closet with school staff despite Grian's very vocal distress and discomfort then scolded Grian for considering reported it when this staff member made uncomfortable comments on the outfit Sam had forced Grian into, Sam offered to give Grian to another guy who made a similar uncomfortable comment later on as part of some trade, he consistently dragged Grian against his will into criminal activity whether by threatening him, tricking him into participating, or just altogether falsely implicatng him, amoung Many other things. And every step of the way Sam did his best to completely gaslight Grian. He used every gaslighting technique in the book. Telling blatant lies (for example, "i would never stab taurtis", "you are taurtis", "grian's crazy and he stabbed taurtis"), he denies doing shit to Grian that Grian knows damn well he did ("i would never stab taurtis"). He hard projected his bs onto Grian (from blaming grian for 'making' sam do awful shit sam did to claiming grian actually fullstop did the awful shit sam did). He was just constantly trying to turn people against Grian (convincing yuki and taurtis to back him up in calling grian a bad manipulative friend and insisting he needed to apologize for 'making' sam horrifically abuse him. arriving in the police station and instantly without hesitation telling them grian was crazy and dangerous and pinning his own crimes on grian. having taurtis back him up and help scold grian for getting mad about being locked in the basement for days). Telling Grian he's crazy (taurtis incident again, solitary confinement incident, the time sam kissed grian without his consent while he slept and grian got mad). Telling everyone else that Grian's a manipulative liar (taurtis incident again, solitary confinement incident again). Yknow. Gaslighting. Sam was just so unbelievably abusive. In like. Every possible way. Which adds a LOT of trauma to Grian. That on top of his parents abandoning him as a little kid too because we couldn't leave it at severe abuse.

Grian's not a bad person. And he's certainly a very sympathetic person. Which is why it would be hard to woobify yhs Grian. It would be hard to make a very sympathetic very sad character egregiously sympathetic and sad. His whole arc is getting abandoned by his parents, going to visit his friends, and getting violently abused and forced into a multitude of disturbing activities against his will for an extended period of time.

One could argue that sure Grian isn't a bad person and sure Grian's got a pretty sad life, but certainly a lot of people are guilty of making Grian more helpless and scared and generally 'pathetic' than he is in canon.

To which I reply...not really?

Grian already doesn't have half the fight response people ascribe to him throughout the series. That was a whole other post but honestly Grian's response to traumatic situations is very frequently to cave to them and he's got a much stronger submissive streak than people often admit. I mean, Grian was asked to dress up as his best friend who just got stabbed "to make things less awkward and make me feel better" and he did it within ten seconds of being asked without the others even needing to threaten him at all. Grian does express quite a bit of despair, fear, and submissive tendency in canon when faced with dangerous or traumatic situations. And while it's possible to go a bit too far with that if you consistently leave out the token fight entirely, I see people swing way too far un the opposite direction way too often. There's a reason Grian never actually killed Sam in canon. There's a reason Grian never made a serious attempt to get him arrested for his crimes. There's a reason Grian never just left. When Sam found Grian after he ran out of the gym during the Taurtis incident? Grian didn't lunge for Sam. There was no serious altercation between the two. Grian scrambled back and tearfully babbled platitudes while shoving plastic down his own throat on command. And even beyond that, a lot of the interpretations accused of making Grian too helpless/scared/'pathetic' are works that involve Grian processing trauma years after the fact. Which. Even if Grian was the most aggressive on edge fighter in the history of trauma responses during the traumatic events? People don't process their trauma after the fact the same way they instinctively respond in the moment. Even if Grian never shed a tear throughout any of the traumatic ordeals he experienced, it would be far from unrealistic behaviour for him to still process after the fact by panicking and sobbing his eyes out regularly. Which, again, Grian wasn't even all that fight oriented while it was happening so panic and tears isn't even super far removed from his actual in the moment responses let alone processing after-responses. It's just. It's really hard to "UwU" Grian tbh. He's a decent person, he went through hell (his own words actually), and he was never even really very effectively aggressive when he did. And while it's possible to dip too far into that territory, far more often I see things swung egregiously far in the other direction.

[drwcn]

I loved your fem lwj take on things. How would thibgs go if WWX was the lady? Other than ppl assuming she stood up for the Wens bcs she jad feelings for WN ( and that Yuan was hers)

Heyyy friend, I think I’ve seen a couple of girl!wwx fics floating around in ao3 so i certainly won’t be the first :P.

Also I completely misread your ask initially, I thought you were asking me what I think would happen if A-Yuan was WWX’s kid, and I was like oh?? But then I realize wait... I can make it worse.  

Today, I decided that my mortal soul doesn’t matter, so here we go. Let’s see how accursed I can make this idea: 

[1]

It started with Jiang Cheng. Jiang Wanyin had set out for the Burial Mount with the explicit goal of throttling speaking with Wei Wuxian, but what greeted him at the entrance of the “Demon Subduing Palace” — more of a cave than anything really — was not his martial sister, but Wen Ning. Well, what had once been Wen Ning.

Black veins ran across his pale, ashen face, down his equally ashen neck , and into the major veins beneath his clavicles covered by the collars of his black threadbare robes. Lifeless eyes, white as his skin, stared into a void the living could not see. There were talismans littering his body, and Jiang Cheng knew that when he spoke to this fierce corpse, he was not speaking to the young Wen boy, but to his mistress who controlled him with her demonic cultivation. 

Wei Wuxian refused to face him. Refused him explanation. Refused him closure.

“Er-jie!” Jiang Cheng screamed into the stony expressionless face of Wen Qionglin. “If you continue to protect them, then I can’t protect you!!” 

There was no response. 

Suddenly, just as Jiang Cheng was about to kick and fight his way into the cave, Wen Ning thrusted out his right fist, and in his grasp was a piece of purple silk. Jiang Cheng unfolded the silk, vaguely recognizing that it had been cut from someone’s robe, and saw what was wrapped within was a slip of parchment.

割袍断义*, the paper read. Tell the world that I, Wei Wuxian, first disciple of Yunmeng Jiang has forever defected (Note: 割袍断义- to rip one's robe as a sign of repudiating a sworn brotherhood (idiom)).

With this, there was nothing left to say. Hurt and furious, Jiang Wanyin threw the piece of parchment onto the dirt ground, grinded his heel down on it, and left the Burial Mount without ever having drawn Sandu. 

Inside the cave, Wen Qing held Wei Wuxian’s hand. “Why won’t you just tell him? He’s your brother; he can help you, you can —” 

Wei Wuxian’s mile long stare seemed to be gazing at something — someone — very far away. Slowly, she placed her other palm over her belly, which horrifically was already starting to round out. “Nobody can help me now, Qing-jie.”

“I can,” said Wen Qing, blunt as ever. “I can make it go away, if you want.”

“No.” A droplet of tear escaped pass long lashes. “No.” 

[2] 

It continued with Jiang Cheng.

On a snowy night, the first winter after Wei Wuxian escaped with the Wen remnants to the Burial Mount, Jiang Cheng was rudely awakened from his slumber by a less-than-stealthy intruder breaking and entering into his bed chamber.

Zidian whipped through the air, lighting the room with her eerie violet glow, before the intruder could think to take one more step. It was a man, judging from his silhouette colliding against the wall and the pained groan he made in response. The very next second, the tail of Zidian coiled tightly around his neck and dragged him across the floor towards beneath Jiang Cheng’s waiting foot. 

The Sect Master of Yunmeng Jiang summoned Sandu, ready to deliver the final strike, but just as his blade sailed towards the intruder’s chest, a pale arm jutted upwards, blocking Sandu’s descent and revealing a pale hand holding a … a... 

Even in the dark, Jiang Cheng immediately recognized the mahogany comb. 

“Jiang — ! Zongzhu —!” The man croaked out urgently, throat still stomped on by Jiang Cheng’s foot. It was - it was Wen Ning?!

Jiang Cheng looked him over. He was pale, yes, but his eyes appeared human. His hair was brushed and haphazardly done up in a farmer’s top knot. He was wearing farmer’s clothing too, probably more inconspicuous for travel than his Ghost General getup.  

“Jiang-zongzhu! P—please!!”

No, impossible. 

“Wei — Wei-guniang—”

Jiang Cheng lifted his foot and dragged Wen Ning up in a split second. “What’s wrong with Wei Wuxian?!”  Wen Ning coughed and shook his head desperately. “No time to explain. My sister asked me to fetch you. Please, you have to come! Wei-guniang’s life is in danger! If you won’t come, I’ll...I’ll have to go to Gusu, and I don’t know if - if -” 

Jiang Cheng followed Wen Ning. 

For speed, they travelled by sword, but even so, dawn was breaking by the time they arrived. The crowd of Burial Mount’s villagers huddling anxiously outside of the Demon Subduing Palace parted for them upon their arrival. Jiang Cheng took a moment to gather himself and square his shoulders. Whatever it was; he was ready.  

He was wrong. None of the dozens of scenario he had agonized over on the flight here could have prepared him for what awaited him inside. 

Wen Qing, pale and drenched in sweat, was near complete spiritual collapse, and without Wen Qing’s spiritual energy sustaining her, the single tenuous thread by which Wei Wuxian’s life hung on would have undoubtedly snapped under the toil and devastation her body had been put through. 

There was so much blood, so, so much blood everywhere, and amidst the blood, there was a baby. 

Fuck. 

Jiang Cheng transfused his sister half of his total spiritual reserve over the course of a day, while an exhausted but unrelenting Wen Qing worked diligently under blood-soaked sheets. 

Then at dusk, when the storm finally passed, Jiang Cheng sat at the mouth of the cave with a tiny, perfect little human — a girl, a niece! —  in his arms and cursed Lan Wangji’s name. 

Wen Qing was extremely clear with them: 孩子要是留在这里，养不活。

If the newborn was left to be raised at the Burial Mount, she would not live. And so, because parting was inevitable from the start, Wei Wuxian adamantly refused to hold or nurse the child. Her child. 

I can’t. If I do, I won’t be able to let her go. Those dark eyes burned with more than just the delirium of her childbed fever. For once, Jiang Cheng could not find it in himself to argue.

Thus, he took his niece home and named her Jiang Yan 江曕. The name was not his doing. His foolish, misguided, stubborn sister had stroked her daughter’s soft, baby cheek and whispered it to her as a farewell gift. 

Yan - to be bathed in daylight. In the end, when given a choice, Wei Wuxian still opted for her child to walk on broad sunny road. 

It made Jiang Cheng wonder why, then, she would choose the dark twisted path for herself instead. 

[3] 

It ended with Jiang Cheng. 

The truth was simple: Jiang Wanyin killed his shijie Wei Wuxian. He did. He meant to. 

He killed her. But that did not mean he wanted her dead. 

In one day, he had lost both of his sisters, leaving two orphans in their wake. Jiang Cheng could not ignore the cruel irony of their fate: one’s father murdered by his aunt, and other’s mother murdered by her uncle. 

This was the kind of tragedy fairytales were made of, and if there were anything left in him to shed tears over it, he would.  Standing amongst Nevernight’s carnage, he could not dredge up even a single drop of tear.  

Jiang Cheng didn’t know how he could return home to Lotus Pier to face that cherub face, always so happy, so sweet, so utterly untainted by the world. She had her mother’s smile. Yan'er was starting to learn how to speak. Her first words were da-da. 

Da-da. Die-die. Father. 

He was standing beside her father now. 

Lan Wangji. Devastated. Destroyed. …Deceived.

Jiang Cheng hated him so much, so fucking much that for one insane second, he thought about telling Lan Wangji the truth just to see what would happen. Maybe he would run Jiang Cheng through with his Bichen - that would be a relief now, wouldn’t it? - or maybe he would jump after Wei Wuxian. 

Truly, if he knew, he would. Jump, that is. Jiang Cheng was almost entirely sure. Oh the utter melodrama that would inspire indeed!  

But then... 

Wei Ying birthed you a daughter, a lovely, perfect, blessed little girl, and she carried that secret to her grave. I may be damned by my actions, but you, who have done nothing for her and taken everything, why should you deserve something as sacred as the truth?

Jiang Cheng turned away. 

He was acutely aware that one day Jiang Yan may very well be the literal death of him. After all — 杀母之仇不共戴天 — one cannot tolerate living under the same sky as the murderer of one’s mother. 

Be that as it may, he would raise Jiang Yan well, just as he promised. Unlike his sister, he would not break his word. Jiang Yan was of Lotus Pier, of Yunmeng, like her mother and grandfather before her. That for him, was enough. 

Jiang Cheng clutched Sandu and gripped Zidian. Whatever his fate, he already made peace with it, and the rest was inconsequential. 

One day, he may die, but today he lives, and so as long as he lives, Jiang Yan and all of Yunmeng Jiang will be protected . So as long as he lives, they will flourish. 

[...and in between]

On the streets of Yiling, Lan Wangji tilted his head inquisitively at Wei Wuxian and the little boy at her side and asked, “This child, he...” 

In response, Wei Wuxian patted her chest in a self-declarative kind of way and announced, “Oh this child, I birthed him!” 

He stared at her in shell-shocked silence, his mind racing with panicked thoughts of but that’s impossible — that was just once — even if — the boy is too old to be —

“怎么，蓝湛，不要我们娘儿俩了？” What, Lan Zhan, you don’t want the child and I?

“Wei— Wei Ying—” 

Then of course, she had laughed, and Lan Wangji thought no more of it. 

Just a joke. A silly joke. 

In time, he would come to realize his mistake. 

~~~

[A/N]: I’m not even a little bit sorry. 

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

I know you’ve talked about how all the Cullen pairings are eventually going to implode - glad someone said it - but I was wondering if you wanted to talk a little bit about what you think Meyer INTENDED with the pairings - tropes and whatnot? And what you think would have to change in her narrative to make what was intended what we actually saw on the page? Or — what do you think each cullens’ Perfect Spouse would actually look like?

Anon is referring to this post.

And well, you've certainly given me quite the challenge.

Some Musing Ramblings Before We Begin

Sort of like asking me to make Dramione work, I'm not sure I'm the person to ask this. Anyone who reads my work knows that... well, that's a lie, every story I secretly write is a love story. But it's not Twilight in any way shape or form.

Twilight simply isn't a story I would set out to write. This isn't a good thing or a bad thing, it just is, which means that asking me to make Twilight work the way Meyer intended is probably not your best bet.

But I'll try regardless, it's what we're here for.

Bella/Edward

Meyer intended Bella Swan and Edward Cullen to be the best and brightest of all the pairings in Twilight. They have the love and devotion of Carlisle and Esme, the physicality and sexual attraction of Rosalie and Emmett, and are such a grand love that even depressed Marcus takes note. This is the love story that drives the entire series.

Edward is an improvement upon Carlisle, a Carlisle with even better control, and the most beautiful man you ever did see. He's also a gentleman, a man of his time and from an era where chivalry was alive and men courted women. Bella is one of those disturbingly altruistic people who makes you feel bad about yourself just by being in the same room. She's incredibly selfless, kind, and also quite brave.

Together, despite their ups and downs and the many obstacles in their way, they're disgustingly perfect.

However, that's not what we get. On Edward's end he's... Edward about loving Bella. On Bella's end, she has no idea who Edward even is but she does know he's beautiful and special.

And to get what Meyer actually wanted... Christ, Anon, I'll try.

So, the first problem, if Edward was truly a good person then Twilight would never happen.

Edward would have his first day of Biology, miraculously maintain control, and flee to Alaska as he does in canon. However, he would not return. Edward in canon returns due to his budding obsession as well as his wounded pride, in fleeing Forks he feels he has lost to Bella. When Carlisle later points out that a girl's life is on the line, that Edward is foolishly endangering this girl solely for his ego, Edward refuses to acknowledge this.

A good man would never have returned from Alaska, the Cullens would have moved in short order, and Bella may or may not have died in a parking lot or in Port Angeles.

That said, what if Bella is not, in fact, Edward's singer? Then there's not this constant debate of him eating her or his creepy, budding, obsession with his personal brand of heroin.

Well, the trouble with that is that Edward would then never notice her. Even were Edward not a colossal dismissive dick, required per this ask, Bella is one mortal out of many and someone he shouldn't grow close to. Associating with her just exposes her to unnecessary danger from him and his family. Edward is a guest in our world, nothing more, and a kind Edward might chit chat with her in Biology but even if he had a growing crush he'd keep his distance.

As he tried and failed to do in canon, actually.

Basically, change Edward alone, and it's not enough. The Edward Meyer wanted would never get together with Bella. At least, not without a lot of AU-sauce.

But let's look at Bella for a moment. Bella's character also has to be entirely stripped down. The Bella of the books is extremely depressed and her infatuation with Edward is fueled in part because of this. Edward's obsession with her gives her worth.

Obviously, in this new and improved edition of Twilight, Bella can't use either Edward or Jacob for validation. She has to be able to stand on her own two legs. If she does use either for validation, then the relationship must come to an end, as she and her significant other realize just what it is Bella's doing.

The trouble is, what does this not-depressed Bella have to fall in love with? Yes, Edward's beautiful, and that certainly goes a long way, but in canon he's a dick. Bella even thinks to herself that he's a complete dick (even when he's trying to be charming). Luckily for Edward she later decides that this is cryptic and therefore appealing.

Well, in AU land, Edward might be so damn charming that Bella likes him anyway but we come back to Edward keeping her at a polite distance.

So, what we need is a terrifying villain. Let's call him Angelus (though per Twilight this would probably be James). Angelus is a vampire that will force Edward's hand. For whatever reason, he decides to torment and ruin Bella's life, ending the hunt in either eating her or turning her into his bride. Angelus' existence forces Bella to be in the know and for Edward to have to take extreme action.

The pair become closer, grow through undoubtedly horrific trauma, and through said trauma Bella understands not only the pros of being a vampire but the terrifying cons.

Basically, it'd be this story. Just replace the name "Carlisle" with Edward and "Edward" with James.

Alice/Jasper

Alice and Jasper are supposed to have this ineffable, mystic, connection where they're together because... Alice saw them together. And in a way, that's true, but it's supposed to be a thing of beauty, soulmates if there ever were any, and instead it's this dumpster fire with nothing holding them together.

This one's easier in a way, well, sort of. Alice would have to be a completely different character and we'd have to see a lot more of Jasper.

Alice has a bad habit of treating those around her, even those she loves, as chess pieces. She'll put them in significant danger, court their misery, so long as it gets her the future she wants.

And she's extremely controlling.

Right away in the opening of Midnight Sun we see this and how it affects her and Jasper's relationship. The novel opens with Alice hovering, scanning the future for Japser fucking up, while Jasper just sits there in misery. Due to her obsession on making sure Jasper doesn't eat students, she actually misses Edward's plan to massacre Biology and his many plans to eat Bella Swan.

Even if she wasn't, this isn't good for anyone to live with. Jasper has very little concept of free will, whatever happens to him, whatever he'll do, Alice tells him and the worst possible option is always on the table.

For Jasper/Alice to work either Alice's gift needs to go (and that's... sort of all Alice is) or she has to tell no one any vision ever unless under extreme circumstances.

Which would be devastating for Alice. Rather than this mostly well-adjusted, perky, girl, Alice would be crippled by her gift. The weight of the world, everyone's free will, rests on her shoulders and she has to constantly avoid temptation to simply pick everyone's future for them.

Without the attitude Alice has in canon, I think she'd go mad with such a gift, or else be consumed by the responsibility of it.

Then we get to the mess that is Jasper. Jasper's complicated, and I don't want to get into it here, but his love story would have to be... too large to be put to the side like that. The redemption he'd need is not one that can be shoved into a few paragraphs told to Bella, it's frankly the kind of story that would drive an ordinary story.

So we'd have to see a lot of Jasper and Nouveau Alice. Which, of course, detracts from Bella/Edward which is the main point of the story.

Honestly, I take it back, there's no salvaging this relationship. They would have to be completely different people to the point where they're entirely different characters wearing nametags 'Alice' and 'Jasper'. Alice couldn't have her gift, which informs her entire character, and we'd have to see way too much of Jasper who is ultimately a tertiary character.

Carlisle/Esme

Thoughts on Carlisle/Esme.

Carlisle and Esme is a very 'spiritual' relationship per Meyer. They're... mom-bot and dad-bot. Alright, fine, they're the perfect parents with this deep love for each other and a very parental bond with Edward especially. It's the relationship Edward admires the most in his paired off family.

I don't even know how to fix this one.

Again, they'd have to be such different people. The trouble with Esme and Carlisle is that they share no values and are plagued by massive miscommunication. The Carlisle who is perfect for Esme... No, wait, this Carlisle is perfect for her, but that's because she's in Esme Land.

The Carlisle that would be perfect for a grounded Esme is not the one that exists. She'd want someone who would always put the family first, who would treasure her above all other things, that's not Carlisle.

Carlisle, similarly, would want someone that truly shares his ideals. That's not Esme.

So, we're back to nametag land, because one or both have to completely change for this to work. (Not to mention that Esme's probably not supposed to be Esme).

So, I've got nothing for this.

Rosalie/Emmett

I actually think these two are what Meyer intended. They love each other but are mostly held together by attraction. They're a very physical couple and good for the most part but inherently lesser than Bella/Edward.

Sure, I'd argue that they're the most put together couple in the house, but I think they're meant to have flaws. They work well together, but every other relationship in the Cullens has to be a step up or at least have something more to it.

Something Edward and Bella can be better than.

Conclusion

Dear god. Did I only manage to somewhat address Bella/Edward? Was that it? This was worse than I thought.

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

For You Part 2:

Part 1 is here

Taglist: @forestfanders

Warnings: pill mention, restrained, past drugging mention, vampires, exhaustion, hallucinations, arachnophobia, cannibalistic behavior, spiders

~

Supervillain sat in the armchair next to Villain's bed and watched their ward's pale face as their body struggled to replenish the much needed blood supply.

Before cooling them down in an ice water bath, Supervillain's medics attempted to give them a blood transfusion but Villain reacted negatively to the action.

Supervillain reached over and grabbed Villain's weak hand. The villain didn't stir, no, they slept on. Lost in their own world of pain-free dreams.

"Villain," Supervillain murmured softly. Gosh, their colleague was so brave. Honestly if it wasn't for the fact that Supervillain paid more than any hero organization, they would've probably taken the heroic route.

"Boss," another voice sounded throughout the previously silent hospital room. Supervillain let go of Villain's hand and stood up to face one of their henchman.

"Yes, Henchman?"

"We gave Hero the pill and they seem to be awake now," Henchman reported quickly. "How's Villain?"

"Asleep."

Henchman walked over to the bed and placed a hand on Villain's burning forehead.

"I'm gonna go get a cool washcloth; need anything else?"

"No, no. I can get things if I need them," Supervillain smiled and sat back in the chair, their hands wrapping around Villain's.

Henchman returned with a dripping washcloth and was about to place it on Villain's forehead when Supervillain snatched it away.

"I can do it," Supervillain mumured and laid the washcloth smoothly against Villain's forehead. Villain's breath hitched as they shifted under the new sensation, but they didn't wake up.

"You really do care about them," Henchman pointed out, a knowing smile on their tired face.

"Go."

Hero stared up at the ceiling, their wrists bound by leather restraints, and sighed deeply. Henchman2 was sleeping against the doorframe, chin tucked to their chest. Based on the eerie silence in the Villain Base, Hero assumed that it was night.

That was until a loud, earsplitting yowl sounded throughout the quiet building. Hero jumped, startled, before leaning back into the bed. Their heart pounded as their brain thought of all the horrific scenerios that the owner of the scream could be going through.

Henchman2 bolted upright, looked at Hero, and ran out the door swearing loudly. Hero grimaced. Attack? They wondered and tried to melt into the covers as if that would hide them from whatever situation was going on outside that door.

It was a good thirty minutes later when another presence entered Hero's temporary guestroom. They looked up, shocked to see Supervillain swaying in front of the bed.

"What's wrong with you?" Hero asked, sitting as far up on the pillows as the restraints allowed.

"What's wrong with Villain?" Supervillain asked. Their voice was taut with the need to sleep. Heck, they looked about to collapse.

"Blood loss I reckon, they filled my belly really well," Hero tried to rub their belly to add some spice to the sarcastic comment, but couldn't due to the leather straps. They were, honestly, very greatful for Villain's sacrifice, but Supervillain could take that as weakness.

"Yeah okay. Villain has powers that should be replenishing their blood supply," Supervillain glanced down to the bed, exhausted eyes yearning. "But they are still unconscious and sick."

"That sucks."

Supervillain shot them a glare without any ferocity. In all honesty, it looked like they were squinting to make out a blurry image. Maybe they were.

"Did you ever bite them?" Supervillain asked, slightly pleading, slightly ordering an answer.

"How would I know? I only remember being fed, every else is quite hazy," Hero pointed out, not really wanting to outright admit that they were drugged against their will.

"I think," Supervillain said. "I think they are turning into a vampire."

"That is quite possible," Hero agreed. "I could've bit them."

"Hmm," Supervillain groaned and rubbed their eyes. "Gotta go check on them..."

"You mean you have to go to bed," Hero retorted. "Have your minions watch Villain. Or don't, it may be dangerous." Especially if they are turning into... Hero stopped that train of thought and gave Supervillain a lopsided grin as their eyes began to glaze over. "Besides," they continued. "Villain is gonna need you rested."

"What do you mean by that?" Supervillain's eyes snapped back into focus with a menacing look.

"I mean, someone is gonna have to feed them..."

This time, Supervillain smiled. Wicked and dangerous all in one contraction of muscles.

"And that someone is gonna be you, because, well, this is all your fault," Supervillain snickered and stumbled out of the room.

Hero's groaned and allowed their head to rest on the pillow, back slightly arching. Great, just great.

Villain's fingers curled into the covers as they woke up- groggy and confused- to a weight against their legs.

A spider.

A big, ginormous spider.

Villain jolted away, skinny legs pressed against their chest as their breaths came in short, ragged gasps.

There was a spider on their bed.

Villain screamed.

The spider immediately lifted itself from Villain's legs. The millions of red eyes turned to look at them.

Villain let out another hoarse animalistic cry. This time it was a perfect mixture of feverish sobs and terrified screeching.

"Get away from me!" Villain kicked out as the spider advanced on them, barefoot meeting soft flesh. The spider hesitated, one of its eight moving up to caress a few of its undoubtedly smashed eyes.

Two of the limbs encircled Villain, dragging them back down to the bed.

Then it spoke, yet no audible words sounded. Just nonsensical gibberish that only made Villain sob harder.

The spider opened its mouth again and a low buzzing sounded. Villain winced and tried to pull away, but the outstretched legs made it nearly impossible.

"Villain." Came a voice through the misty fog that seemed to settle on Villain's ears as if they were a valley. The villain stopped their thrashing and looked around, trying to pinpoint where their name came from. Only, their conclusion was, that it came from the spider.

They knew Villain's name.

It should've caused intense feelings of fear and mistrust, but it didn't. It actually made Villain calm down and study the spider's face

Not the millions of eyes, but an actual face with only two eyes and a mouth and a nose...

"Supervillain?" Villain croaked, immediately launching themself into an embrace.

"I'm here, I'm here," their friend chuckled and wrapped their arms around Villain.

Villain looked up into Supervillain's face. Tired, exhausted, weakened...

Easy prey.

Villain snarled, revealing long, white teeth. Supervillain let go of their hold on them and got off the bed.

"Villain..." they warned, voice deep and foreboding.

But Villain didn't care.

They lunged. After all, they had to eat.

[haleigh-sloth]

Hi 🙋‍♀️ my friend thinks that Dabi is going to be put down(killed) and Endeavor will be the one who’s going to do it as an act of atone. I told her that it was a horrific take because that would be a horrible way to atone and two your essentially saying that Endeavor should re-kill the son he failed and basically killed by his actions of neglect/abuse as a parent which would not be a good path to take! I also stated that three villains are being set up to be saved. She still doesn’t believe me, and asked if I could get a better perspective. So I’m here begging 🙏🏻 🥺 for your input please? Your definitely a lot more perspective and have a better eye than I!

Hey! So I’m going to answer everything, but first ask your friend to provide evidence of this, and to also explain how any of that would be even remotely acceptable to portray in a story that is aimed toward a very large, young, impressionable audience, in which a portion has undoubtedly experienced abuse in their own lives. How would those people feel reading that? What kind of message does that send? Horikoshi isn’t like a writing genius or anything, but he is not THAT incompetent. I mean...do give him credit where it’s due. He’s been building up their redemptions for a long time and he’s already established that as the next narrative challenge for Shouto, Ochaco, and Midoriya. I’m not going to say anything about your friend’s way of thinking because I can’t tell by the way your ask is worded if she believes that’s how it SHOULD go (which is....not good) or if she just has no faith in the writing (which is understandable but I’m gonna try to relieve some of those anxieties). In order to remain polite and civil I’m gonna go with the ladder and assume she just has no faith in Horikoshi, which is understandable, but not necessary! I hope you’re comfortable because this is probably going to be longer than I am anticipating, but oh well. 

Anyway, I’ll start with establishing what is deemed acceptable in the world of BNHA as far as killing goes.

*clears throat* It’s not fucking acceptable. Never was, never will be.

Look, please pinpoint to me where a pro-hero in the story has killed a villain and it was viewed as acceptable. And before you point at Hawks, I’m going to direct you here, here, and here. And there are so so SO many more posts I could find and link you to that explain my point further on that matter, but I won’t do that unless it’s asked of me. Regardless, Hawks murdering Twice was not acceptable, it was not portrayed as such, it was not viewed as such by the characters within the story. Therefore, it was not acceptable. And I’m fairly certain Hawks has a really rough road ahead of him because of his terrible choice, so prepare yourself for that.  But where was I? Oh yeah, establishing whether or not it’s acceptable to kill:

I mean there are more, but I don’t have all the time in the world. Tell her to read the story from the beginning and pay attention to what the story is telling its readers  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

Now, we’ve established that heroes in BNHA do NOT kill. That is not what being a hero means in THIS story. Now, what else is something important in BNHA that has repeatedly gotten focus?

Family.

To me personally, the most important callout to the importance of protecting your family is here:

He’s calling out all heroes, but he’s saying this in front of Endeavor. Important. Note that. There’s an entire subplot dedicated to the importance of portraying that putting your family first is the utmost responsibility of a parent. Outside of that subplot, we are shown the very dire consequences of what happens when parents abandon and reject their children.

Exhibit A: Toga

Exhibit B: Toya, or Dabi

Exhibit C: Tenko, or Tomura

These adults are the result of parents who failed their families.

Look, regardless of what people want to say the story is about: whether it’s about heroes vs. villains (it’s not), or about Midoriya graduating UA and becoming the number 1 hero (it’s not), or about Midoriya mastering his quirk (it’s not), there is no denying that BNHA is about heroes SAVING others and parents protecting their FAMILY. 

Horikoshi made it a point to establish a clear difference between the adults and the children in BNHA. He also made a point to show ALL THREE VILLAINS’ origin stories and showed us that all it took was ONE BAD DAY when they were CHILDREN. There is literally a chapter titled “All it takes is one bad day” specifically to drill this into your head. Toga’s life went downhill after attacking that boy in middle school from suppressing her biological nature for so long. Toya’s life went downhill when his flames nearly killed him. Tenko’s life went downhill when his quirk activated and killed his whole family. All it took was one bad day in these children’s lives to completely ruin their futures and take any and every chance away from them at a normal life. 

So with the strong focus on heroes saving people and parents failing their children, why why WHY would it ever be acceptable for Enji to KILL his SON? That not only repeats the first mistake made (Toya’s death), but also negates ALL of the narrative focuses of the entire story. I just...that’s a very very deep disconnect that I can’t force closed unless your friend chooses to look deeper than surface level reading. And it’s not just BNHA that has narrative themes and focuses throughout the story. That’s ANY story you read. Well, any good story at least. I’m not a writer by any means but even I know the basic rules of story telling: 

Leave a message for your readers. Give your story a goal. 

Otherwise it’s just words and pictures on paper that don’t mean anything. 

So I gave you the basics of what BNHA is about, now I’ll give the specific moments that directly tell you that Toya, Toga, and Tomura are going to be saved and redeemed. 

Toya:

Toga:

Tomura:

Now....does your friend really think these panels up here just mean nothing? Because that’s not how manga works. The panels have meaning, especially the ones given the most attention to drawing detail, the ones given the most space on a page. All of these were given their own big moments in their respective chapters. Toga is going to be saved by Ochaco, Toya is going to be saved by his baby brother, and Shigaraki is going to be saved by our main character Midoriya. It’s clear as day right there. 

Now I want to take it back to the Todoroki family for just a bit once more. Their entire subplot revolves around reunification. That has been the established endgame since Shouto’s origin chapters. And honestly? You don’t even have to be smart to figure this out. Like when you see Rei in the hospital, you already assume that she’s going to get out and come home at some point within the story, making the family whole again. THEN you learn about Toya and you learn that he’s ALIVE after ten years of being presumed dead. You really think HE isn’t going to be brought home just like his mother was??? Fam, that is the established goal of the Todoroki Family Subplot. There is no denying this, it is there in the text, and it is not even a little bit subtle. Horikoshi is not subtle. At all. With anything. Ever.  

However, no matter how much textual evidence we are given, there are still people living in denial because it’s either A. Not the direction they want, or B. They really just aren’t grasping the writing. Either way, the redemption set ups are there, whether they like it or not. At this point I’m convinced that the only way to shut villain-haters down is to wait til the last chapter has come out and the villains are fine, Toya is reunited with his family, Toga is alive and well and finds community with the other kids (at least that’s what I predict), and Shigaraki is alive and well and surrounded by people who care about him, a family if you will. Other than just waiting for that moment, idk what else it’s gonna take for the bad takes to stop. 

Now here’s my reality check disclaimer:

Horikoshi could screw us all and just kill the villains off. But that would be bad writing and also ruin the ENTIRE STORY. And believe me I will bitch and bitch until I am six feet under and I will continue to bitch about it in whatever afterlife awaits me. But seriously..he won’t do that. Not to mention I have a million other reasons somewhat unrelated to the writing but more so to Horikoshi himself as to why I believe with all of my being that the three villains are going to get a happy ending, but that’s a different discussion for a different time. This post is already long as shit. 

I hope your friend will look a little deeper at the story so she can enjoy it for what it is. The story has flaws, the Todoroki subplot is definitely a MESS right now because of the focus on Endeavor 🤢, but I believe it will clean itself up and be great in the end. The redemption arcs of the villains are the most interesting thing about BNHA and I know I speak for a lot of others and not just myself when I say this but, the villains are the only reason a LOT of people are still even invested in the story to begin with. If it weren’t for them? We’d all be ghost. So, do with that what you will. I hope this helps ease your anxieties a little bit and helps your friend understand what to pay attention to in the writing.

[flowerflamestars]

Are we ever gonna talk about how Rhysand can intervene when it comes to female Illyrians training but not when it comes to their literal systemic mutilation? Cuz it really just sounds like he wants an army, not the people

‘Like he wants an army, not the people’ is the ABSOLUTE heart of the Illyrian presence in the Night Court.

I’ve implied it in fic and talked about it in asks, but I think that Rhys’ whole inexplicable disdain of a people he belongs to, goes back to his childhood.

Let’s go back to baby Rhys for a bit: precious son of a distant father, beloved son of a mother he cannot allow himself to understand even as he becomes an adult. He’s the heir. He’s (presumably) utterly spoilt, ensconced in care, if not loved in a way he always intuits. 

And then his mom takes him away from all that splendor, and throws him into the freezing mud with Illyrian children his age. 

Rhys tells Feyre about being appalled, that his mother did it as some sort horrific failsafe, to give him the skills to survive no matter what.

And while I’m sure Rhysand’s unnamed mother wanted her child to survive (of course she did!!), I think that’s just....a wildly misunderstood take? Rhys, in contrast with his father, gentles his mother in memory. 

And they were true mates. Equals. This gentle lady steeling herself at the ‘savagery’ bears no relation to the actions we know she took: a woman who valued above all else her own freedom, the sky.  Who never stopped flying, who fought those who’d take it from her. 

Who loved a powerful, dangerous High Fae Lord and was loved in return so much he built her a palace that could only be flown to. That not even he himself could winnow into, presumably. The kind of hardass who would walk down ten thousand steps into his city.

Who gave her wedding ring to one of Prythians worst and oldest monsters as a test to see if her future daughter-in-law was strong enough, or alternatively, to force her son to prove himself for love. 

She made all those dresses, and it’s lovely- but you know what else it is? the actions of a woman who has no reason to doubt her child’s future. She’s incredible and loving, but it seems very unlikely she was soft and powerless as Rhys remembers her.

Because why would she doubt? Rhysand is the only son of a High Lord. His oldest child. His mate’s child. He’s safe.

Which brings us to Illyria.

Rhys could have learned to fight in complete safety. At home, from any sort of teacher. No one, Illyrian or otherwise, was going to say no to that High Lord.

This is my theory: Rhys got old enough that it started to become clear (as we’re told it does, in High Fae bloodlines) that irrefutably, he would grow to be the next High Lord. He’d rule their whole land, like his High Fae father from the sea to the mountains.

And his mother looked at this safe, protected world, and made a choice.

The point was absolutely yes, for him to learn the traditions of her people. But the real lesson was: look. Look, Rhysand, at who you will command. Look at how they live, feel how they suffer. You can be different. It’s all yours, but this is  a part of you too. To make better, someday.

And instead, Rhys never gets past the pain of it all. Of thinking they’re barbarians. He learns too well Illyrian strength as a value of violence, but not with empathy.

It gets further tangled up in his mother and sister’s brutal deaths, the rampage his father goes on afterward. 

So we get an adult Rhys who flies, who uses Illyrian methods not with pride, but because he’d learned that strength is the only thing that matters. It’s how he would have kept his mother safe, if he’d been there. It’s how he keeps Feyre safe. 

It’s how his father saved his mother, from her own people.

He learns the wrong lessons. WHICH BRINGS ME BACK TO THE ACTUAL TOPIC-

I think it’s really clear, from Cassian’s abject, utter frustration and Rhysand’s flippancy, that even the girls they are training are not receiving what the Illyrians would consider real training.

Let’s remember Rhysand’s explanation of wing clipping. It was common practice- but it’s outlawed. But it happened under Amarantha again. But maybe it never stopped happening at all, in the deep mountains.

We never meet or see a single Illyrian woman- child, warrior, teen in training- not a single one who has the ability to fly.

Rhysand’s mother and sister could, but that’s it. No one alive. 

That’s not a maybe- that’s, it seems like there aren’t any women left flying. Not a single woman in all the legions is pointed out like hey, look, a lady with the tattoos. A lady with a sword!

Because there aren’t any.

And the girls Cassian is literally fighting to get time in the ring? They have to spend half their time cleaning, do all the chores, and then they can do a little hand to hand, while Cassian is physically there to force it to happen. 

Cassian, who like the other bastards of his generation, has been fighting since he could walk. Who didn’t have the benefit of whatever undoubtedly just as early, if not with more safeguards, training higher born boys receive.

The fight isn’t for female warriors. For their birthright. It’s for some basic self defense.

And why the hell is that?

Because it doesn’t too terribly adjust the status quo. There’s not going to be lady warriors at the end of those girls training, if they ever get it. The army isn’t going to change- and so Rhysand’s relationship to the Illyrian military elite isn’t in danger. It destroys Cassian’s authority, but as a bastard already, what’s more on the pile?

Everything, it seems, from acofas, when Cassian can’t do his own job without Rhys there to back him.

And why’s that yall? BECAUSE RHYS WANTS AN ARMY

I’ve implied in Daylight that the Illyrian Legions serve as a sort of inter-court counterbalance to the Darkbringers. And I think it’s possibly true in canon: the army Rhys controls is bigger and more dangerous than the one Keir (and thus the rival bloodline) has under command. It’s a permanent shore-up against rebellion.

One Rhys won’t have if the Illyrians rebel.

If those conservative, vile, Camp Lords stop listening to him, as they seem to be on the road to not listening to Cassian.

He’s not going to risk his entire kingdom for those Illyrian women. Because what did he learn from his childhood? From his parents?

That the North is savage. That it’s his job to be strong- and in that strength and only that strength, can he protect whoever he loves, like his harsh father rescuing his gentle, loving mother. 

Years and trauma have taken all the nuance from Rhysand’s decision making, in particular, I think, where canon stands now: he’ll do anything to remain as powerful as possible, cross all sorts of lines that he knows are wrong, because in his mind his power and his families safety are on in the same. 

[clevercxs]

Believer - Sigefrid Thurgilson [Ch 4]

[MASTERLIST]

Pairing: Sigefrid Thurgilson x female oc

Warning: nsfw ;)

Word Count: 8.8k

_______________________________________________

Midday rode in on its valorous steed, ridding Beamfleot of the prior night’s grim misfortunes and the fading afterglow of suffrage. 

The sun’s rays, in their curious nature, seemed to peek through the fort’s highest window in an attempt to wake the Saxon princess, who snored away in a blissful, much needed slumber.

Unbeknownst to the sleeping beauty upstairs, tensions had risen amongst the Danes still hungover from the last night’s revelations, who were greeted with a rude awakening upon finding an empty cage in the centre of the hall. Their coveted princess had been intentionally freed and was virtually nowhere to be seen; she was not there, on display, for them to childishly taunt and harass.

Beneath messied curls of raven locks that had fallen over her pale face during the night, the princess’s eyes fluttered open, ever so slowly, and began to take in her new and unfamiliar surroundings. With a wide, breathy yawn that seemed to tug at the corners of her chapped lips, Blædswith carefully propped herself up on two feeble elbows that wobbled beneath her weight. Upon doing so she could feel the entirety of her shoulder ache, and broken ribs shift like creaky floorboards giving way. 

Peering down, Blædswith was taken aback to see herself fully clothed in a woolen, sleeved nightgown that seemed to reach just above her ankles. 

Her memory was a clouded haze, seeing as she couldn’t remember how she ended up where she had awoken; somewhere strange yet all familiar. 

The room was dark and unnerving, though oddly enough felt cozy and inviting to the woman it confined. The walls were of beautifully aged stones, each one telling a story of famous Lords and Ladies past; of victorious songs chanted and arduous battles won. To the left of the king sized bed where she found herself, loomed a stone fireplace stretching towards a high ceiling of beams, encompassing a small kindling fire just large enough to warm the room without roasting the Saxon alive. 

She could hear embers and small logs crackling, bringing a subtle grin to her lips out of its comforting familiarity. Plush fur rugs lined the wooden floor, forming a convenient trail towards the bedroom door carved in unfamiliar runes and other intriguing symbols. 

Overwhelmed by the sudden change of scenery, Blædswith found herself curling into a ball beneath layers of thick fur pelts that had been draped over her sleeping form. Clutching a hand-sewn pillow tightly to her chest, she rolled over to dodge the blinding rays of light illuminating the cavernous room. Glancing up from where she lay still, she noticed the beautifully carved designs in the bed’s wooden frame, and the wrought iron candelabra hanging overhead by a single chain.

It was rather strange to finally be alone, where no prying eyes could violate her every move. For a brief moment, she almost allowed herself a feeling of freedom and joy, only to realize that the room had become her new cage. The only window was barred by thick wooden posts while the door, undoubtedly, was locked and heavily guarded on the outside. 

Sigefrid wasn’t a complete fool to leave his most prized possession unattended and unprotected. Surely, he had learned his lesson, therefore no man was to be entrusted with her safety other than himself, the remaining few he trusted, or perhaps his merciful brother, Erik, whom the princess had already grown fond of.

Anxious, she began running her fingers through the pelt’s thickness, painstakingly trying to recall what happened last night…

While Sigefrid’s hand guided the princess away from the shore by the small of her back, she couldn’t help but stare at the carnage left behind in his wake. It looked as if his traitorous men had been slain by an entire army; dozens of arrows pierced their armored chest plates and their throats had been slashed by, undoubtedly, the blade upon Sigefrid's hand out of pure fury and rage. The limp body of the slave girl whom Blædswith befriended was carried off into the night, and to be forgotten, as if she had never been there.

As Sigefrid and Blædswith trudged uphill towards the fortress, she could feel him pulling her away from where a defeated Hæsten knelt in the dirt - mangled and disfigured beyond recognition. It seemed as if Sigefrid tried to avert the princess’s gaze from such a horrific and gruesome sight - one he was responsible for. 

Blædswith could feel her frightened heart pounding within her chest like a battle drum, somehow in perfect unison with her heavy footfalls.

Though in brief passing, Blædswith witnessed for the first time the extent of Sigefrid’s vengeful brutality - or rather, the aftermath. It was as if Hæsten’s face had been trampled, repeatedly, by the metal-clad hooves of Sigefrid’s black steed. Hæsten’s dark, bloodshot eyes were swollen almost completely shut. His beard, once a curly nest of honey blonde, had been stained a crimson red from thick, oozing streams trailing from his broken nose. Beneath the skin of his swollen cheeks were distinct purple bruises outlining four knuckle prints. Surely, they were left over from Sigefrid ruthlessly pummeling the side of his face, where each blow became more excruciating than the last. Hæsten’s ankles and wrists were bound in coils of coarse rope not unlike a slave fresh off the merchant's ship after a long, godless voyage.

Blædswith peered down at Sigefrid’s hand that had slithered around her lower back, now resting upon her waist just below her tender ribs. To her dismay, his knuckles were split wide open and stained with another man’s blood. As their pace quickened the further they got from the shore, Blædswith couldn’t help but fear for what she had gotten herself into after seeing what Sigefrid was fully capable of. 

Initially, she found herself drawn to the danger and mystery behind Sigefrid’s piercing eyes; seduced by his undeniable courage, god-like strength, and power over those inferior to him, the Lord of Chaos. But after that night, who was to say that he wouldn’t treat her this cruelly if she were to cross him? The fearsome Dane whose armor she clung to for dear life was a damning beast of a man capable of unimaginable acts… that much was clear.

There remained a glimmer of hope within the princess that she would be the exception; the one thing he could never allow himself to do any harm to. She believed him capable of being good, towards her, and hoped it would remain true of him in the end - when it really mattered. Blædswith marveled at the thought of being with a man such as Sigefrid, intimidating and ambitious, yet capable of being gentle towards his one beloved - her.

With the mead hall approaching in the near distance, Blædswith suddenly felt lightheaded, disoriented with fatigue and fear-fuelled adrenaline. The last thing she recalled hearing was the sound of Sigefrid’s voice calling out her name as her knees buckled beneath her and the night faded to pitch blackness with the collapse of her body...

Startled out of her thoughts by an indecipherable uproar of men arguing somewhere in the near distance, Blædswith found herself sitting upright once more, defensively on high alert, after hearing wooden tables and broken chairs being upturned and thrown rather aggressively across the mead hall, below. 

What is going on? Is Beamfleot under attack?

With a stiff groan, she climbed out of bed and shuffled towards the bedroom door, pressing an ear against the carved wood. The princess audibly gasped when she identified Sigefrid’s voice amongst all others, bursting at the seams and fuming like a maddened, rabid dog off its leash. 

“Dear God.” Blædswith gulped as Sigefrid’s tone seemed to grow louder by the minute while Erik struggled to calm him down. It sounded as if a hundred Danes were shouting in a jumbled unison, leaving Blædswith only able to comprehend mere bits and pieces of what was said.

In a panic, the princess frantically searched through every table and desk drawer, tearing the room apart in search for any weapons or weapon-like objects to defend herself with in case Sigefrid were to come for her next. This time, it appeared, Erik hadn’t left anything behind for her. Distracted by the commotion downstairs, Blædswith did not hear the light feet approaching her room, and hadn’t the slightest clue that someone was headed her way until the bedroom door quickly unlocked and swung open. Out from behind the door entered a quaint slave girl trembling in her work shoes, balancing a tray of food in one hand with an assortment of combs and brushes shoved down in her pockets. 

“L-Lady.” She greeted timidly, “I-I am sorry to disturb you. Lord Sigefrid sent me-�� The young girl nudged the door closed with the pad of her foot, cautiously walking through the room to place the food down on the nearest bedside table. 

Startled, Blædswith practically jumped out of her nightgown at the sudden intrusion, withholding crude language after she realized how nervous the poor girl already was - out of fear. Her complexion was as pale as a ghost as a result of what was occurring downstairs, and likely whatever Sigefrid had threatened her with.

“What is Sigefrid doing? Downstairs?” Blædswith questioned, crossing her arms over her chest and taking a seat at the foot end of the bed. “Of course, I... have my suspicions.” Her words faded into silence after noticing a rather sharp steak knife conveniently placed beside her meal. 

“L-Lord Sigefrid is…” The slave gulped dryly and began fidgeting with the bristles of a large brush in her pocket, “he is asserting himself, a-after what happened last night. To you. He is upset… he feels he can no longer trust anyone, n-nor protect you.”

Blædswith exhaled sharply, cocking her head to the side ever so slightly. Worried by Sigefrid’s sense of doubt, she questioned, “But he trusts you, does he not? After all, you are here. If you intended to kill me you might actually have a chance.” She motioned down to her shoulder before stiffly rotating it in circular motion.

“H-he does, yes, lady.” She nodded solemnly. “I have no intention to harm you. I have been nothing but loyal to Lord Sigefrid-”

Blædswith, immediately, picked up the steak knife from the tray, reached across her bed, and tucked it beneath her pillow. “I need you to be loyal - to me. You will not tell Sigefrid, nor Erik, that I have a knife. Hæsten still wishes me dead, and this is the only way of protecting myself. Do you understand?” Blædswith leaned in, closing the distance between their faces, thus causing the young slave girl to tremble in fear. She then added, darkly, “If you tell anyone, I shall kill you with it.”

Frantically nodding, on the brink of tears, the slave whimpered,

“Y-yes, lady. I-I understand.”

After Blædswith had been well fed and groomed, the young girl was dismissed so the princess could be left alone to her growing sense of paranoia. Before the slave could reach the door, apprehensive to step foot outside, Blædswith couldn’t help but feel guilty for the way she treated her. “Girl.” She began, causing the young slave to stop dead in her tracks, gratefully. “What is your name?”

Slowly turning to face the princess, she replied shamefully, “I-I have no name, lady.”

Blædswith slowly rose from the bed, strolling towards the beautiful, brunette haired girl cowering before her. “I shall call you Moira. How does that sound?” Blædswith reached forward, tucking hair behind the young girl's ear as she once had, to the first slave she’d met. “It is a beautiful name, for a beautiful girl. Do you not agree?”

Moira nodded humbly, caught off guard by the princess’s sudden interest in her. “I-I agree, yes. Thank you.” Moira then proceeded towards the door, sheepishly asking, “What shall I call you, lady?”

“Blædswith. You may consider me a friend... if you do as told.” The Saxon grinned, now propping herself up on pillows and carefully pulling the fur pelt over her chest. “I can offer you far more than the Thurgilson brothers for your loyalty.”

Moira’s eyes seemed to sparkle with a sense of hope. “I-I shall see you again soon, Blædswith, when I return to tidy Sigefrid’s chambers.” With a courteous bow, she slipped out of the room and back into the realm of chaos instilled by Sigefrid Thurgilson, leaving Blædswith’s head suddenly spinning.

It all made sense, now, why she had slept in a room so breathtaking; so fitting for a princess, even. 

Lady Blædswith of Wessex had spent the night in Sigefrid Thurgilson’s private chambers,

and she doubted it would be the last time.

____________________ ➴  ____________________

With the descendence of evening fall came a sense of tranquility over the land. In recent hours past, the clan’s discord had simmered down as the Danes dispersed, returning Beamfleot to its once habitual state of being. 

Blædswith, after restlessly tossing and turning, found herself buried beneath a mountain of fur pelts and pillows as if she were a child hiding from her parents. The princess stirred uneasily, wondering what would happen to her come dusk. She wondered why Sigefrid had not visited her, though it was likely for the best if he was still tense from earlier. However short-tempered Sigefrid was, Blædswith believed his company was better than none. A sense of loneliness and abandonment had overcome her vulnerable mind after spending an entire day imprisoned by herself.

When Blædswith finally began to drift off to sleep, she could hear the bedroom door knob fumbling as someone struggled to unlock it from the outside. With a loud creak, an unwelcome figure crept into the room and locked the door behind them.

Blædswith could feel her dry throat clench, and stomach coil into a tight, fearful knot. She listened as their footsteps drew near to the bed. Not a word was spoken in greeting, as if they intended to surprise the bed’s sleeping inhabitant. Ever so slowly, Blædswith’s fingers inched beneath her pillow and towards her knife. Her trembling body was otherwise still; frozen, even, as a paralyzing fear surged through her veins like a potent venom. 

She could hear a pair of shoes being unlaced, and sloppily tossed against the nearest wall with seemingly little care of waking her. Something heavy yet soft fell to the floor, such as a fur pelt, before they began high-stepping out of something.

Somebody was taking their clothes off.

Tightly gripping onto the handle of her knife, Blædswith threw back her blankets and sprung to her knees, holding her knife outwards towards the foot end of the bed where her intruder stood completely naked from head to toe.

Having expected it to be Hæsten, or perhaps even Sigefrid, the frightened princess was flabbergasted and utterly appalled to see a bare-chested woman standing before her whose surprised look mirrored her own. 

The two, in unison, gasped like fish out of water.

“Gahhh! What are you doing?!” Blædswith shrieked, turning away from the woman who showed no sense of urgency to cover herself. “W-who are you?!”

“I am Sigefrid’s mistress.” The dark haired woman sneered rather sharply, as if insulted that Blædswith hadn’t heard of her. 

“Bloody Hell.” Blædswith groaned, chest rising and falling quickly with each rapid breath she drew, “Well, I am not Sigefrid! Y-you may…” She nodded with utmost caution, seeing as the woman was easily twice her size. “...you may put your clothes on and leave. Now.”

“Oh?” The large woman chuckled lowly with the shake of her head. “You do not get to bark orders. You are that damned Saxon princess Sigefrid won’t shut up about.” She quirked an eyebrow down at the princess as her lips formed a devilish grin. “But... he will have nothing to talk about if you are gone.”

“Gone?” Blædswith croaked. “I-I do not wish to leave-”

“You will leave, here, when I send you to meet your false God.” The woman snarled, suddenly lunging at Blædswith like a wild cat springing towards its prey, pinning her elbows to the bed causing the knife, her main source of defense, to fall to the floor.

“Shit!” Blædswith gasped, as she began awkwardly wriggling beneath the maddened woman, trying her best to divert her gaze from the Dane’s exposed breasts. Blædswith began kneeing her repeatedly in the gut, crying out in pain while doing so as pain scorched through her own torso. “Get off of me!” Blædswith whimpered, able to free an arm from the Dane’s clammy grasp to strike a fist at the side of her face. 

The bear-like woman seemed virtually unphased. 

“I do not want to kill you!” Blædswith leaned forward, head butting the brawny Dane though seeming to do more damage to herself than her attacker. Blædswith attempted to intertwine their legs together, only to have her shins kicked at until bruises began to form.

“Is that all you have got, princess? You could not kill me if you tried.” Sigefrid’s mistress chuckled menacingly, suddenly taking a firm hold of Blædswith’s throat with both hands in an attempt to choke and suffocate her. With the larger woman’s full body weight atop of her small frame, Blædswith was physically unable to push her off, nor pry her claws from her throat.

“I thought you wanted to be a Dane?” The mistress goaded, watching the color drain from the princess’s cheeks as she writhed and gasped for air. Scorching tears burning trails down her cheeks as she choked on her own sobs. “You are a sorry excuse for a Saxon. For a Christian.” She then dug her fingertips into Blædswith’s freshly cauterized shoulder, causing the princess to whimper and cry out like a dog that had been run over by a cart.

With a low growl, Blædswith managed, 

“I am not a Christian.” 

With her remaining strength, Blædswith wrapped an arm and leg over the nude woman’s back and jerked them both off the bed and onto the floor, causing the Dane to momentarily let go of her throat. Diving away from the bed, gasping, the princess began painfully crawling on her elbows and knees towards the knife, shouting and kicking out behind her like a wild horse after feeling a calloused hand grasp to either of her ankles. 

With a loud cry, and all that she had left within her, Blædswith took hold of the knife once more after continuously crawling forward and being dragged back. Just as the Dane lowered herself towards the princess, hoping to pin her again, Blædswith flipped onto her back and slashed the throat of her assailant with a loud grunt, causing the woman to clutch her gaping wound with both hands as thick streams of red seeped between her fingers. Sigefrid’s mistress fell onto her side, gurgling profusely, as she began to accept her fate dealt by the hand of a Saxon princess.

Blædswith, now hovering above the dying woman, took it upon herself to jab the knife beneath her ribs, driving it up towards the Dane’s gaping throat as if she were skinning a deer, or even performing a reverse blood eagle. 

“We could have lived together... peacefully.” Blædswith grunted, forcing the knife deeper into the woman’s core. “You did this, not me! I never would have wished you any harm!” The princess began twisting the knife as the Dane let out a final gasp. “You killed yourself. Tell that to your gods.”

The light in the Dane’s eyes began to fade, though she quietly managed through airy pants, “I… knew I was… done for when... he… he called out your name…” Her head rolled lazily around her shoulders, allowing her to look the princess in the eyes and whisper, “Blædswith.” 

The Dane fell limp as a dark pool of blood engulfed her massive form. It looked as if she had been mangled and sacrificed to the Pagan gods above. Blædswith opened the mistresses’ large hand, and placed the handle of the knife within her palm before closing her fingers into a tight fist. With a sigh, she whispered, “Valhalla calls you. I will not deny you your gods… even if you did try to kill me. Perhaps, in another life, we shall meet again.”

Crawling away from the fresh corpse, Blædswith found herself crumpled and hunched over against the other side of the bed facing the door. She looked down at her sticky, bloodied hands resting palm up on her lap as a rogue tear caressed the side of her cheek. Her nightgown had been stained with hand prints and smears of red, and the skin of her neck felt raw to the touch as if she had been gripped by the devil himself. 

Sobbing, she feared she would never truly be safe, and never be accepted by the Danes no matter what she does. She worried she would always be a target - always the enemy - even if she has denounced her Christian God. Until she has regained her strength, she will never be able to fully defend herself in Sigefrid’s recurring absence. Angrily, she questioned whether or not he had intentionally, repeatedly, neglected her.

Was Sigefrid testing her? Proving that what he said about her was true?

Not a single guard rushed to her aid. Not even Sigefrid, nor Erik. Blædswith understood they were busy, therefore could not be her caretakers. Most of the Danes she knew weren’t nurturing by nature… however, she had expected the Thurgilson brothers to better protect such a valuable asset - especially if Sigefrid expected her to stay. 

There was something different in the air; something off. There wasn’t a single doubt in Blædswith’s mind that Hæsten was behind the attack. It was likely he dismissed Sigefrid’s guards as he did by the lake, and encouraged Sigefrid’s woman to visit his chambers knowing full well the princess would be there, instead.

Was Hæsten planning, in secret, to overthrow his lords? Or was he simply trying to get revenge on the Saxon princess anyway that he could? Perhaps his plan was to kill two birds with one stone… and that Sigefrid’s hostile mistress was just the first of many to come...

____________________ ➴  ____________________

Shadows filled Sigefrid’s chambers as twilight descended upon the fort. It felt as though the gods above had readied themselves for a blissful night’s slumber after a long day of watching over Midgard and its Danes. 

On the hard wooden floor she remained, even all these hours later. Her hands were stiff with dried blood; her mind, body, and soul numb to the feeling as she stared off into the distance through heavy lids, anticipating someone unpleasant to burst through the door at any moment. She feared she wouldn’t have the strength to resist their advances in her current state of lethargy.

Every so often she swore to have seen Moira, or perhaps the spirit of, the first slave girl she met, lying atop the bed with her fragile hands folded over her chest. Guilt feasted on her insides like hungry Danes supping at the Great Hall. When Moira was no longer there, behind Blædswith’s head, she would see the face of Sigefrid’s mistress. Her ghost seemed to lurk in the shadows of the room’s darkest corners, haunting Blædswith even in death. 

Blædswith ran the backs of her shaky hands over her drowsy eyes. In the end, her own mind; her own guilt and grievances had truly gotten the best of her. 

A gentle knock on the door, followed by the friendly voice of Moira II, seemed to be enough to lift the princess’s spirits as she entered the room with a fresh outfit draped over her forearm. Upon noticing the princess bloodied and on the floor, Moira gasped and immediately dropped the clothes before running to her aid. Once knelt before the Saxon, she began looking her over to see if she had been mortally wounded.

“Blædswith!? Are you alright?” She panicked, placing a small, child-like hand to the princess’s cheek. Moira sighed in relief, feeling a heavy weight lifted off her shoulders as Blædswith nodded ever so feebly. “W-what happened? Who did this to you?”

Raising a shaky arm out to her side like an injured raven preparing for flight, Blædswith pointed a single finger towards the other side of the bed. 

She didn’t utter a single word, for she couldn’t find the right thing to say.

On her hands and knees like a hound, the slave crawled around the foot end of the bed, now following a smeared trail of blood until she found the body of Sigefrid’s old woman - one she knew far too well. 

“Christ almighty.” She shrieked and motioned her hand in the shape of a cross over her chest. That caught Blædswith by surprise - how anyone, let alone a slave - could possibly preserve their faith in God whilst living in Daneland.

“Sigefrid’s mistress intended to… seduce him. She found me instead.” Blædswith croaked dryly with a faint grin, now pressing a hand to her ribs. “She tried to kill me.”

“There were no guards outside your door, Blædswith.” Moira cried, hurrying back to the princess’s side with a look of worry and concern engraved on her face. “Sigefrid ordered them to stay, I-I heard him. I fear they... took orders from someone else-”

Blædswith nodded her head and interjected, “Hæsten is behind this, he must be. He will not stop until I am dead, and rotting at the bottom of the sea. There are many who follow him… I fear he is planning a coup against the brothers, but they are blind to it...” The princess huffed and firmly pursed her dried lips together. “The men Sigefrid trusts are disloyal. I have seen it many times in my short while. I must help him see what he can’t. For if I do not… we may all be killed.” 

Moira rose to her feet and approached the pile of clothing on the floor, scooped it all up in her arms and displayed the garments on the bed as nicely as she could. “Perhaps you can tell Sigefrid tonight. Well, after I-I get you cleaned up. Y-you look as if you slaughtered a pig.” She grinned and kindly helped Blædswith to her feet. 

“What do you mean, tonight? W-what is tonight?” Startled and confused, Blædswith’s thick brows furrowed together, though she found herself staring in awe at the beautiful Danish garb laid before her. 

What is all this for?

“Sigefrid has requested your presence, tonight, for dinner in the mead hall.” With a quick nod, Moira escorted Blædswith to the nearest armchair where she was to wait patiently for her return with a rag and bucket of water - not unlike she had done the night prior, where she waded in the frigid lake water.

“Then I must go.” Blædswith inhaled sharply, glancing towards the door as if expecting another intrusion. “This may be my last chance to warn him before it is too late.” 

Before leaving, Moira retrieved a small, sharpened axe from beneath her shawl that she had looted from one of the brothers. 

“Sigefrid could kill you for this.” Blædswith warned though graciously took the axe from the noble slave girl.

Moira, within feet of the door, nodded solemnly over her shoulder with a kind smile and soothed, “I know.”

____________________ ➴  ____________________

“I do not wish to be humiliated tonight.” Blædswith pouted, running her hands down the front of the apron dress Sigefrid chose for her to wear. She muttered beneath her breath, “I have been tormented enough.”

As a base layer, Blædswith wore a white, long sleeved smock that brushed against her ankles. On top was a shorter, red apron fastened by a string of beads across her chest strewn between a large, silver brooch on either strap - both beautifully engraved in Danish runes. Her feet had slipped into a pair of lace up shoes made of soft, pliable leather. Blædswith’s elongated fingers and narrow wrists were embellished in the finest silver jewelry in the land.

Atop of the princess’s head were three intricate braids running from her hairline to the back of her skull where they were joined by a thin band of leather. While her loose hair cascaded down her shoulders, on either side of her neck hung a single braid that lay against her free flowing locks.

“The brothers will protect you. Y-you have little to worry about.” Moira soothed, approaching the princess from behind to drape a small, light-brown pelt over her shoulders. “You look beautiful.” Moira complimented in awe as she pulled the length of Blædswith’s dark mane out from beneath the fur. 

Stepping in front of the princess in place of a mirror, Moira clasped her hands together against her chest and studied Blædswith from head to toe to ensure she looked as Sigefrid wanted. “You look every bit a Dane, and a-a lovely one at that.” Moira began fiddling with the fur pelt draped over Blædswith’s shoulders, adjusting the brooches upon her chest, and flattening out any creases in her skirt. 

Astounded, Moira chirped, “T-the gods truly favor Lord Sigefrid.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well…” Moira grinned from ear to ear, cocking her head to the side, “Why else would they have brought him you?” With that, the unlikely pair interlocked arms and headed towards the door, only for Blædswith to halt in her tracks.

“What about her?” Blædswith motioned towards the Danish woman she had slain. “We can not just leave her.” She began to panic as the potential consequences for her actions flooded through her mind. Moira quickly shook her head and guided Blædswith to face her, rather than the lifeless body of her assailant. 

“I will take care of Yrsa.” Moira spat the woman’s name bitterly with a hateful snarl. “I never liked her. S-she will be cut up, and served to Sigefrid’s hound for dinner. You have my word.” Moira placed a firm hand to Blædswith’s shoulder as the two exchanged comforting glances. 

“You are mad.” The princess teased with a quiet chuckle. “Thank you.” She couldn’t help but crack a smile as she noted, “He likes his meat well done, by the way.”

Stepping out into the noisy hallway, arm in arm, they strolled towards the staircase. Blædswith could hear the merry laughter, chanting, and singing of jovial Danes downing horns of ale by the minute. To her discomfort she felt their arms suddenly unravel, realizing just how tightly she had been holding on to her escort. “You are not coming with me?” Blædswith frowned. “Why?”

Moira shook her head, and took a courteous step back towards Sigefrid’s chambers. “Y-you must do this alone. I will dispose of Yrsa’s body.”

“I can not-”

“Do you have the axe?” Moira pressed firmly.

Blædswith nodded in defeat, patting the right pocket of her apron. “I do.”

“Then go.” Moira hummed with a shooing motion. “Sigefrid Thurgilson awaits you.” 

Like a moth drawn to candle light Blædswith’s feet carried her to the top of the stairs where she found herself clutching tightly to the support rail, looking down at the night’s festivities that beckoned her. 

Her beating heart drowned out the sounds of Danes laughing and chatting amongst themselves. Those up and about, dancing around like children of the night seemed to move in slow motion.  Everyone around her had come to a halt, paralyzed in time as the world simply stopped. 

All because she saw him - though he had already been looking up at her.

Once engrossed in hearty laughter and storytelling by a large bonfire, Sigefrid’s attention suddenly fell elsewhere, towards the divine woman overlooking the mead hall in all her glory. It took him a moment to realize who had captivated his being; the entirety of his lonesome heart with her ethereal beauty. To no surprise, it was none other than his beloved princess, Blædswith.

Sigefrid’s slowly lowered a cup of ale from his parting lips. His eyes, crinkling in the corners, dazzled with such fondness and desire for the woman he admired so dearly. His bearded lips curled into a wide, toothy smile as he tossed the cup aside and excitedly jumped to his feet. His hand quickly readjusted his armored chest plate prior to greeting the lady of the hour, the eldest daughter of King Alfred.

As she descended down the stairs, fingertips running along the railing, she bashfully looked away from Sigefrid who was smiling like a fool upon her arrival. Blædswith could feel a warm heat beneath her cheeks as virtually everyone in the hall stopped what they were doing to stare in awe. There were mixed feelings - some were relieved to see the princess healthy and alive, while others regretted not killing her, or worse, when they had the chance.

“Lady Blædswith.” Sigefrid greeted ever so charmingly and strolled closer. “What a lovely surprise.” Upon doing so, he noticed the redness of her neck and frowned, exhaling sharply through his teeth at the mere thought of someone laying a hand on what was rightfully his. His brows suddenly furrowed as he took hold of her forearm and pulled her closer. “Who did this?” Sigefrid snarled as those spectating returned to their prior festivities. Frantically scanning her face for answers, he grew impatient when Blædswith remained silent. 

Troubled, Sigefrid rattled her arm and sternly repeated, “Who?”

With the shake of her head, the princess caressed the side of his face and closed the gap between their bodies. “Now is not the time.” She glanced over each shoulder. “Rest assured, they are no longer a threat.” Pushing off of her toes, she rested a hand against his chest and pressed a gentle, comforting kiss to his lips. 

Sigefrid did not fathom how ravenous he had been until he tasted, once more, the sweetest gift from the gods. Pulling her lower body against his, Sigefrid hungrily devoured her lips, fighting the urge to abandon the grand feast he had planned so he could ravish her within the privacy of his chambers. His calloused hand rested at the base of her skull, sending chills down her body as he intertwined strands of her hair between his fingers. Blædswith pulled him impossibly closer by his armor and deepend the kiss, taking his bottom lip between her teeth as a low growl rumbled in his chest. 

Sigefrid chuckled to himself with a wide, boyish smirk, as Blædswith began placing a trail of kisses down the length of his neck, stopping just above his collarbone. A stifled moan escaped through his lips after realizing he’d been holding his breath. His eyes fluttered shut, and his tongue dragged over his lips to savor the taste of hers, all while marveling at his wildest fantasies coming true. 

“I missed you.” Blædswith cooed in his ear before pressing her greedy lips onto his once more, no longer resisting the urges within that she had fought long and hard to suppress. When they parted for air, they found themselves gently nudging one another with their noses - smiling like dumb, lovestruck teenagers.

“Oh,” He chuckled amusingly, “how I have missed you.” He could feel his lower half stiffen uncomfortably in her presence as his heart beat inhumanly fast against his armor. Biting the tip of his tongue with an irresistibly flirty smile, he motioned for Blædswith to walk alongside him towards a long, wooden table seated with Danes challenging each other to eating contests and arm wrestling matches. “Come.” He reached back, taking her hand in his. “I need to wash away the taste of betrayal.” As Blædswith followed closely behind, cheeks flushed and core left aching after the heated moment they had just shared. She felt as if she were floating on cloud-nine, bit buzzed from the feeling of euphoria he instilled within her. 

However, that feeling quickly faded as she cowered away from the looks of hatred and pure disgust she received. Blædswith could hear whispers of her name throughout the hall from those wondering what Sigefrid’s intentions were with the king’s daughter.

“Why is she not in her cage?”

“What in Odin’s name is Lord Sigefrid doing with our princess?”

As they neared the table Blædswith searched for an empty seat, preferably one close to the dark haired Thurgilson brother. Apprehensive, the princess distanced herself whilst Sigefrid continued ahead of her. Noticing her absence by his side, he turned on his heels and frowned. “Is something wrong?”

The princess shrugged sheepishly. “I-I do not see a place for me to sit.” 

“You will sit… with me.” Sigefrid squeezed her hand reassuringly and led her to the short end of the table where two carved, wooden thrones awaited them. Erik, she noticed, was comfortably seated in a third throne at the other end of the table.

“I hope... it is to your liking.”

“I-I do not know what to say.” Blædswith smiled as he helped her to her seat before making himself comfortable in his rightful place beside her. Before he could notice, she plucked the axe from her pocket and dropped it behind the throne. 

She felt safe enough in Sigefrid’s presence, that surely, it would not be of use to her.

The Danish lord couldn’t help but stare, seeing how tall and powerful she sat where his brother had. Once broken and defeated, she held her head high and overlooked those who despise, yet envy her all the same. With a freshly brewed horn of ale now in hand, Sigefrid’s eyes fell to her exposed chest concealing her lonely heart that yearned for him; for their souls to collide as their warm breaths intertwine beneath Odin’s watchful eye. 

Peering across the table, Blædswith fortuitously caught Erik’s attention. The two exchanged gentle smiles as Erik nodded, assuring her that she was safe, and in good hands with his brother. She mouthed a quiet “thank you”, not only for allowing her to sit upon his throne, but for every kind gesture he’s done since they met.

“Two days ago…” Blædswith spoke down at herself, “it was as if I were a caged animal. Scared… afraid. Now I feel like a queen.” The corners of her lips squirmed as she fought to conceal an overwhelming feeling of joy, and finally, of freedom. “Why?” She looked up at Sigefrid with glossy eyes, and a faint half-smile. “We used to hate each other. W-what are we doing?”

Sigefrid leaned towards her, resting an elbow upon the armrest of his throne. He exhaled sharply, “While I have not been kind to you, Lady… I never hated you.” He spoke grimly, lowering his serious gaze that seemed to sparkle beneath the overhead candelabra. “I have learned from my mistakes; my failures as Lord of Beamfleot… and as a man.” Sigefrid reached forward and poured her a cup of ale, offering it to the princess in which she graciously took and drank from. 

Clearing his throat, he leaned in even closer. “I will make things… better… between us. I presume my chambers were to your liking, were they not?” 

“Your chambers were lovely… though a bit lonely.” Blædswith grinned faintly, feeling herself give in to the burning subject on her mind. “Sigefrid… I would not advise you to sleep there furthermore.” The Saxon whispered discreetly in between sips of ale. “It is not safe.” 

“What do you mean?” Sigefrid suddenly shot upright, throwing a half empty horn of ale over his shoulder, nearly hitting a slave girl passing by with a tray of food.

With a heavy sigh, Blædswith chugged the rest of her cup and tossed it aside, too. Carefully choosing her words, she mumbled nonchalantly, “Your mistress did not take too kindly to another woman in her bed.” She could feel the skin on the back of her neck burning as if inches away from a blacksmith’s forge. “She entered your chambers, and upon recognizing me, she... tried to kill me.” Blædswith gently rubbed her throat, grimly recalling when she had been strangled. 

“And… what did you do?” Sigefrid, practically perched on the armrest like a bird, held onto her every word as if it were to be her last. A mixed array of emotions overcame him, from nauseating worry and dread to fear of the worst. His mind couldn’t fathom how his mistress slipped past his guards, so he felt embarrassed and burdened with guilt that Blædswith found out about Yrsa that way, or at all. While he knew his mistress to be short tempered as he is, he never would have imagined her to attack King Alfred’s daughter out of pure jealousy.

“I slit her throat and gutted her like a deer.” Blædswith deadpanned before an unfamiliar slave girl offered her a second cup of ale, in which she quickly drank from and muttered a quiet “Sköl” as she turned to face the hall.

“Sköl.” 

“I am sorry about Yrsa. I tried to reason with her. She would not listen.”

“She was a mad woman.” Sigefrid shook his head shamefully and downed more of his ale. “There were times... I feared this would happen. Not to you, but… to someone.” After a big gulp of ale, he wiped his beard with the back of his arm and shamefully sunk back into his throne, closing his eyes and cursing himself to the gods for neglecting their gift to him.

“Your guards were dismissed from their duties. When your slave came to get me, they had been long gone.” Blædswith stirred uneasily, distracting herself by glancing around the hall. “That is how Yrsa got in.”

“Those men will be dealt with. I can assure you that.” Sigefrid growled darkly through gritted teeth, his knuckles turning white from gripping tightly onto his horn of ale. “They will be slaughtered, like that whore of a woman, Yrsa.”

“You speak of your mistress as if you do not care. Surely you must?”

“Yrsa... was a good hump. She passed the time. Unlike her, it is not your ass I want. It is yourself.” Sigefrid turned towards the Saxon, sitting as his equal, beside him. “If you will have me.”

Blædswith gasped quietly beneath her breath. “If I didn't know better, I would have thought you wanted me to stay.” Teasingly, she quirked an eyebrow as if she couldn’t tell how he felt by the way he held her close - when they exchanged such a moment of tenderness; of love, even. 

“Well, do you?” The Dane teased, excitedly toying with his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Do I what?” Blædswith hummed with a faux, innocent pout.

“Know better?” 

Blædswith smiled down at her folded hands resting upon her lap, closing her eyes as a bright smile overcame her lips. “Even despite those who wish me dead or to be sold back to Wessex?” Blædswith then peeled the fur pelt from her shoulders, pooling it behind her.

“Even so.” Sigefrid nodded with a wink. His lips slowly parted in awe as he watched Blædswith rise from her throne, now standing before his knees. She began bunching the skirt of her dress at her hips, stepping over his large boots to place herself deep within his lap; his hands immediately shot to her lower waist, pressing her hips firmly against the front of his bulging pants with a breathy groan. 

Numerous Danes whistled and hollered at Blædswith’s sudden gesture.

“I am giving up everything for you. My family, my kingdom. My crown.” Blædswith pinned his wrists to the throne’s armrests, causing Sigefrid to throw his head back against his seat. She could see him gulp drly; the muscular veins of his neck protruding as he fought every primal urge within him to tear her dress to shreds. “I have conditions.”

“Name them.” Sigefrid groaned as Blædswith began to slowly grind her hips against the mighty Thor’s hammer beneath her. She could feel the muscles of his arms flinching beneath her grasp, knowing full well he was stronger than her and could pry her hands off at any moment. His chest rose and fell beneath his armor as he shifted frustratedly in his throne. 

“I want to be your equal.” She purred in his ear. “I will not be treated like a common whore, or slave. You will not have any mistresses, for I will kill them all. I am all you need.” Blædswith whispered dangerously close to his lips as her knees tightened around his hips. “I am your gift from the gods…”

Sigefrid nodded, panting, “I agree to your terms,” before learning forward for a kiss, only to be stopped by Blædswith leaning back, and ceasing all movement of her body.

“Oh, I am not finished.” She taunted rather seductively, maintaining a few inches between their faces. “I no longer wish to be called lady or princess. I am Blædswith.” She paused, biting her bottom lip to suppress an unexpected whimper after feeling him move against her. “I want to learn your ways; t-to train and fight alongside you, as a shieldmaiden. That has always been a dream of mine. I-I am a Dane at heart.”

“That is… quite the ask.” Sigefrid groaned beneath the warmth of her shifting weight. “It would be an honor to fight; to drink, and lie, beside you. I have wanted this - you - ever since we met.” Sigefrid, no longer able to resist her, freed his arms from her grasp with a loud grunt. She could feel his hand wandering down her lower back, undoing the tie of her apron. “I need you to be mine. No other man can have you.”

“Then take me,” Blædswith pleaded, her tender lips mere inches from his. She cupped the sides of his prickly face with her soft hands and whimpered softly, “Take me as yours.”  With a quick, affirming nod, Sigefrid crashed his lips onto hers, tangling his hand in her youthful, free flowing locks. Tilting her head to the side, he began sucking and nipping at the skin of her neck, leaving a warm trail of bruises down to her collarbone to establish his claim over her. Pushing the sleeve of her apron dress down, he sloppily kissed around her cauterized shoulder, wanting her to realize that it wasn’t appalling enough to drive him away. He wanted her to feel beautiful; wanted and desired despite her wound.

Blædswith took his hand in hers, placing atop her breast for him to knead through her dress. If it weren’t for the room full of Danes surrounding them, perhaps her dress would have been discarded ages ago. “You are not,” she gasped quietly in his ear, “disgusted by my shoulder?”

Flicking a thumb over her swollen lip, he growled, “No.” Sigefrid’s eyes were dark; completely dilated as if he were a predator consuming its prey. He looked up at her as if she were his entire world, his beginning and his end.

How strange, he thought, that in so little time Blædswith, a Saxon princess, could mean so much to him… and she may and never know it. “You could never disgust me.” Sigefrid slid his hand around her arse, giving it a firm squeeze as he made his way to her undergarments, pulling and tugging on the fabric until it tore at the seams. 

He could feel the warmth radiating from between her legs as his fingers neared, only for Blædswith to shake her head and whimper, “No, we can’t.”

“You do not want to?” A confused Sigefrid panted quietly, almost offended that she had denied him entrance to her most sacred body. “I do not understand-”

“Of course I want to.” She smiled with an airy chuckle. “When I give myself to you,” she gently caressed the side of his face as his arms rested around her waist, “I want it to only be us, and the gods, in the room. I do not wish to be in pain, either.” She motioned down to her ribs, which had ached the entire time. “Besides, if we start now, I-I won’t be able to stop in time for the main feast.” She teased lightly, causing Sigefrid’s chest to rumble with laughter. 

“I am not hungry.” Sigefrid chuckled with a sly grin, flicking his tongue over his lips. 

“Of course not.” Pressing her forehead against his, she couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear. “Well, I am starving. After tonight I am not going anywhere. I promise.” Blædswith soothed, tracing her fingers down the length of his arm, until she reached his hand. Taking it in her own, she raised his knuckles to her lips and gently kissed each one. “I have denounced the Christian God. My engagement is invalid…” Blædswith courteously pushed herself off of him, adjusting her straps of her apron and pulling down her skirt to avoid flashing the entire hall. “I am a free woman.”

“Not anymore.” Sigefrid smirked with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Before Blædswith could ask what trouble he was up to, Sigefrid blew through a large horn, immediately gaining the hall’s attention. Blædswith was left standing upon wobbly legs, flustered and breathless. Her entire body was flushed pink, nearly matching the color of her apron. Even a half-conscious drunk could look at her tangled hair and know what she and Lord Sigefrid had been up to - there was no keeping it a secret. 

The entire mead hall fell silent, except for a quiet hum of music in the near distance.

Wrapping an arm around her waist, Sigefrid began, “I have something to say, to each of you.” A low murmur rose out of suspicion. “You will now be disappointed to know, that Lady Blædswith of Wessex, here, is now mine.” He couldn’t help himself but to chuckle haughtily. “No man is to touch her. Not with his hands, and not with his tiny cock… unless he wishes to lose it.” As he raised his hand-blade to the crowd, he couldn’t help but smile down at the beautiful woman whose warm hand rested upon his chest - a feeling he would truly never grow tired of. 

From across the hall, the sight of his brother gazing down upon the woman he admired warmed Erik’s heart, seeing as Sigefrid’s gentler side rarely saw the light of day.

“What about our wealth? Our promised glory?” An older, toothless Dane called out, followed by an uproar of support from those standing around him. 

“Blædswith is a great warrior, whom I have grown fond of.” Sigefrid argued with a scowl, glaring down at his followers. “She is far more valuable, than any silver.” 

Blædswith let go of Sigefrid’s armor, and stepped forward to address the room. “I hope it brings you peace, knowing that I am no longer a Christian. I am not your enemy, but King Alfred’s. It would bring me no greater joy than to raid Wessex and pillage my father’s wealth. If you will accept me, as a Dane, I shall reward you greatly.” Blædswith could feel Sigefrid’s chest press against her back as he protectively stood by her side. 

After a few moments of silence, cheering and applause rang throughout the entire hall. Upon Sigefrid’s request, a slave girl brought them each a third cup of ale, in which Blædswith raised into the air and shouted, “Sköl!” 

Immediately following, Sigefrid, Erik, and those in support sang in unison, “Sköl!” and the night’s festivities continued on. Once finished with their ale, the unlikely Saxon-Dane duo found themselves laughing, singing, and dancing to the upbeat rhythm that was sure to play into the early hours of the morning. Sigefrid found himself upon his throne once more, arms wrapped around Blædswith’s waist who sat across his lap. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, playfully nipping and planting kissed along the marks he’d already left. The two swayed back and forth to the music, engrossing themselves in the stories being told at the table before them.

“Sigefrid?” The beautiful woman sitting upon his thighs whispered, running her fingertips over the length of his beard. Sigefrid hummed in response, brushing fallen strands of hair from her ethereal complexion. “I have… something else to ask you...” Interrupting her train of thought, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of strikingly familiar face slithering through the clusters of Danes until they reached the table where Lord Sigefrid and his new woman sat enthralled with one another. 

“Why is he here?” She groaned against Sigefrid’s neck, only for the eldest lord of Beamfleot to shake his head with a sigh in defeat.

With a large cup of ale in hand, a disfigured Hæsten took one last gulp and let the cup fall from his fingertips, now rolling under the table. Before Blædswith, or even Sigefrid could properly react, he looked between them and slurred, “Sigefrid. Blædswith? What did I miss?”

_______________________________________________

A/N: Well Hæsten, it’s safe to say you missed a lot - lol. Sorry for the long wait for this chapter, but I hope it was worth it! 

I’m contemplating whether or not to add real smut to the story... 👀

🏷 Tags: (hope I didn’t miss anyone!)

@inforapound @cheapcakeripper @wildwren @metall-and-dust @eclipsedbymyheart @henrycavill19 @aesirharvorsson @finantheagile @onesaltyhunter @wessexcrown @destinysall @lauwrite1225 @lumxnously @chlomidgard @dagonet-ironside @marv-llous @littlebirdgot @curlyrat @beesbrains @godricsvalley @alina-exe @lazypeachsoul

[flickeringart]

The Megxit Drama

A peek at Meghan Markle’s chart

The British Royal Family has certainly been the subject of dramatic events recently – Prince Harry and Meghan Markle doing an interview with Oprah in order to explain their break with “family”, royal duties and royal life – revealing quite unsavory things sufficient to depict the firm, staff and members of the family in a bad light. Essentially, Meghan was retelling her traumatic experiences of being treated unfairly, feeling trapped, being subjected to racism, getting no help in times of emotional crisis and robbed of freedom, while her husband Harry passively went along confirming all of it. Whatever the truth is, they certainly painted themselves as victims – compassionate and good-natured. They attempted to remain respectful to the people involved in the story, yet if actions speak louder than words, they certainly weren’t particularly “respectful” by throwing the Royal Family under the bus with this interview. The couple has gotten a lot of backlash as people are disinclined to buy their narrative, partly because both seem to be quite self-serving under the guise of selflessness. Meghan made it clear during the interview that she didn’t know much about life as royalty and went into it all surprisingly clueless, almost setting herself up for disappointment. One could assume that by committing to such a structured existence as becoming a royal, that one would do the homework and at the very least expect to give up the privilege of being “an ordinary person” in favor of being of service. The British Monarchy obviously has symbolic value more than anything else, which is not to say that it’s unimportant or trivial. Symbols carry meaning and the Royal Family upholds that meaning through attempting to embody it physically. The members are not supposed to be inflated and begin to believe that they in and of themselves are princes and princesses or whatever titles they are given. They are supposed to serve the titles rather than the titles serving them.  In becoming a part of this symbol of divine reign, one merges with something far greater than the limited self. One serves to uphold an image that is immortal, ancient and has a function in the psyche of the British people. I dare assume that Meghan didn’t fully grasp this concept and went into it all with far more attitude than people would like – perhaps understandably so considering her lack of experience of monarchy. Prince Harry seemingly got pulled along with it all, presumably wanting to rescue his wife from that which killed his mother while piggybacking on the momentum of the situation and metaphorically breaking free from the “limiting container” of the institution. Harry said in the interview that he felt sorry for his father and his brother being trapped by their roles, which seems like a desperate attempt to try to gain some significance, to end up in the role of the hero and avoid living in the “shadow” of more prominent members of the family. People generally seek significance in some way and will come up with the most creative attempts to cast themselves in the role of superiority, whether it’s through victimhood, humility, bravery, sacrifice or anything else that elevates the self in some way. Whether someone’s behavior stems from an attempt to make up for the lack within or not can be hard to spot, but considering the skepticism the interview has been met with – and the scrutiny (and ridicule) that it has been exposed to – it is safe to say that people’s gut feeling tells them that something is not quite right.

(The chart of Meghan Markle on astrotheme.com)

Meghan Markle has been accused of a lot of things, of twisting the truth, of exaggerating in order to further her own agenda, of being self-serving and manipulative. Some call her “narcissistic” – which is the “usual” label thrown at anyone who lacks genuine care for others, stirs up drama and drags other people through the mud in order to benefit themselves. However, her behavior might not be intentional, but compulsive. After all, no one is 100% sure of why they’re the way they are, whether it’s deemed good or bad by society at large. Where the line is drawn between intentional and unintentional is unclear, yet the odors of shady business and dishonorable motives can be sensed – and people don’t usually like being “sold” something that isn’t what it seems. Generally people don’t appreciate being deceived, which is obviously why the backlash has been so extreme.

She has quite a charming and radiating outer appearance, which is typical of someone with their Sun in the 1st, and in its domicile at that. She also has the sweet and innocent “puppy eyed” look of a Cancer Rising, which displays emotion and vulnerability. It’s not surprising that she pursued an acting career before meeting Harry. The spotlight-seeking Leo Sun in the 1st house of self, the Moon-Saturn-Jupiter stellium in the artistic sign of Libra in the 3rd house of communication and (inter)action, as well as the boundless imaginative Neptune in the 5th house of creativity all contribute to the personality of the actress. Considering that she has an emphasis on Leo and Libra, it’s safe to say that she was in it for the refinement, admiration and class that being an actress could provide. She thrives on positive attention, and is undoubtedly sensitive to discord. With a Cancer Rising and a Libra Moon, she craves gentility and fairness, for everything to be “ok” socially. Cancer is a cardinal sign, and although it’s quite emotional, it’s also very active and motivated to create safety for the self. It does this by avoiding direct confrontation, of appealing to people’s caring side. There’s nothing wrong with this, but people might feel as if the Cancer Rising person’s innocence is “put on”. In the interview, Meghan had no problem displaying her own weakness and emphasizing her own vulnerability. She used these attributes to gain esteem, whereas another person of a different nature, with different archetypes protruding, would’ve felt humiliated leading life with that energy. Her Moon is her chart ruler, which makes her emotions the primary focus – in other words her subjective experiences, mutual care, needs and requirements is particularly emphasized in her life. The Moon is in Libra, the cardinal air sign that strives for balance and justice and awareness - especially as it relates to interpersonal relationships. Libra is famous for wanting to keep everything “civilized” and “respectful”. The tight Moon-Saturn-Jupiter conjunction in this sign points to emotional exaggeration (Jupiter) and restriction (Saturn). By entering into a relationship/business deal (Libra) she experienced harshness around her emotions (Moon-Saturn) on a grand scale (Jupiter). On a side note, Capricorn rules the 7th house, indicating that she encounters discipline and structure through partnership. The institution and structure (Saturn) that she entered into through her marriage with Harry (Capricorn in the 7th) would challenge her emotions (Moon) and it put limits on her freedom (Jupiter-Saturn) and affected her overall health (Sagittarius in the 6th).

Meghan has an Aries Midheaven, indicating that her career involves breaking new territory, doing her own thing, leading her own way. This usually doesn’t go over very well when attempting to work for authority. The person usually becomes frustrated and eager to venture out on his or her own. This is exactly what has happened. Her Moon-Saturn-Jupiter conjunction in Libra opposes her MC in Aries, which perfectly points to her attempts to keep things civil and non-aggressive (Libra), while coming off as selfish and individualistic to the public (Aries). Aries as a sign is famous for not listening to anyone and moving into unpaved territory, which she certainly has accomplished. The public now sees her as someone who goes her own way – doing her own thing and standing up for herself, for better or for worse. Her Mars is in Cancer, which is why her aggression isn’t direct and rather passively expressed. She has the stereotypical female aggressiveness that implies playing on one’s weakness and hurt in order to wear down the target. It’s also in the 12th house, which hints to it being disowned by the conscious personality. Meghan might have a hard time conceptualizing of herself as a force of impact and might not see how her pent up frustration might become an enemy to herself. She has complained about feeling attacked by the media and this is classic of a 12th house Mars attributing aggressiveness to anything but the self. Attack and unpleasantness seem to flood the person from the unspecified sources, and it can arguable be a horrific experience. In the interview she mentioned feeling suicidal at one point and desperate to not be alone with the threat coming from the outside, her own mind, or both. It’s difficult to attribute the cause to any single factor with planets in the 12th. Mars squares her MC and her Moon-Saturn-Jupiter conjunction which indicates struggle in the psyche concerning her emotional involvement with structure and beliefs, vs. her public image vs. her own fighting spirit. She certainly has confronted and challenged established structure (Mars square Saturn), albeit with an attempt to be “respectful” resulting in a passive-aggressive understanding of everyone’s difficulties and struggles.

The thing that drew her to The Royal Family in the first place must’ve been her Libran urge for class, style, aestheticism and beauty. She undoubtedly found it glamorous and exciting to get to be in the spotlight, to be respected as part of something elevated and glamorous in nature. She probably has a need for spiritual meaning, indicated by her Moon-Jupiter contact – and to have her daily work based on sharing “truth” and “generous” disposal of knowledge gained through experience (Sagittarius in the 6th). She also craves structure and order indicated by her Moon-Saturn contact, which she pursued through partnership (Capricorn in the 7th) with a member of a family with unparalleled saturnian streaks of tradition, custom and regulations. To establish herself within the family would not have been such a terrible idea for her because it could’ve met all of her needs for purpose and order. However, her Mars in the 12th house didn’t allow for this plan to work. One could say that her own self-serving function rebelled after having yielded to outside influences for too long. Planets in the 12th house are usually “given up” to whatever circumstance one is in – which often results in the person acting through being “overcome” by something - pushed into a position of having to act. Meghan declared feeling imposed on by the outside, emotionally unsafe and unwell. The 12th house is the house of self-undoing after all, and her actions might’ve proven to be quite detrimental - perhaps continuing to be. Square aspects, as that between her Mars and Moon-Saturn-Jupiter conjunction stimulates action because it’s indicative of friction. She had to fight (Mars) for her needs (Moon), control and integrity (Saturn) and for her beliefs (Jupiter).

[phantompearlsalt]

Sour Cherry, Chapter 15

We’re taking a break from the smut this week, folks! This update I bring you more soft Kuvira, specifically moments where our favorite girl needs some extra loving. We don’t see Kuvira as feeling much of anything in the show but I think we can all imagine she feels deeply and intensely so...that’s what this is kind of. She just has someone to love on her and reassure her ❤️ As always, I love to read your comments so feel free to drop some on AO3 or leave me some messages in my inbox! LOVE Y’ALL! 

Ba Sing Se

It’s not unlike Kuvira to fall asleep at her desk these days.

You’ve been in the Earth Kingdom capital for some time now, and although the worst of the violence has since subsided, the imminent work of bureaucratization poses an overwhelming task.

There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that Kuvira will fully restore Ba Sing Se to its former glory — even improve it. Given Suyin’s decision to remain complacent in the face of such chaos, Kuvira symbolized the steady hand that would guide a city in disarray into an era of peace and unity.

From the moment she took it upon herself to oversee this venture, she proved time and time again that few people—if any—could assume such an undertaking and carry it to completion. She managed to instill a persistent flame of hope in everyone, even beyond her army. There was a reason her popularity grew so rapidly among the local residents.

She was the beacon of light no one had expected to find but now relied on as a means of getting through this period of such great distress.

But at the end of the day, Kuvira is still human.

Despite having initiated a new kind of relationship with her, you’re ashamed to say that sometimes even you forget this simple fact. Kuvira is many things: above all else, she is a strategist. Of course, this mentality shapes every move and decision she makes in Ba Sing Se and this extends far beyond politics.

She’s methodical in her approach to life, modulating her demeanor in a way that allows her to easily adapt to constantly shifting environments, people, and interactions. In doing so, she often becomes a force of pure energy, steady and obstinate. After all, one doesn’t become the Great Uniter by projecting any degree of weakness. The Earth Kingdom needed somebody who embodied strength, fearlessness, and hope. They needed to reclaim that sense of certainty that had been shattered the moment all structure—however precarious it was—vanished upon the Earth Queen’s death.

So when you walk into your makeshift quarters, lit up only by the dwindling flame of her desk lantern, it’s a sharp reminder that even Kuvira reaches her limits.

You walk over to her slowly, paying extra attention to the weight of your feet against the floor. When you reach her, you kneel down and carefully drift your fingers towards her arm. She has them folded beneath her cheek, her lips parted just enough for a faint whistle to travel between her teeth. You touch Kuvira’s shoulder and stay still, not wanting to rouse her from slumber too brusquely.

She sniffles once and the sound makes something in your chest twinge so you press your fingertips into her uniform just enough for Kuvira to feel the pressure of your hand more surely. “Kuvira,” you whisper. “It’s me.”

Upon hearing your voice, her eyelids snap open and even through the dusty orange glow of the room you can see just how bleary-eyed she looks. You wonder if anyone has ever seen her like this, walls down and vulnerable, but the answer comes to you before you dwell on it too long.

“I’m sorry,” she says, flattening out her back so she’s leaning into her chair. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me…”

“I think I do,” you respond, inching forward until your lips softly press against her cheekbone. “Come on, let’s get you out of this stuff.”

Never having been the recipient of such doting, it takes Kuvira a few moments to respond but she eventually stands and walks over to your shared bed. You pull away the sheets of metal along her shoulders and forearms, carefully setting them aside while Kuvira pushes the breastplate off her torso and lets it clatter to the ground.

Once she’s cloaked only in her dark green uniform, she collapses onto the bed and looks just about ready to pass out. There’s one more thing left for you to do though.

You quickly kiss the crown of her head before crawling onto the mattress and finding a position along her back, your knees positioned around her hips. Kuvira’s braid is barely a braid anymore, mostly a disheveled rope of hair with some vague semblance of pleated folds.

You make quick work of it, dragging your fingers through the thick strands and undoing the knots you encounter. Once it feels loose and heavy, you reach for the brush on your nightstand and start guiding it from the roots to the tips along her back.

It’s a choreography you unknowingly crafted at some point when you could finally call Kuvira your lover but it’s one that you fall into so easily it’s as though you learned it another lifetime. Your fingers know exactly how to glide through the silk-like texture of her hair, how to hold the contours of the brush so your movements stay slow and gentle. Kuvira lets herself fall against your palm and you imagine this might be how a moonflower preens beneath the glow of a stainless night sky.

You aren’t sure how long you brush her hair but eventually her breathing evens out again and can’t tell if she’s fallen asleep. She starts inching forward and it’s sufficient indication that you’ve done your part.

With a loving smile, you set the brush aside and guide her onto the pillow. Leaning down, you let your lips hover over her temple before finally pressing them against the soft skin. Though you attribute it to a trick of the light, you fall asleep to the image of Kuvira’s cheek twitching against your touch.

---

Republic City

In the context of all that was to come, three years seemed like such an insignificant period of time. There was so much left to do to consummate the burgeoning Empire. The vast majority of the former Earth Kingdom now fell under Kuvira’s rule but there was still the matter of Zaofu. The United Republic of Nations.

Although Kuvira had successfully wrested the authority to rule from the young prince, the Earth Empire army knew it was only the beginning of a much larger mission. The past three years hadn’t been easy by any means but there was something unusually intimidating about annexing Zaofu and the United Republic.

Perhaps because it felt much more personal. Of course, you felt the connection of a common background with all Earth Kingdom inhabitants but Zaofu was your home. You grew up there...Spirits, you probably still had loved ones there.

And Republic City? Maybe it was the way people and communities hailed from all nations and found ways to live in relative peace after the horrific events led by Amon and then Unalaq. But even then, all of it seemed precarious when compared to the vision Kuvira was putting forth.

As you drive away from the Four Elements hotel, Kuvira’s hand wrapped tightly around yours, you think back to Zaofu once more but this time you aren’t met with images of your old library or the bright green fields that lay beyond the metal walls.

No, you think of Suyin. She was the last person Kuvira spoke to before you left Republic City. You had waited in the shadows of the hotel patio after the failed coronation, hoping it would shroud you enough to avoid being seen by any of the world leaders.

Just when you were about to make your way upstairs Kuvira stepped out of the elevator, flanked by her guards. “Everything has been packed,” she said coldly. “We’re leaving. Immediately.”

She didn’t wait for you to respond, instead charging forward without a second glance at her surroundings. The interaction left you stunned before you finally came to your senses and scurried close behind her.

The first few seconds in the Satomobile were almost tangibly uncomfortable. You wanted to ask how she was doing, to soothe whatever venom Suyin had undoubtedly said. There was a dark shadow cast over Kuvira’s face, one that you hadn’t seen since you first left Zaofu all those years ago.

Instead you stayed quiet, folding your hands over your lap and looking at the cityscape zooming by. Eventually, Kuvira’s gloved hand slid over yours, twisting between your fingers until your palms met in that familiar embrace you could distinguish even without first knowing it was her.

As the train comes back into view, you squeeze Kuvira’s hand, hoping the sentiment translates all the same despite your inability to verbalize them. The tension in her body doesn’t loosen up but she closes her eyes momentarily and lets out a slow, even breath through her nose.

For now, it’s all you can ask for.

---

The State of Yi

The meeting with Yi’s governor ended poorly. Even without Kuvira’s report, the smattering of ink dripping from the metal table was indication enough.

After exchanging a few curt words with the young airbending boy, she makes her way back into the train and calls an impromptu Inner Circle meeting. Bolin reluctantly leaves Opal’s side while Baatar joins without hesitation.

The conversation is awkward at best, deeply uncomfortable above all else. Kuvira keeps it together quite well for someone who had been shunned away mere moments ago but you’re certain no one else can see the fire of indignation in her eyes.

“There has to be another way to help them, right?” Bolin insists. “Can’t we just stay another day? If we bring Opal and Kai on board, I bet we could come up with another plan to help these people.”

“You more than anyone should know we cannot afford to waste our time on fruitless negotiations,” Kuvira snaps. “I will not sacrifice the wellbeing of our fellow citizens who are willing to accept our aid for a single governor who refuses to acknowledge the suffering of his people.”

Varrick, Bolin, and Baatar end up falling into a chaotic exchange of potential solutions that very quickly wears Kuvira’s patience thin.

“Enough!” she commands. You watch in silence as everyone freezes and slowly submits to her exasperation. “I have made myself clear. We will wait one day — not an hour earlier or later. If the Governor would rather see his people perish, I will not be held responsible. This meeting is adjourned and I expect no one to leave this train unless expressly informed to do so.”

Everyone nods and promptly makes their way out of the room. You make a move to join them but wait for everyone to get ahead first before sliding the door closed and pivoting back towards Kuvira.

She’s silently fuming — a vein sticks out from over her collar and her hands are woven tightly together behind her back. You imagine she might look composed to others who don’t notice those details but you’ve learned to see past the iron facade she forges around herself.

You fold your hands over Kuvira’s and feel the tension her fists carry, the way it courses all along her arms and bleeds into the rest of her body. Kuvira isn’t known for being a very relaxed person — she’s all hard lines and perfect posture, angled features and unyielding brow.

But this rigidity is different because it’s fueled by ire. Kuvira doesn’t take refusal well and with most of the Empire united, the Governor’s reluctance proves especially inconvenient.

However, she softens into your touch and you start to see her for what she really is, for what she only allows you to see. A woman on the brink of burnout. A leader nonetheless, so close to securing all she has worked towards, but which she has sacrificed too much to achieve.

She unfolds her hands and weaves her fingers into yours, letting her shoulders drop just enough for you to know this is helping to some extent.

And even though it lasts no more than a minute, because suddenly you’re interrupted by the voices of her guards requesting her immediate presence, when she looks at you there’s a softness along the corners of her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

---

Zaofu

The army is stationed immediately outside the Zaofu metal domes. Kuvira had left with Bolin and Baatar moments ago to meet with Suyin and hopefully come to an agreement that would eliminate the need for outright combat.

You insisted on joining her, afraid of what she might be subjected to and unable to accept that potential reality. You never knew the Beifong matriarch to resort to violent tactics but her response to Kuvira’s actions led you to believe anything was possible at this point.

Nevertheless, Kuvira had none of it. “I’ll be with Bolin and Baatar — I’ll be safe. I know Suyin. She knows better than to try anything of that nature with our army posted just outside her gates. I promise you I’ll return, unharmed,” she reassured, kissing you once before making her way outside.

You pressed your hands against the window, watching as the three of them grew into small green dots that eventually disappeared past the metal lotus structures. Kuvira was smart, you didn’t doubt that. She could absolutely hold her own. Yet despite her attempts to sway you otherwise, you still found it difficult to accept that Suyin wouldn’t try anything.

So you paced back and forth, sitting and standing, fiddling with your hands and carelessly flipping through papers on your desk until you heard guards murmuring and saw Kuvira’s silhouette making its way toward the tent.

She returns with Bolin and Baatar at her side again and you notice the former appears rather grim. Nevertheless, you’re instantly hit with the searing desire to throw yourself around her, to feel the heat of her blood beneath her skin and the bends of muscle and bone pressing against yours.

She’s here. Obviously she’s okay. But you can’t shake the need to confirm it by feeling her and knowing she’s uninjured.

Bolin starts talking, a nervous edge in every word, asking too many questions that ultimately set Kuvira off. She towers over Bolin, questioning his loyalty to the Empire, to her, and you stand in your corner silently. Baatar watches with an almost smug look on his face and it makes you scowl.

“Both of you are dismissed,” Kuvira says when she steps back. Still thoroughly shaken by the encounter, Bolin stays frozen for a moment before Baatar coughs and they step out of the tent in tense silence.

Kuvira sits down and leans forward so her fingers press against her temples. She sighs frustratedly and tightens her jaw. Even with all that transpired in the past ten minutes, that instinct to hold her close and just feel her doesn’t waver but you know better than to cave into it right now.

She does look up at you and her face has grown haggard with frustration in the span of seconds. It startles you how easily she conceals this side of herself, doing so in a manner that seems so effortless that she has everyone convinced that she really is impenetrable.

Right now, she lets the veneer crumble until all that’s left is an expression so openly cumbered with fatigue it seems to draw you in with arms of its own, tugging you forward until you’re at Kuvira’s side and she’s still looking up at you.

Every possible gesture seems inappropriate. What could you tell her that would offer that reassurance she needs? How can you be sure that’s what she needs at all? She’s being faced with the increasingly likely reality of using brute force to take that which once served as her home.

You don’t know when Kuvira’s cheek presses into your belly but when it does, your arms wrap around her head of their own accord.

Kuvira’s body speaks to yours in a language of gentle touches and unspoken pleas. Naturally, you have come to understand the meaning of each movement and your body responds as such. You hold her close to your body, feeling her head dip into the soft flesh, and smooth her hair over her scalp.

You aren’t sure what’s going to happen next. The Avatar is still gone. Despite Kuvira’s threat, you know Suyin will not acquiesce and there is still the possibility that she will try something horrible to stop Kuvira. And even if you manage to successfully take Zaofu for the Empire, that leaves Republic City.

But with Kuvira’s head cradled in your arms, her cheek dipping into your torso, all of that stops meaning something if only for a moment. Right now you have each other. Most importantly, Kuvira has you. And you’ll figure everything out as you go.