#you don't understand how much this has shattered my image of him

[ithecrystaldragonheart]

Skulduggery Pleasant Realisation

So there I was, going around for years picturing Skulduggery Pleasant as looking 30-something when he died, because he was married with a kid and already part of an elite black-ops unit

But then I started rereading the series again and realised that Skulduggery was about 130 years old

Remembering how China told Valkyrie it would take about 200 years for her to look 25

This fucker was going around fighting a whole war looking like a 22-23 year old guy and that suddenly explains so much about the Dead Men, like they were basically just a group of college friends

I don't know how to feel about this, feel free to correct my math if I'm wrong

[egrets-not-regrets]

Dandelions and Yarrow (1)

Dandelions and yarrow are both tough, hardy weeds that can grow under harsh conditions.

Alcyon (chaos Iron Warrior) makes the mistake of nearly breaking his bond with Amelia, his bonded human.

Author’s Note: TW: smut, noncon, dubcon, angst. This chapter is all hurt, no comfort. You are warned.

Just a few points:

This takes place before Ben/Malaran “Orca” Blackspike storyline.

Amelia is bonded to Alcyon, a chaos Iron Warrior. These two share an intense bond that teeters on the point of becoming a mate bond.

Alcyon has a pretty good grasp of the english language. He usually communicates with Amelia in english and other Astartes in Gothic.

Thanks to @squishyowl for the divider image!

OCs: Alcyon (chaos Iron Warrior), Amelia Plover

Tagged: @shadowfirecat, @kit-williams, @bleedingichorhearts, @barn-anon, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@sleepyfan-blog, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @bispecsual, @ms--lobotomy

The meaning of 'heartbreak’ had been all but foreign to him before, but now he understood what it meant as soon as he saw the shattered look in Amelia’s eyes directed at him. Alcyon knew that she had received the news about being banned from her son’s school. 

“Alcyon! Why did you do it? Why did you have to fight him? I told you not to!” Amelia didn’t know where to even start with him on this anymore. The news broke her. Meeting Ben at his school before her ex came to pick him up was the only way she could see her son.    

Crossing his arms, the chaos Iron Warrior bristled and gave a disgruntled huff, “I could have killed the Black Templar. By right of challenge, I would have won your boy back for you had they not stopped me.”

“But they did stop you from killing him and now we both are banned from Ben’s school!” Amelia’s temper rose. 

“You shouldn’t have challenged him! I told you repeatedly to not do this and make the situation worse! It’s not that simple!” she added angrily. Amelia had never argued with Alcyon like this. She never wanted to argue with him like this, but she needed him to see, to understand how much his fight with the Black Templar cost her. 

“How is it not that simple? We could have simply taken your son at any point and you can have him back”

“Human laws don't make it simple!” Amelia nearly yelled at him out of frustration.

“I am bonded to you! In the eyes of human law, I am, to some degree, responsible for you too! What they see is MY chaos Astartes going out of control, starting a fight, and nearly killing a loyalist Astartes at my son’s school!” Her heart hurt, her head hurt, she didn’t want to continue. Why couldn’t her Astartes understand this? 

The chaos Iron Warrior replied, “You don’t control me.” 

“Of course I don’t, but that’s not how the human lawmakers see it.” Amelia breathed a vexed sigh trying to calm down. This argument was getting tiresome, she couldn’t remember the number of times they’ve talked about this. She knew her Astartes had done this on her behalf but she warned him time and time again not to, “I don’t even know why we’re still arguing about this. It’s too late for that now.” She grimaced. 

Amelia straightened out the order that she held crumpled in her fist, despairing as she read through the damning letter again. What was she to do now?

“We’ll have another chance to get your son back.”

His words locked around her chest tightly. She grit her teeth, trying hard not to cry from the whirlwind of emotions inside, “We won’t have another chance. Even if there was, you won’t be helping me.”

She could hear Alcyon’s quiet growl building, “What did you say?”

Amelia whirled on him, eyes blazing with fury and angry tears sliding unchecked down her face, “I said, ‘Even if I had another chance, I won’t be asking you for help!’”

The volume in her voice rose as she continued, “You lost my last chance to see Ben again, because you didn’t listen! How could I even trust you to not mess up next time?!” 

“Mess up?” Alcyon snapped at her, “Mess up?! I only took action because you kept crying about being stopped at every turn because of the laws and that damned family of his!”

“That’s exactly why we couldn’t meet them with violence! Because they are spiteful enough that they will throw the law at us and now they have the excuse of saying you are a danger to Ben due to your fight with his father’s Black Templar. Moreover, the law will always be biased against chaos Astartes and you are no exception! Why couldn’t you understand that?!”

Alcyon’s frustration grew the more Amelia said. It wasn’t his fault that the Black Templar and that family of hers kept her son away. He was the one who had supported her from the time she had accepted that he had bonded to her. And now she didn’t want his help because he made this one mistake? 

He sneered, “Don’t you dare blame me for that son of Dorn keeping your son away from you.”

“You are partially to blame! If you didn’t fight and nearly kill him, we wouldn’t be banned from the school! I wouldn't be in this mess!” she spat, too emotionally exhausted to keep her temper in check. 

“Then you shouldn’t have kept complaining about the inept human laws that you like to play with! At least I did something about it!” the Iron Warrior retorted.

Her anger boiled over, “I didn’t need you to do anything about it! I didn’t want you to do anything about it! Sometimes I wonder why I’m even bonded to you in the first place!” Amelia’s eyes widened and her expression turned pained, even she couldn’t believe the harsh words that came out of her mouth, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

Ignoring her stuttered apology, Alcyon snarled back at her, “I didn’t ask to be bonded to you. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be bound to a simpering weakling like you!”

He knew that his words hurt. Judging by the agonized expression she wore, his words stabbed in all the right places. She didn’t want his help? He’s the one who’s taken action to get her son back! He’s the one who gave her the chance to visit her son again! How dare she be so ungrateful! Alcyon angrily ignored the voice in the back of his mind screaming at him to stop, that they won’t be able to walk back their words after this. So occupied by his resentment and anger, he couldn’t feel their bond slowly come apart, thread snapping by fragile thread.

Amelia felt her heart crack and regrets started to bleed from it. 

“I never asked for you to be bonded to me either. You could’ve left me alone, you should’ve stayed away!” She wiped her eyes angrily, “None of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t shown up in my life!”

Another thread snapped. 

“You’re the one who accepted our bond! You wanted it! Had you not, you’d still be that lonely little human woman yearning for a big Astartes save her and warm her bed at night, because her own husband wouldn’t bother to fuck her!” Alcyon resentfully pointed out. 

Amelia glared at him, speechless with anger and mortification. 

“I heard what they said about you… the whore who prefers the company of chaos demons rather than her own family.” He sneered. 

“I do not…!” She spluttered in embarrassment, “I am not a whore!”

The Iron Warrior looked infuriatingly smug despite the hurt, “That’s not what you moaned when I fucked you.”

A few more threads loosened. 

Feeling humiliated beyond tears, Amelia growled low, “Get. Out.” 

“No. This place is mine as much as it is yours.” He replied stubbornly. 

“Fine. Then I’ll go! I can’t deal with you right now.” Amelia knew this was going nowhere and immediately yielded. She started walking away only to be roughly yanked back into place, plastered against the wall. Her arm, held tightly in his claw. Amelia froze, not daring to struggle lest the metal claw cut into her flesh. 

“I’m not done with you!” Alcyon growled. A dark desire in him wanted to see her fight back so he would have reason to scorch her in return. 

A number of threads singed and sizzled as it burnt away.

“What else do you want from me? To be thanked?” Amelia asked, indignation and hurt seeping into her voice. 

She snapped, “Well thank you for losing the last chance I have to see my son again!”

“Don’t take that tone with me!” He roared back.

Amelia screamed when Alcyon’s heavy metal claw slammed into the wall a few inches from her cheek. Sharp metal tips dug deep into the plaster; a stark frightening reminder of how dangerous Alcyon actually was. The red lenses on the chaos marine’s face glowed with a malignant energy as he loomed over her.  

“Good. You should remember to be afraid.” Alcyon leered at her, a sense of dark satisfaction washing over him as he watched terrified tears run down Amelia’s face. 

Another few threads broke. 

“You act as if this one mistake of mine is a world ending tragedy and wipes away everything else I had done for you!” He hissed disdainfully. 

Not even giving her a chance to reply, Alcyon continued, “Everything I had done up until now had always been for you! Always!” Spite and anger built in his chest, “And you dismiss me like some misbehaving pet?!”

“I never treated you like that! If you feel like I treat you like some pet, take off your collar then! Leave me! I can’t stop you!” She spat back, “I won’t stop you!”

She was right. He knew he could leave. He knew she couldn’t stop him. What could Amelia even do? She was such a weak creature. But something stopped him, did he actually want to leave? 

“We already said we don’t want to be bonded to each other. Then we don’t need to stay in whatever this.. this… whatever this is then!” Amelia angrily cried. 

To break this bond tethering him to Amelia’s existence seemed completely abhorrent to him. Even if he didn’t have a choice in who he was bonded to, the thought of her not wanting to stay by his side made Alcyon’s chest feel tight. 

“I can’t believe I loved you.” She said hoarsely, sorrow cracking through her voice, “I thought…”

Several more threads from the bond snapped.

His hearts shouldn’t have clenched like that when he heard her say it. The Iron Warrior dismissed the feeling with a scoff, “You’re delusional. There was never love. We are bonded. You are simply just mine.”

She glared at him through her tears, “We may be bonded, but I am not yours.”

That sentence echoed in his ear. 

More strands broke. 

“You don’t mean that.” Alcyon hissed through gritted teeth. The defiance in her words made something twist and shear inside. How dare she say that. She was his. She was his. Amelia was bonded to him and him only. She was his! That thought ran rampant in his mind.

“You don’t mean that.” The chaos marine suddenly pinned his human to the table, one hand trapping her wrists above her head, his teeth caressing her throat. Amelia cried out from the impact, her body spasmed in pain. 

“Tell me you don’t mean that.” He growled. Amelia idly wondered if Alcyon would tear her throat out if she told him otherwise. 

More threads strained and snapped. 

“Say it!” He snarled and bit down hard. 

Amelia mewled, her body instinctively reacting by arching into his. Instinctively wanting more. Her skin prickled at their heightened sensitivity. A weak moan escaped her as he sucked on the tender mark. 

“Tell me, Amelia. Tell me, you are mine. Your body certainly knows it.” She could feel him smirk against her flushed skin. She tried to bite back another whine at the heat and pressure of his body pressed flush to her own, her hips pushing back when he started rolling his hips against hers. It always started like this… she thought as her mind started to fog. 

Appalled at her own reaction, Amelia panicked. She twisted her hips away, bringing a knee up to push his body off her. Her arms strained to free themselves from the tight clasp of his hand.

She started screaming, “NO! Get off— mmngh!” He silenced her with a rough kiss, his tongue wrestling down her own. A frustrating rage in him grew at her defiance. She kept denying that she belonged to him. She was his as he was hers. They were bonded. He won’t allow her to deny the fact any longer. He’ll remind her who she is bonded to. 

“No.” The chaos marine sneered, his grip holding Amelia’s wrists together tightened, his claw grabbed her leg, easily moving it back to the side of his hips, forcing her to lay on her back facing him once more. She winced in discomfort. 

“Your words deny it, but your body and soul remembers. I will make you remember!” He angrily growled into her mouth, the vibration from it causing another unwanted arc of pleasure to course through her body. In one quick movement, Alcyon’s metal claw effortlessly shreds through her clothing. The torn clothes fell apart, leaving behind thin bleeding welts where his claw swiped against her bare torso. 

More threads were sliced from the bond. 

Amelia's eyes widened with fear as she started to struggle in earnest, “No! Alcyon! Let me g-!” His mouth was on hers again in an instant, cutting off her protests. She tried to turn her head away. He bit hard onto her bottom lip, warning her to be still. She whined in response before he promptly stole her breath again. 

“Stop, Alcyon! Please sto-!” Amelia begged as soon as their mouths parted. 

She could see every scar in detail around the lens implant as they stayed nose to nose, “Even if you deny it, you know that you’re mine.” Alcyon harshly whispered, “You will always be mine.”

He grabbed her hair and pulled her head to one side before biting down hard onto an old mark, drawing blood. Amelia keened wordlessly, tears leaking from her eyes as the pain added to the heated pleasure within her own traitorous body. She knew that this was a natural reaction, but she couldn’t help but wish that her body didn’t betray her like this. 

With a pleased growl, the chaos Iron Warrior licked the blood from the wound then kissed her. An unbidden moan left her throat as the bitter iron salt of her blood passed between their tongues. 

“Your body is more honest isn’t it?” Alcyon laughs sardonically against her lips. He could smell his human’s arousal right when he pinned her under him, the heady scent getting stronger as he continued to mark her. His teeth nipped and worried her sensitive skin down toward her breast, soaking in all her involuntary gasps and twitching muscles as he laid his claim onto her flesh. 

Amelia flushed with shame and regret. She wished she had never had slept with Alcyon, if only so that he would not know her body as well as he did. She regretted that she allowed her relationship with the Iron Warrior to become this intimate. She regretted that she had fallen in love with him. 

More threads dissolved. 

He bit down hard onto her breast, his sharp teeth sinking into the soft tissue. Amelia bit her lip to stop another whine from escaping, her hands stiffened into claws as Alcyon’s tongue licked up the blood that had beaded up from the wound.  

He gave the same treatment to her other breast, further sucking and teething her nipple into a hard peak. 

“No..! Alcy— ohhhn!” Her throat was tight as she let out a strangled moan, her pussy clenching around nothing. Amelia flattened her back against the table and tried to curl into herself, trying to shirk away from his touch. The chaos marine let out a feral, displeased growl. He grabbed her thighs and slotted her roughly against him, forcing her legs to spread wide to accommodate for the width of his muscled bulk. His metal claw dug into her back, the pain forcing Amelia to arch her spine, pushing more of her breast into his mouth; her breath shuddering and her hips thrusting involuntarily, rubbing her aching core against his pelvis as he sucked and nipped bruises onto her sensitive flesh. 

“No more… please Alcyon.” Amelia begged.  Shame filled her being as she could feel her cunt becoming slick with her juices. 

Alcyon ignored her pleas and groaned at the scent of her deepened arousal mixed with the iron in her blood, his own cock hardening within his pants from rutting against her hot wet core. He could feel the twitches of her muscles and hear her near silent moans and involuntary gasps as Amelia tried desperately to stop reacting to his touch. He will make her fall. He will make her remember. 

This time he will leave his marks so others could see who she belonged to. Alcyon bit her neck again, sinking his teeth just below her jawline. 

Her shame and regret flashed into anger. “Stop it!!!” She snarled, whipping up a freed hand to strike his face. 

Alcyon caught her hand and roughly forced it onto the table again, “Say it, Amelia. Say that you are mine.” He demanded, his eye darkened with feral lust and possessiveness heavy in his voice. 

She was beautiful, pinned helplessly below him, glaring at him with rage simmering under the surface. He could see Amelia’s heightened pulse flutter underneath her fragile skin. Bruises forming where he marked over and blood beading out from marks that broke skin. Her breasts heaved as she struggled to steady her breathing.

Amelia bared her teeth at him in anger and contempt, “Leave me alone! I can’t stand the sight of you! I hate you.”

He felt it then. It was as if someone reached into his chest and grabbed a bundle of threads that made up the core of his bond and brutally ripped them out. Sharp agonizing pain stabbed into his hearts as each thread snapped and broke, as if they were once attached to them. Alcyon stared at her, reeling from the sudden shock of pain. Amelia took the chance to slip out from under him and ran into the bedroom, locking the door behind her. 

The chaos warrior shook himself out of it, that shock of pain quickly settling to a dull ache as resentment soon took over. Alcyon turned to follow his human when the shine of the intricate metal fish on the table caught his attention. It was a gift he made for Amelia that she treasured. Eyeing the fish figurine with spiteful hostility, he crushed it in his hand and flung it against the wall, shattering it into pieces. 

Amelia’s sobs were quiet and muffled, but even they couldn’t escape from his keen hearing. Every cell in his body was compelling him to respond to his bonded human’s sorrowful cries; to comfort her, to apologize, to rebuild the threads of the bond that’s been broken. Alcyon ground his teeth hard, fighting against the compulsion. The Iron Warrior ignored it all and stormed out of their home, slamming the door so hard it nearly took the door off its hinges. 

Alcyon was long gone by the time Amelia crept out from the bedroom. Teary-eyed, but fully dressed again, Amelia cautiously made her way back to the living room, still wary that the chaos warrior was still lurking somewhere in their home. More and more cracks formed in her heart as she looked at the evidence of their fight: the gouge marks in the wall, the scratch marks, the torn strips of her clothes that laid on the table. She whimpered and hissed when her own body reminded her of Alcyon’s cuts and bite marks on her. But that hurt couldn’t compare to heart wrenching pain when she found the shattered remnants of her beloved fish figurine. 

Amelia remembered Alcyon had made it for her: a beautiful and surprisingly intricate piece of art that came from his rough and metal hands. She loved it so much. It reminded her of her son’s favourite creatures… and what she mistakenly thought was Alcyon’s love for her. Tears started to roll down her cheeks again as she painstakingly picked up the remains, piece by shattered piece.  

A particularly sharp fragment of the fish sliced into her finger, the sudden shock of pain causing her already shaky hand to drop the pieces she just collected. Sliding down the wall, her hand fisted around the pieces that didn’t fall, Amelia curled into herself in anguish. Letting out a grief-stricken wail, she wept bitterly. 

[muiitoloko]

Hii! I just saw that your asks are open, and that you write for Kingsman. Yesterday I discovered the two Kingsman movies and I watched them both, and now I'm obsessed with both Harry and Merlin.

I wanted to ask you for a Merlin or Harry fic (whichever you want) of angst and the grovelling trope. Like, maybe he has a terrible day and the reader tries to confort him, but he ends up snapping at her and telling her some real hurtful things and so he has to grovel *a lot* to earn her forgiveness or something like that :)

If you don't want to write it or you're too busy I completely understand :)

Also, if you do write it, please tag me, I don't want to miss it for the world <3

Title: The Price of Pride

Summary: Harry's pride and stubbornness drive a wedge between him and Gawain, leading to a heated sparring match that becomes a battleground for their unresolved feelings.

Pairing: Harry Hart × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Angst, Jealousy.

Author's Notes: Hii! @leylovestaytay and @shamelesstrekkie13 😊 First of all, welcome to the Kingsman obsession club—Harry and Merlin are just too irresistible, aren’t they? Your request has me grinning because, oh boy, who doesn’t love a good groveling trope? I can totally imagine Harry or Merlin having to do some serious damage control after snapping at the reader. I’m definitely up for writing this. Thanks for the awesome idea, and stay tuned! 💖

First and Second part here.

Also read on Ao3

Harry’s hands trembled with barely contained rage as he stormed into the dimly lit safehouse, his usually impeccable composure shattered by the events of the day. The mission had been a disaster from start to finish, and the humiliation of failing a mission—a task that had always come so naturally to him—was like a knife to the heart. But the worst part, the part that made his blood boil, was Chester, the current Arthur, who had the audacity to make fun of him, to belittle him in front of the others.

And to add insult to injury, the one person who had saved his ass on that mission, who had pulled him back from the brink of failure, was the same person now standing in front of him, trying to offer him comfort—Agent Gawain. You.

You watched Harry from across the room, your heart aching as you saw the torment etched across his usually stoic face. You knew how much pride he took in his work, how much it meant to him to be the best, to maintain the perfect image of a Kingsman. And today, that image had been shattered. You wanted to help him, to console him, but you could see the storm brewing behind his eyes, the way his jaw clenched and his fists curled at his sides.

"Harry," you said softly, taking a tentative step toward him, your voice filled with concern. "It wasn’t your fault. The mission… it was unpredictable. You did everything you could—"

"Don’t," Harry snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. His brown eyes were dark, filled with a fury you had never seen before, and it made you stop in your tracks, your heart skipping a beat. "Don’t try to console me, Gawain. You have no idea what it’s like to fail like this. To be humiliated in front of the entire organization, to be mocked by Chester of all people."

You flinched at the venom in his words, the way he spat out Chester’s name like it was poison. "Harry, I’m just trying to help—"

"Help?" Harry let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and grating. He took a step toward you, his presence overwhelming as he loomed over you, his height and intensity making you feel small, insignificant. "You want to help me, do you? Is that why you saved my sorry ass on the mission? To play the hero, to swoop in and save Galahad like some knight in shining armor?"

You shook your head, your chest tightening with the weight of his anger, his words cutting deeper than you could have ever anticipated. "No, Harry, that’s not it at all. I just… I didn’t want you to get hurt."

"Didn’t want me to get hurt?" Harry repeated, his voice dripping with mockery. "Is that really what this is about, Gawain? Or is it because of that little crush you’ve been nursing for me? Did you think saving me would make me finally notice you, that it would make me see you as something more than just another agent?"

You felt your heart drop at his words, the sting of his mockery hitting you like a physical blow. You had never been able to hide your feelings for Harry, your admiration for him that had grown into something much deeper, much more complicated. But hearing him throw it back in your face, using it as a weapon against you, was something you hadn’t been prepared for.

"Harry, please," you whispered, your voice trembling as you tried to keep your composure, even as your vision blurred with unshed tears. "That’s not what this is about. I care about you, yes, but I would have done the same for any of my fellow agents. You know that."

Harry’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a sneer as he took another step closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "Care about me? Is that what you call it? Do you know what I think, Gawain? I think you’re just a pathetic little schoolgirl, clinging to some fantasy of what we could be, when the reality is that you’re nothing more than a distraction."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath out of you. You had always known that your feelings for Harry were one-sided, that he would never see you in the same way, but hearing him say it out loud, in such a cruel, dismissive way, was almost too much to bear.

"You think that by saving me, by trying to console me now, you can somehow make yourself more than what you are?" Harry continued, his voice cold and cutting as he advanced on you, his presence overwhelming. "You’re delusional, Gawain. I don’t need your pity, your concern, or your so-called care. What I need is for you to stay the hell out of my way."

You could feel the tears welling up in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall, refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. "I’m not trying to get in your way, Harry," you whispered, your voice trembling with the effort it took to keep it steady. "I just want to help you. I want to be there for you."

"Be there for me?" Harry’s laugh was harsh, almost cruel, as he looked down at you, his brown eyes filled with disdain. "You’re not there for me, Gawain. You’re nothing more than a distraction, a hindrance. Your feelings for me, your pathetic little crush, are nothing but a burden that I’ve had to carry. And you know what? I’m tired of it. I’m tired of you."

The finality of his words hit you like a slap to the face, the coldness in his voice making it clear that he meant every word. You felt your heart shatter into a million pieces, the weight of his rejection, his anger, almost too much to bear.

Harry’s gaze bore into you, his eyes dark and unforgiving as he took one last step toward you, his voice dropping to a low, menacing whisper. "You think I don’t know what you want, Gawain? You think I haven’t seen the way you look at me, the way your eyes linger on me, the way you practically beg for my attention? You’re nothing but a desperate little girl, clinging to a fantasy that will never, ever come true."

You could feel the tears streaming down your face now, hot and unchecked, as you looked up at him, your heart breaking with every word he spoke. You had never felt so small, so insignificant, so utterly worthless.

"And you know what the worst part is?" Harry continued, his voice low and filled with contempt as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "You actually thought you had a chance. You thought that saving me, that being there for me, would make me see you differently. But let me make one thing perfectly clear, Gawain—I will never, ever feel the same way about you. You’re just another agent, nothing more."

You felt your knees buckle under the weight of his words, your body trembling as you tried to hold yourself together, to keep from falling apart completely. But it was no use. The pain was too much, the anguish too overwhelming.

Harry stepped back, his expression cold and impassive as he looked down at you, his voice devoid of any warmth, any compassion. "Now get out of my sight, Gawain. And don’t ever try to console me again."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving you standing there, shattered and broken, the pieces of your heart scattered at your feet. You watched him go, your vision blurred with tears, your body trembling with the effort it took to keep from collapsing.

You had always known that Harry was a man of control, a man who prided himself on his stoicism, his ability to remain calm and composed in any situation. But today, that control had slipped, and you had seen a side of him that you had never seen before—a side that was cruel, cutting, and utterly devastating.

And as you stood there, alone and broken, you couldn’t help but wonder if you would ever be able to pick up the pieces of your shattered heart, or if you would be forever haunted by the memory of Harry’s words, the coldness in his eyes, the finality of his rejection.

The days following Harry’s cruel words were some of the hardest you had ever endured. You did as he asked, staying out of his way, not even greeting him when the two of you passed side by side in the corridors. You didn’t look at him during the weekly meetings, where all the agents gathered to deal with Arthur. You interacted with everyone except Harry, and when you had to address him, you treated him as Galahad, with a cold, distant professionalism that cut deeper than any insult.

Harry noticed the change immediately. It was as if a light had been extinguished. Your jokes, your infectious laughter, your kind words—you still shared them with everyone else, but never with him. To you, he was no longer Harry, your mentor, your friend, the man you had admired and cared for. He was just Galahad, a title and nothing more.

At first, Harry tried to tell himself that this was what he wanted. That it was better this way, that you were just a distraction he could do without. But as the days passed, he found himself missing the sound of your voice, the way you used to tease him, the way you would light up any room you entered. The absence of your warmth, your light, left a void that he couldn’t ignore, no matter how much he tried.

It didn’t help that Merlin had begun to notice the tension between you and Harry. Merlin was nothing if not observant, and it didn’t take long for him to piece together that something was wrong. He saw the way you avoided Harry’s gaze, the way you stiffened whenever he entered a room, the way you now treated him with a cold formality that was so unlike you.

One afternoon, after a particularly tense meeting where you had barely acknowledged Harry’s presence, Merlin decided it was time to confront him. He found Harry in the training room, where he was taking out his frustrations on a punching bag, his movements sharp and aggressive, each punch landing with a force that betrayed the turmoil inside him.

“Harry,” Merlin called out, his voice steady but laced with concern as he approached. Harry didn’t stop, didn’t even look up, his focus entirely on the bag in front of him. But Merlin wasn’t one to be ignored.

“Harry!” Merlin’s voice was firmer this time, and finally, Harry stopped, his chest heaving with exertion as he turned to face his old friend.

“What is it, Merlin?” Harry’s tone was clipped, his expression hard as he grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from his brow.

Merlin crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze unwavering as he studied Harry. “Something’s going on between you and Gawain. What the hell happened?”

Harry’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing at the mention of your name. “Nothing that concerns you, Merlin.”

“Bollocks,” Merlin shot back, not missing a beat. “It concerns all of us when two of our best agents can’t even look at each other, let alone work together. I’ve known you for too long, Harry. You don’t just snap at people like that for no reason. What did you do?"

Harry turned away, his shoulders tense as he tried to brush off the conversation. “It’s nothing. Just leave it alone.”

But Merlin wasn’t having it. He stepped closer, his voice lowering as he pressed on. “Did you hurt her, Harry? Did you push her away?”

Harry’s frustration flared as Merlin’s words struck a nerve. The accusation, the implication that he had done something wrong, only added to the boiling anger that had been simmering within him since that disastrous mission. He clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white as he stared at Merlin, his mind racing with the injustice of it all.

“Why do you assume it’s my fault?” Harry snapped, his voice laced with bitterness. “Why not Gawain? Why am I the one to blame here?”

Merlin raised an eyebrow, his expression unyielding as he met Harry’s gaze. “Because we both know that Gawain would never willingly hurt you, Harry. The girl worships the ground you walk on. She hangs on your every word, looks at you like you hung the stars. Hell, some of the other agents have even gotten a bit jealous of the way she treats you, the attention you receive. And you—”

“I didn’t ask for any of that,” Harry interrupted, his tone defensive as he turned away, trying to escape the weight of Merlin’s words. But the truth of them clung to him, gnawing at the edges of his conscience. He knew how you looked at him, the admiration in your eyes, the way you would brighten whenever he entered a room. It had been both flattering and overwhelming, but he had always tried to maintain a professional distance, to keep things strictly business between the two of you.

But now, as Merlin’s words sank in, he realized just how much he had come to rely on that admiration, on the warmth and light you brought into his life. And now that it was gone, the absence of it left him feeling hollow, like something vital had been stripped away.

Merlin stepped closer, his voice dropping to a gentler tone as he pressed on. “Harry, what did you say to her? Whatever it was, it broke her. She’s not the same. She barely looks at you, barely acknowledges you. You’ve hurt her deeply, and I can see it’s eating away at you too. So, what did you do?”

Harry’s jaw clenched, the memories of that night in the safehouse flooding back—the anger, the frustration, the venom he had unleashed on you in a moment of weakness. He had said things he didn’t mean, used your feelings against you in the cruelest way possible, all because he couldn’t handle his own emotions, his own failure.

But now, you were paying the price for his mistakes, and it tore him apart.

“I… I was angry,” Harry admitted, his voice thick with regret as he finally turned to face Merlin again, the anguish evident in his eyes. “I said things I shouldn’t have, things I didn’t mean. I pushed her away, Merlin. I broke her.”

Merlin’s expression softened, a flicker of sympathy crossing his features as he placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Then you need to fix it, Harry. You need to make this right.”

“How?” Harry’s voice cracked with the weight of his guilt, his brown eyes filled with a desperation that Merlin hadn’t seen in him before. “She won’t even look at me now, won’t acknowledge that I exist. She’s gone cold, Merlin. And I deserve it. But I don’t know how to reach her, how to make her see that I—”

“That you what?” Merlin prompted gently, his gaze steady as he watched his old friend struggle with the words.

Harry swallowed hard, the realization hitting him like a punch to the gut. “That I care about her. That I miss her. Damn it, Merlin, I miss her so much it hurts.”

Merlin nodded slowly, his eyes filled with understanding. “Then you need to tell her that, Harry. You need to show her that you’re willing to crawl back, to earn her forgiveness. Because right now, she doesn’t think you care. And if you don’t do something soon, she might not give you the chance to prove otherwise.”

Harry’s heart sank at the truth of Merlin’s words. He had pushed you away, shattered the trust and admiration you had held for him, and now he was faced with the impossible task of mending what he had broken. The thought of you, the way you used to joke and laugh, your infectious smile that had always brightened his day, now replaced with cold indifference—it was unbearable.

And yet, you had every right to treat him that way. After all, he had been the one to throw your feelings back in your face, to reduce you to nothing more than a distraction. The weight of his actions pressed down on him, suffocating him with guilt and regret.

For days, he tried to find the courage to approach you, to apologize, to beg for your forgiveness. But every time he saw you—sitting quietly in the briefing room, your eyes avoiding his, your smile reserved for everyone but him—the words would die in his throat. He had hurt you too deeply, and now, it seemed, you had built a wall between you, one that he didn’t know how to break through.

And so, he began to retreat, letting the shame and guilt consume him, until one day, when he found himself standing outside your door, his heart pounding in his chest. He had rehearsed what he wanted to say a thousand times, but as he stood there, the words seemed inadequate, insufficient to convey the depth of his regret, his longing to make things right.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked softly, his heart in his throat as he waited for you to answer. When the door finally opened, and you stood there, looking up at him with that same cold, distant expression that had haunted him for weeks, his resolve nearly crumbled.

But he couldn’t back down now. He had to try.

“Gawain,” Harry began, his voice rough with emotion as he looked into your eyes, hoping—praying—that he could find a way to reach you. “I need to talk to you. Please… can we talk?”

You looked at Harry for a moment, your expression unreadable as you stood in the doorway, your hand resting on the handle of your suitcase. The sight of him standing there, his posture slightly slumped, his eyes filled with a mixture of regret and desperation, stirred something deep within you, but you quickly squashed it down, refusing to let him see how much his presence affected you.

"Make it quick, Galahad," you said, your voice cool, almost detached, as you turned back into the room, leaving the door open behind you. You didn’t wait for him to follow you, moving to the small desk in the corner of the office and beginning to gather the last of your things. The room was a fraction of the size of Harry’s own office in the Kingsman mansion, but it had been yours—a space where you could work, think, and be alone when you needed to.

Harry entered the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He stood awkwardly near the doorway, his eyes scanning the space as if seeing it for the first time. It wasn’t the first time he had been in your office, but it was the first time he had really paid attention to the place—the small, tidy desk, the bookshelf lined with mission files and personal mementos, the single chair tucked neatly into the corner. It was all so much like you—efficient, organized, but with a touch of warmth that had always drawn him in, even if he hadn’t realized it before.

You continued to sort through the papers on your desk, your movements precise and deliberate, as if you were trying to keep yourself busy, to avoid looking at him. "What do you want, Galahad?" you asked, your tone flat, as if you were asking about the weather.

Harry hesitated, the words he had rehearsed in his mind suddenly feeling inadequate, but he knew he couldn’t back down now. He had to make this right, even if you wouldn’t let him.

"I wanted to apologize," Harry said finally, his voice soft, almost tentative, as he took a step closer. He tried to keep his tone measured, his words carefully chosen, but the anguish in his heart made it hard to maintain the stoic façade he usually wore so effortlessly. "For what I said… that day. I was angry—furious, really—and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t deserve it, Gawain. None of it."

You didn’t look up, your hands continuing to move through the papers, straightening them, placing them in neat piles, as if you hadn’t heard him at all. Your silence, your indifference, was like a knife twisting in his chest, but he pressed on, desperate to make you understand.

"I know I hurt you," Harry continued, his voice trembling slightly as he forced himself to keep going. "And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Gawain. I never should have said those things, and I—"

"It’s fine, Galahad," you interrupted, your tone clipped, as you set down the papers and finally turned to face him. There was no warmth in your eyes, no trace of the affection that had once been there, and it made Harry’s heart ache. "It’s in the past. Let’s just… leave it there."

Harry felt his chest tighten at your words, at the cold, distant way you dismissed him, as if everything he had just said meant nothing. He had expected anger, or maybe even tears, but not this—this cold indifference that made him feel like he was talking to a stranger.

"But it’s not fine," Harry said, his voice growing more urgent, more desperate, as he took another step toward you. "It’s not in the past, Gawain. I see the way you look at me now—the way you don’t look at me. You’ve shut me out, and I can’t… I can’t bear it. I miss you. I miss your jokes, your smile, the way you light up every room you enter. I miss the way you used to look at me, with that admiration in your eyes. I miss you, Gawain. And I’m sorry—"

"Enough," you cut him off again, your voice firm as you held up a hand to stop him. You didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to let him back in, didn’t want to let yourself feel the pain that his words were stirring up inside you. You had spent weeks building up these walls, weeks trying to protect yourself from the hurt he had caused, and you weren’t going to let him tear them down now.

"It’s done, Harry," you said, your voice steady but devoid of emotion as you looked him in the eye. "You said what you needed to say, and I’ve heard it. But I’m not going to pretend that things can just go back to the way they were. You made it very clear that I’m nothing more than a distraction to you, and I’ve accepted that. So let’s just move on."

Harry looked at the ground, his mind swirling with emotions he couldn't quite name. He had come here to make amends, to try and salvage what he could of your relationship, but now, faced with your cold indifference, he found himself at a loss. The warmth, the light that had once radiated from you, was gone, replaced by a wall of icy detachment that he didn't know how to penetrate. It was as if the person who had always been by his side, supporting him with your jokes and infectious laughter, had disappeared, leaving only a hollow shell in their place.

For a moment, Harry considered pressing further, considered trying one last time to break through the barrier you had put up between you. But the words caught in his throat, the weight of your rejection pressing down on him like a physical force. He couldn't bear the thought of humiliating himself further, of begging for forgiveness that you seemed unwilling to give.

So, he did what he always did when faced with emotions too complex to handle—he suppressed them. With a deep breath, Harry forced his features into a mask of indifference, schooling his expression into the stoic, unflappable demeanor that had become his trademark. He had tried to make things right, and if you couldn't accept his apology, then that was your problem, not his.

"Very well," Harry said, his voice cool, detached, as he looked up at you with an expression that betrayed none of the turmoil he felt inside. "I hope this... unfortunate conflict won't affect our ability to work together in the future."

You snorted at his words, a sound that was equal parts derision and disbelief. The sound grated on Harry's nerves, but he kept his composure, refusing to let you see how much it affected him. If this was how you wanted to play it, then so be it.

Without another word, Harry turned on his heel and walked toward the door, his steps measured and controlled. But as he reached the doorway, something inside him snapped, a flicker of the anger and frustration that had been simmering beneath the surface. He pushed the door closed behind him with more force than he intended, the sharp click of the latch echoing through the room.

Fine, he thought bitterly as he stalked down the hallway, his footsteps echoing in the silence. If you wanted to shut him out, then he would let you. He wouldn't humiliate himself further by groveling at your feet, by begging for something that clearly wasn't there anymore. He had his pride, after all, and he wasn't about to let it be trampled on by someone who had decided he was nothing more than a distraction.

He had tried to apologize, had swallowed his pride and admitted his faults. If you couldn't see past your own hurt to forgive him, then perhaps you weren't as mature as he had once thought. Perhaps you were still nothing more than a child, clinging to a fantasy that would never come true.

Harry's thoughts grew darker as he made his way through the corridors of the mansion, his mind racing with a mix of frustration and regret. He couldn't shake the image of your cold, distant eyes, the way you had dismissed him as if he meant nothing. It stung, more than he cared to admit, but he refused to let it show. He was Harry Hart, after all—Agent Galahad. He had faced down enemies far more dangerous than this, had endured pain far worse than the sting of a broken heart. He would survive this, just as he had survived everything else.

The next morning, Harry arrived at the training facility, his usual impeccable composure firmly in place. The early hours were always reserved for physical training, and today was no different. The large, open space was already buzzing with activity as agents honed their skills under Merlin’s watchful eye.

Harry forced himself to focus on the task at hand, determined to push the previous day’s events out of his mind. He needed to regain control, to reassert his dominance as one of the top agents in Kingsman. But as soon as he walked into the training area, his eyes found you, and all his resolve crumbled.

You were sparring with James, the current Lancelot, and to Harry’s irritation, the two of you seemed to be enjoying yourselves far too much. James was a notorious flirt, a man who had always tried his luck with the female agents, but until now, you had never reciprocated. Yet here you were, laughing at something he said, your eyes bright with amusement as you effortlessly blocked one of his punches.

Harry’s jaw tightened as he watched the scene unfold, his chest tightening with an emotion he didn’t want to acknowledge. He had no right to feel this way—not after what he had said to you, not after pushing you away so cruelly. But the sight of James flirting with you, and worse, the way you seemed to be responding to it, sent a wave of jealousy crashing through him.

He tried to focus on his own training, to throw himself into the exercises with the same intensity he usually did, but his eyes kept drifting back to you and James. Every time he saw you smile at him, every time he heard you laugh at one of his stupid jokes, Harry felt his blood pressure rise.

James was relentless, his flirting becoming more blatant with each passing minute. At one point, he leaned in close, his hand brushing against your arm as he whispered something in your ear that made you laugh. The sound, once so sweet to Harry’s ears, now grated on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

Harry’s fists clenched as he watched James step back, a cocky grin on his face as he squared off against you again. The two of you moved in a graceful, almost choreographed dance, your bodies in perfect sync as you sparred. But it wasn’t the skillful movements or the precision of your strikes that caught Harry’s attention—it was the way you were looking at James, the way your eyes sparkled with something more than just amusement.

The irritation that had been simmering beneath the surface all morning finally bubbled over. Harry’s punches became more aggressive, his movements sharp and jerky as he tried to burn off the anger coursing through him. He didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to acknowledge the jealousy that was eating away at him, but he couldn’t deny the truth.

He was angry. Angry at James for flirting with you, angry at you for reciprocating, but most of all, angry at himself for pushing you away in the first place. This was his fault—he had driven you to this, driven you into the arms of another man. And now, he was paying the price.

Harry knew he had no right to feel this way, knew that he had forfeited any claim to you the moment he had spoken those cruel words. But that didn’t stop the jealousy from gnawing at him, from making his blood boil every time he saw you smile at James.

"Nice form, Galahad," Merlin’s voice cut through Harry’s thoughts, jolting him back to reality. The older man was standing a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest as he observed the training session. His sharp eyes took in every detail, missing nothing.

Harry nodded curtly, forcing himself to focus. "Thank you, Merlin," he replied, his voice clipped as he delivered another precise punch to the training dummy. But his mind wasn’t on his training—it was on you, and the way you were still laughing with James.

Merlin’s gaze followed Harry’s line of sight, and he raised an eyebrow as he noticed the interaction between you and Lancelot. A knowing look passed over his face, and he let out a quiet sigh. "You’ve got work to do, Harry," he said quietly, his voice laced with sympathy. "She’s not going to forgive you easily. You’ll have to crawl a lot to earn her trust back."

Harry attacked the training dummy with renewed aggression, his fists slamming into the padded target with a force that was almost reckless. He barely heard Merlin’s sigh of exasperation as he muttered to himself, his words laced with bitterness. “I’m done, Merlin. I apologized last night. I did what I could. If she wants to ignore me, so be it. I’m not chasing after her anymore.”

Merlin shook his head, clearly irritated by Harry’s stubbornness. “You’re acting like a damn teenager, Harry,” he muttered, crossing his arms as he watched his old friend take out his frustration on the inanimate target. “You care about her, and she cares about you. But you’ve got to stop being so bloody proud and actually talk to her, not just throw apologies at her feet and expect her to come running.”

Harry didn’t respond, his focus on the training dummy, his knuckles turning white as he continued to land blow after blow. The truth in Merlin’s words stung, but he was too angry, too frustrated to admit it. He had tried—he had swallowed his pride, bared his soul, and all he got in return was cold indifference. What more was he supposed to do?

Suddenly, a sound drew their attention, and both men turned to see you and James in the midst of what appeared to be a playful tussle. James was lying flat on the mat, a wide grin on his face, while you straddled him, your hands pinning his wrists to the ground. The sight made Harry’s stomach twist with an emotion he didn’t want to acknowledge—jealousy, burning and raw.

James, never one to miss an opportunity, chuckled up at you, his voice low and teasing. “I’ve always loved a woman who knows how to take control,” he said, a playful gleam in his eye. His words earned a laugh from you, the sound light and genuine, and you rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you released his wrists and helped him to his feet.

“Is that so, Lancelot?” you quipped, a teasing smile on your lips. “You might want to be careful with that kind of talk. You never know when someone might take you seriously.”

James flashed you a grin, clearly enjoying the banter. “With you, Gawain, I’d gladly take my chances.”

Harry scoffed under his breath, turning his back on the scene, his eyes narrowing as he resumed his assault on the training dummy. “Isn’t James a little too old for you?” he muttered to himself, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He landed a particularly vicious punch, the force of it making the dummy sway. “For the love of God…”

Merlin, still standing nearby, couldn’t hide the frustration in his voice as he observed Harry’s childish behavior. “You’re really going to stand there and sulk while she’s right there, laughing and having a good time? Maybe if you stopped being so bloody stubborn, you’d realize that she’s still the same woman you’ve always admired—she’s just hurting.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond, focusing instead on the rhythmic pounding of his fists against the dummy. He couldn’t let go of the anger, the bitterness that clung to him like a second skin. He had tried to make amends, and you had brushed him off. What was he supposed to do—grovel?

Across the room, James glanced over at Harry, his expression thoughtful as he caught the tension in his old friend’s posture. He knew Harry well enough to recognize when he was struggling with something, and he also knew that this tension between Harry and you wasn’t doing anyone any favors.

James leaned in closer to you, his voice low and conspiratorial. “You know, if you really want to get under Harry’s skin, you should keep doing exactly what you’re doing.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And what exactly am I doing, Lancelot?”

James smirked, glancing over at Harry’s back, which was still turned to the both of you. “You’re driving him absolutely mad. I think he’s seconds away from ripping that dummy to shreds.”

You chuckled, though there was a hint of sadness in your eyes. “I’m not trying to drive him mad, James. I’m just… I’m tired of feeling like I’m chasing after something that’s never going to happen.”

James softened at your words, his teasing demeanor shifting to something more serious. “Gawain, Harry’s a stubborn bastard, we both know that. But he cares about you. He just doesn’t know how to show it, especially when he’s hurt you the way he has.”

You sighed, glancing over at Harry’s back, your expression conflicted. “I don’t know, James. It’s just… it’s been hard, you know? I thought we had something, and then he just—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head as you tried to push the painful memories aside.

James placed a hand on your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Give him time. He’s not the best at dealing with his emotions, but I’ve seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one’s watching. He cares, Gawain. He just needs to pull his head out of his arse long enough to admit it.”

You gave him a small, grateful smile, but the sadness in your eyes remained. “Thanks, James. But I’m not holding my breath.”

As you turned back to your training, Merlin approached Harry, who was still pounding away at the dummy with unrelenting force. “You know,” Merlin said, his tone mild but pointed, “if you keep pretending you don’t care, you’re going to lose her. And judging by the way you’re acting, I’d say that’s the last thing you want.”

Harry paused, his fists hovering in mid-air as Merlin’s words sank in. He glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of you and James, still chatting and laughing together, and a wave of frustration and helplessness washed over him. Merlin was right, of course. He was acting like a fool, letting his pride and anger cloud his judgment. But admitting that—admitting that he had been wrong, that he needed you—wasn’t something Harry was used to. He had built his life on control, on maintaining a calm, collected façade, and now that it was slipping, he didn’t know how to handle it.

“Maybe she’s better off without me,” Harry muttered, more to himself than to Merlin. “I’ve already caused her enough pain.”

Merlin let out a long, exasperated sigh. “You’ve both caused each other pain, Harry. But that doesn’t mean it’s over. You just need to stop being so damn stubborn and talk to her. Really talk to her.”

Harry didn’t respond, his gaze drifting back to the training dummy, but his mind was elsewhere—on you, on the way you had smiled at James, on the way his words had made you laugh. The thought of you moving on, of finding happiness with someone else, sent a fresh stab of jealousy through him, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe you deserved better. Better than a man who had pushed you away, better than someone who had let his pride get in the way of something real.

But as he watched you from across the room, a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if it was too late—if he had already lost you to the easy charm of someone like James, someone who could make you laugh without the baggage that Harry carried.

And as he turned back to the training dummy, his fists clenched at his sides, Harry couldn’t help but curse himself for being so blind.

After James finished his workout, he gave you a warm smile, wiping the sweat from his brow with a towel. "Good work today, Gawain," he said, his tone light but sincere. "If you ever get tired of Galahad’s grumpiness, you know where to find me." He winked, his flirtatious nature coming through even in his goodbyes.

You chuckled, giving him a playful nudge. "I’ll keep that in mind, Lancelot. See you around." With that, James headed toward the showers, leaving you alone in the training room, your mind still spinning from the morning’s events.

You turned back to your equipment, trying to focus on packing up, but you felt a presence behind you. You didn’t need to look to know who it was; the air seemed to shift when Harry was near, and the tension between you was almost palpable. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for whatever was coming.

Harry wasted no time in approaching you, trying to appear casual and nonchalant, but the set of his shoulders and the intensity in his eyes betrayed him. He was nervous, though he would never admit it. "Gawain," he began, his voice smooth but with an undercurrent of something deeper. "Mind if we train together for a bit? I could use the workout, and it’s been a while since we’ve sparred."

You hesitated, your first instinct was to refuse. After everything that had happened, you weren’t sure you were ready to spend time alone with him, not when the wounds were still so fresh. But another part of you, the part that knew you couldn’t ignore Harry forever, reminded you that this was bound to happen eventually. The two of you were partners, after all, and sooner or later, you’d have to learn how to work together again.

With a slight nod, you agreed. "Sure, Galahad. Let’s do it." Your voice was calm, but you couldn’t hide the slight tremor in it, nor the way your heart raced at the prospect of being so close to him again.

Harry’s eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place—relief, perhaps, or maybe just a hint of the old warmth that used to be there before everything had gone so wrong. "Great," he said, trying to keep his tone light. "Let’s start with some hand-to-hand."

You both moved to the center of the mat, assuming your stances. There was a moment of hesitation, a brief pause where neither of you moved, as if you were both waiting for the other to make the first move, not just in the sparring match but in the fragile reconciliation that lay just beneath the surface.

Then, as if by mutual agreement, you both lunged at the same time. The first few exchanges were cautious, testing the waters, feeling out each other’s rhythm. But as the sparring session continued, the tension began to melt away, replaced by the familiar push and pull of two well-matched partners.

It was almost easy to fall back into the rhythm, to let muscle memory take over, and for a while, it felt like old times. Harry’s movements were precise, controlled, but there was a fire in his eyes that you hadn’t seen in weeks. He was pushing you, challenging you, and you met him move for move, refusing to back down.

But there was something different, too—a simmering undercurrent of tension that hadn’t been there before. Every brush of his hand against yours, every time he managed to pin you, every time you escaped his grasp, it all felt charged, electric, like there was something more beneath the surface that neither of you was quite ready to acknowledge.

At one point, Harry managed to get you into a hold, his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close against his chest. You could feel the heat of his breath on your neck, the hard lines of his body pressing into yours, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. His grip on you was firm, but not painful, and the closeness, the intimacy of the moment, made your breath catch in your throat.

"Not bad," Harry murmured in your ear, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. "But you’ll have to do better than that if you want to take me down."

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped your lips, the sound breathless and a little shaky. "I’m just getting started," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady, but the way your heart was pounding made it difficult.

With a sudden burst of energy, you twisted in his grip, using his own momentum against him to break free. Harry grunted in surprise, but he recovered quickly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he adjusted his stance. "Impressive," he said, his tone both teasing and admiring. "You’ve definitely gotten stronger."

You shrugged, trying to play it off, but the compliment sent a warmth through you that you hadn’t felt in a long time. "I’ve had a good teacher," you replied, the words slipping out before you could stop them. The moment they left your mouth, you felt a pang of regret, worried that you had said too much, revealed too much.

Harry’s eyes darkened, the playful glint replaced by something more serious, more intense. "I’m glad to hear that," he said quietly, his gaze locking onto yours, and for a moment, the rest of the world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in that small space, connected by something neither of you fully understood.

The sparring match continued, but the mood had shifted. The movements were more fluid now, more synchronized, as if the two of you had fallen into a rhythm that was all your own. There was still the push and pull, the challenge of trying to outmaneuver each other, but there was also something else—a closeness, an intimacy that neither of you had been willing to acknowledge before.

At one point, you managed to get the upper hand, pinning Harry to the mat, your knees on either side of his hips as you held him down. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense, and for a moment, neither of you moved, caught in the tension that hung heavy in the air.

"You’ve got me," Harry murmured, his voice low and rough, the words sending a shiver down your spine. "But the question is, what are you going to do with me?"

The double meaning in his words wasn’t lost on you, and you felt a flush rise to your cheeks, your heart racing as you tried to figure out how to respond. But before you could say anything, Harry shifted beneath you, using his strength to flip you onto your back, reversing the position so that he was the one pinning you.

His body was pressed against yours, his hands on either side of your head, his face inches from yours. You could feel the heat radiating off him, could see the way his chest heaved with each breath, and the closeness, the intimacy of the moment, was almost overwhelming.

"I’ve got you now," Harry said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper, his brown eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. "What are you going to do about it, Gawain?"

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you looked up at him, your mind racing with a thousand different thoughts, none of which made any sense. There was a part of you that wanted to push him away, to put distance between you, to protect yourself from the confusion, the hurt that still lingered from everything that had happened.

But there was another part of you, a part that you had been trying to ignore for weeks, that wanted nothing more than to close the gap between you, to give in to the tension that had been building between you for so long. You could see it in his eyes, the way he was looking at you, like he was waiting for something, like he wanted to see what you would do next.

Your breathing quickened, your pulse racing as you considered your options. You could push him away, keep things professional, pretend that nothing had changed. Or you could do something reckless, something that could change everything between you.

As you lay there, pinned beneath Harry, the heat of his body pressing into yours, the weight of his gaze holding you in place, a surge of emotions flooded through you—desire, confusion, and something else, something darker. The closeness between you was almost suffocating, the intensity of the moment making it hard to think clearly. For a brief second, you considered giving in, letting yourself get lost in the moment, in the way Harry was looking at you, like you were the only person in the world.

But then, as if a switch had been flipped, the memory of his cruel words, the way he had mocked your feelings, throwing them back in your face like they meant nothing, came rushing back. The pain, the humiliation, the anger—it all hit you like a tidal wave, dousing the spark of desire that had ignited within you.

Suddenly, the weight of Harry’s body wasn’t comforting—it was suffocating. The intensity of his gaze wasn’t exciting—it was oppressive. The closeness between you wasn’t something to savor—it was something to escape.

With a sharp push, you shoved Harry back, forcing him off of you. The movement was so sudden, so unexpected, that Harry nearly lost his balance, his eyes widening in surprise as he scrambled to regain his footing. The look in his eyes was one of shock, confusion, and maybe even a touch of hurt, but you didn’t care. The anger, the resentment that had been simmering beneath the surface since that day in the safehouse had finally boiled over, and you couldn’t hold it back any longer.

"You win, Galahad," you said, your voice cold, distant, as you pushed yourself up off the mat. The words were sharp, cutting, meant to put distance between you, to remind him that this was just a training exercise, that whatever had happened between you before meant nothing now. "Thank you for the training."

The formal tone in your voice, the way you addressed him by his title rather than his name, made it clear that you were done—done with whatever this was, done with him. You weren’t going to let him hurt you again, weren’t going to let him use your feelings against you.

Harry watched you in silence, his expression unreadable, but you could see the tension in his posture, the way his fists clenched at his sides, as if he was holding back something—words, emotions, you weren’t sure. But you didn’t care. You couldn’t let yourself care.

Without another word, you turned and walked over to where your bottle of water sat on a nearby bench. You grabbed it, taking a long drink, letting the cool liquid soothe the fire in your chest, the anger that still burned hotly within you. You didn’t look back at Harry, didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing the hurt, the frustration that still lingered in your eyes.

When you finally turned around, bottle in hand, Harry was still standing there, his brown eyes locked onto you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. But you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, detached, as if he were just another agent, just another colleague.

"Goodbye, Galahad," you said, your voice cool and professional as you nodded at him, the formal tone making it clear that this was the end of the conversation. Then, without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and walked out of the training room, your steps measured and controlled, your heart pounding in your chest.

Harry stood there, watching you go, the tension in his body palpable, the regret and frustration clear in his eyes. He knew he had messed up—knew that he had hurt you, driven you away, and now, he was paying the price. He had tried to make things right, tried to bridge the gap between you, but it was clear that he had a long way to go before you would even consider forgiving him.

As the door closed behind you, Harry let out a low, frustrated growl, his fists clenching at his sides. He had underestimated just how deeply he had hurt you, how much damage his words had done. And now, he was left standing there, alone, the weight of his actions pressing down on him like a physical burden.

He knew he had a long road ahead of him if he ever wanted to earn your forgiveness, if he ever wanted to see that light, that warmth, in your eyes again. And as he stood there, his heart heavy with regret, he realized that he would have to work harder than he ever had before.

Because losing you—truly losing you—was something he couldn’t bear.

[limeade-l3sbian]

Some time ago, before I cut contact with my dad, I would often contemplate his mindset. Not of why he was so lackluster in all manners of fatherhood but about his unbiased, objective few of me as a girl and, now, a woman.

On some obligatory level, I know my dad loves me. I think his perspective of what makes someone a “good Christian” demands this of him. And in a small percentage of the time we spent together, he might love me for the child he knew. And to hear that a father loses interest in his daughter when she grows up/develops the ability to defy and to think is not a new experience. There were telltale signs of it coming so I was fully prepared. But I expected a casual indifference when we got to the point we are now. He would lie about me to the family and retain his desperate image of a father “trying his best.” Like I said, I saw it coming years before.

But it didn't really play like that. Because while he definitely began to detach, there was this frustration and rage in his eyes when he spoke to me. When I called him out. When I didn't just shrug off what he said. He was so angry when I threatened to stop talking to him for a while and followed through. As a child, he couldn't understand why I chose to live with my mom in a homeless shelter over staying with him and his now ex-wife. And there are a handful of family facts and personal history that I won't just spill but I know for a fact play a part in this. I was more interested in his objective perspective of me, like I said.

And to be frank? My dad loves me in a very superficial way, but in no way likes me. My family is the type that say “blood is thicker than water” no matter what. Generations of abuse and neglect founded on the back of “respect” that is inherited rather than earned. My mom was the first to make me challenge that, and I think my dad resents her for that to this day. 

When I was younger, I considered him cool. Especially since he seemed supportive of my feminist ideology that I garnered very early on by just being with my mom. My thoughts then and now? How can a woman's place only be by a man's side when my mom has given me as much of the world as she can without one? I just wasn't buying. But he always told me he wanted me to be independent and strong. So I can give him that credit. No one in my life ever told me I couldn't be whatever I wanted to be, and that is a real blessing I don't take lightly.

But his support had a veil of contrasting expectations. I didn't have to wear makeup…but I should have my hair pressed or braided. I could wear pants instead of skirts…but you need to ask your mom to teach you how to shave. The role models he thrusted upon me were strong figures still deeply layered under a presentation that was appealing, especially to him. To him, they were still “women.” Strong but ever willing to submit. 

And his support always came with imaginings. When I inevitably became rich, he would joke that I could get him things. When I won a writing award as a kid, he didn't drive me home for twenty minutes until he finished boasting to his friend about me. He thought I was the most intelligent person he'd ever met. If I could just stop being so disagreeable and more presentable then the world would be my oyster.

And as an adult, hearing him speak, I could finally understand why my average intelligence seemed like such a world shattering achievement. Because to my father, I was intelligent in spite of being born female. I immediately thought back to all his interactions with women. How they were either dismissive or lewd. How he rolled his eyes when my stepmom would demand basic respect from him. And I'd laugh with him. [Go ahead and insert infamous quote about how it will not save the daughter.]

His perception of women was secondary. Adam's rib. He wanted to raise me as Eve and felt (and feels) cursed that he was bound by blood to Lilith. And the only Christian thing to do is spend the rest of his life trying to change me. And when I came out, that thin smile of support from him told me that he felt his ability to control not just slipping, but being yanked. I did not recognize men as authority. His only card he had and has left is that we are bound forever by blood.

But I don't care about blood. The water of strangers and women in my life and in this community has carried me further in life than blood ever has or, at this point, ever will. 

[wen-kexing-apologist]

Sorry to any of my friends on here who have heard me say this for the third time now but I cannot get over the way Utsukushii Kare shows us the ways in which negative self-perception can impact EVERYONE.

The way that Hira believes so strongly that he is unworthy of love, that he is nothing but a servant to a God that he completely writes off Kiyoi's feelings for him. The way that Hira is so comfortable in his status a whipping boy for Kiyoi just honored to even have attention because he doesn't feel that they even belong on the same planet that he is blissfully ignorant to the harm he himself is causing to Kiyoi. The way Hira thinks so poorly of himself that he promises Kiyoi that he will never meet his parents and the way the audience can see Kiyoi's heart shatter and the way Hira can't. The way Hira says "I don't want to understand you," as if that isn't the most insulting, belittling, and tragic thing you could say to someone who loves you.

Every strong emotional outburst we get from Kiyoi in Season 1 and Season 2 stems directly from Hira's absolutely dogshit self-image and always centers on the fact that Kiyoi likes him and Hira is not doing anything to acknowledge or honor Kiyoi's feelings despite Hira claiming to like and love Kiyoi.

Hira thinks of himself so far below Kiyoi that he is almost able to obliterate three years of Kiyoi feeling comfortable and safe and secure in this relationship with the man he loves with just a single sentence.

The way that Hira is so worried that Kiyoi will leave him, that he never tells Kiyoi anything, that Kiyoi doesn't get to be a partner, that Kiyoi instead has to question his relationship to Hira because Hira's friend knows more about him than Kiyoi does despite them living together, despite them loving each other. Hira does not allow himself to accept Kiyoi's love but Kiyoi doesn't know that until he has spent three years of his life loving someone that refuses to accept that love.

And it's not like Hira isn't harmed by this too, until someone outside of their relationship points it out, Kiyoi can't see the ways in which he is, intentionally or unintentionally, exploiting Hira's devotion to him. Letting Hira cook for him every night, etc. Hira gets in his own way with the photography contest because he is so disillusioned with his relationship to people that he edits them out of his photos. I really like that Hira is called selfish to his face. Because he is.

It makes me think, and I think @bengiyo said exactly the same thing in his and @shortpplfedup's podcast episode about UK, about the conversation someone had where they were discussing with a loved one of some sort that they always worried that they were annoying them or that they secretly hated them, and the loved one said "I wish you wouldn't think of me that way."

I will be interested in seeing the movie if I can ever get my hands on it, but literally my only criticism of this show in any capacity is that I wish Season 2 was 6 episodes instead of 4 because I really wanted more time to be given to Hira learning to see or starting to understand how much he has been hurting others by refusing to accept they love him.

[zv5x]

Yandere Riddler with a Reader who has a strong moral compass just like him? They believe most of the things he does, believing in stopping corrupted people, etc while not having Ed's delusions. So, when Edward actually kidnaps them, they aren't afraid to point out how morally messed up he's being and point out flaws in his plans and how contradictory they are, further breaking Ed's image of his love and of his pre-perceived perception of himself.

Welcome back, ZV5X!

Pairing : The Riddler (The Batman 2022) • Gender Neutral reader Warnings : USE OF THE YANDERE TROPE , kidnappings, toxic mindsets and abusive situations, mentions of yelling and raising of tone, psychological intimidation

"To me, calling this love is almost an insult." You clicked your tongue, letting your morality hold power over your better judgement. With a brain as fragile as this man's, confrontation was a near death wish. However, you poked onwards, picking at his delusions as ifit was cheap, chipping paint. "I'm not going to sit here and justify this behavior-"

"Shut up." His tone was flat, almost as if he was trying his very hardest to hold himself together.

He was warning you, and he would only warn you once.

"If anything, it's a display of power you feel you don't have. Whatever it may be, don't you dare tell me this is love!" At that, the man before you picked up a glass on the table and chucked it at the wall. It shattered above you, glass shards coming down onto your head and causing small bursts of pain to run throughout your scalp. You shut your eyes tightly and looked down, hoping that would shield your sensitive eyes from what would no doubt destroy them if contact was made.

"Shut the fuck UP! You don't know the last thing about love! You're a brainwashed puppet, only existing to fill your place in a society that wouldn't even care if you were gored on the streets! Do you really think anyone cares about you as much as I do? Loves you as much as I do?" He laughed, but not a laugh of entertainment; it was a laugh of pure lunacy. "No, no baby, that's not true and you know that." He walked up to you, kneeling down to your level and letting glass crunch underneath his boot. "You don't know the last thing about love." The man was incredibly gentle now, tilting your head upwards so he could look you in the eye. His glasses were gleaming, the eyes behind them half-lidded with affection. "But that's okay, my love. I can teach you."

"W-what? What do you-?"

"You have so many flawed ideas about this world. Like how it's changeable with non-violent methods, and how people like us live in a world where we don't need to fight back." He held up air quotes to accompany his words, giggling at your perceived foolishness. "I can fix that, my dear. I can fix you. We're both gonna be okay. All it's gonna take is a little focused effort, and I'll have you right where I am right now. You'll be fine, we'll be fine; and nobody will ever be able to hurt us again."

As much as it disgusted you, he leaned inwards and kissed you on the cheek. "It's okay. I understand you're wired differently than I am; that you're less likely to see the world in the way that I do. That's why I have to help you, so you can finally love yourself as much as I love you. You can't love yourself unless you come to despise the people that hurt you, (Y/N). Did you know that? It's a hard pill to swallow, isn't it?"

You didn't respond. How could you? There wasn't anything that could be said to convince this sick man that his ideals were incorrect. If you tried, you'd get another glass thrown at your head. You'd let him speak, while also scowering this room for any kind of useful objects or information.

There was a window right in the middle of many other buildings, which was nice. Perhaps you could come loose from your restraints and scream out of it for some sort of help. You couldn't help but smile to yourself at the thought of leaving, a gesture your captor immediately took to heart.

"I know you're just as happy as I am, love." Once again, he kissed you, and you had to refrain from gagging as his lips pressed against yours. "We'll start with that scummy public defender who lives about 10 minutes away. Teaching him a lesson would be a good lesson for you too, don't you think angel?"

[raymondshields]

❤: Which character do you think is the most egregiously mischaracterized by the fandom?

There's quite a few! Kazuma obviously, because people love to take his anger at face value (which pisses me off because I also don't generally get sad when I'm hurt, I also get angry), and refuse to see him in 2-4/5 as a man literally shattering and finally admitting how incredibly not okay he's been for sixteen years.

Raymond Shields and Godot both get hit with fandom racism and people taking their facades at face value - Ray being a walking trauma wound (he's very much like Kaz in that regard, except he is never given the chance to lose his shit on everyone) and Godot actually having a very similar arc to Kazuma, just not haunting the whole game the same way.

But honestly? The most egregiously mischaracterized character? This is a molotov and I know it, but all my DGS friends haven't seen this take yet, so I get to throw it again: Mia Fey.

Mia Fey was not a character I expected to have so much depth to her, but then I started RPing her after her death and really got into her head, and then I had to deal with the fact that she is the single angriest person that anyone has seen, and the only reason no one knows is because she has utterly cultivated an image of not pulling a Kazuma. (I am very weak to Kazuma types, as we can clearly see lmao.)

She was abandoned by her mother when she was ten, she immediately took over parenting for her two-year-old sister, she was abused the whole time by her aunt who quite literally wanted her dead, she had to deal with all of the politics of being the next Master, she had to keep up with her training, she had to be the perfect daughter, and she had to do it all knowing that her only actual value was in protecting her sister, and that not a single person actually cared about her.

Her getting out and becoming a lawyer was honestly the most selfish thing she'd ever done, and if you look at the timing, it's pretty likely she got out right at 18, which... is the same year Pearl was born. She saw Morgan get pregnant and probably realized if she didn't get out, she was going to get murdered, so she ran.

It also explains why Diego acted the way he did about killing Misty: he knew Mia would probably forgive him for that one, because after all, Misty left Mia pretty much for dead in Morgan's hands. Misty could've taken her daughters with her and she didn't, and Mia would have known that. She sheltered Maya, but no one was protecting Mia but herself.

She emphasized trusting people to Phoenix a lot, for someone who only ever trusted one person (Diego), and when she did, he got poisoned. And she never trusted again, not even to Maya.

People really don't see through Mia's facade, because you have to actually look to see through it, because she died before she got a chance to show us who she actually was. Which is funny, because Beanix as a character very much parallels her. We just get to see more of his anger, where we never got to see hers.

No one understands Mia Fey like I do, and I don't talk about her so much, but she means a lot to me.

[ask link here]

[blindmagdalena]

Hii, how are you? If you aren't too busy could I request the reader saying at least one of these phrases to Homelander?

❛ i’m yours - you know it. ❜, ❛ the odd thing is that I’m in love with you anyhow. ❜, ❛ it’s been very rare to have known you, very strange and wonderful. ❜, ❛ I wouldn’t change you for the world. ❜, ❛ it’s because I love you, dear— ❜.

ofc you can, my dear!!! ends happy, promise. ♥ It all happened so quickly, you're not sure you can even comprehend what it was. All you're truly aware of is a numb, tingly kind of sensation prickling your skin from the chest down, and the warm copper tang of blood in your mouth.

Strong arms hoist you up from the ground. You can feel hot puffs of air on your wet cheek. The world around you looks to be under water, wet and bleary. Everything sounds muffled, but after a moment, you're able to make out words, and a familiar voice. "No, no, no, no," Homelander murmurs, holding you against his chest firm, but delicate, terrified that you will shatter the rest of the way. "Hey, hey, look at me, you're alright, it's gonna be just fine," he tells you, though the panic in his voice tells you he's trying to convince himself as much as he is you. He's scanning your body, assessing the degree of injury, and whether or not he can move you without killing you. He's got tears in his eyes. You've never seen him cry before. "Don't go," he whispers fervently, panic rising. "Stay with me. Stay, stay, please—"

"I'm here," you say, snapping his attention up to your eyes. You smile as best you can, swallowing what tastes like a mouthful of pennies. "I'm here, John." He's so afraid, and distantly you think that you should be, too, but it's so much easier to focus on comforting him instead. "I'm yours. You know it."

Homelander makes a noise like you've gutted him. "I'm sorry," he chokes, like the words are too big for his throat. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

You've never heard him apologize, either. It must be bad. There's a slight jostle that shoots pain all the way up your spine. You gasp, which makes you cough. John holds you firm against him. He's taking you somewhere.

"It's okay," you soothe, trying desperately to focus on anything other than the ache radiating through you. You're starting to feel cold, and that's when you begin to think that you don't have very much time left. You've never been cold in his arms before. Never.

Wind whips at your skin, and you know that you're flying. The view below you is probably spectacular. Before John, you'd only ever imagined seeing sights like that from a screen, or behind the window of a plane. Not with him. John showed you the world through the eyes of a god, while you reminded him the importance of his humanity.

You muster every ounce of strength you have to touch his face, where a stray tear has slipped down his cheek. He looks so determined in this moment, despite the panic-stricken twist of his features. You know it would be a terrible thing to ask of him, but you kind of wish that he was smiling. That would be a nice image to leave on.

"Hey," you call softly, voice little more than a croak. The ferocity of the winds doesn't matter, he can hear you. He's always listened so intently for you. He looks down at you almost reluctantly, gritting his teeth. You smile. "It's been very rare to have known you," you say, and though your voice cracks, weak in your own ears, you mean every word with vehemence. "Very strange and wonderful."

John speaks, but regrettably, you can't understand it. The wind is too loud in your ears. It almost disguises the gradually building ring that you can hear, the sound swelling up so loudly that soon enough, it's all you can hear. It swallows your vision, too, black creeping in at the edges like choking shadows.

You think he's yelling at you, and though you wish more than anything you could answer him, you can't hold on any longer. The cold becomes too much, and you finally sink beneath the surface of consciousness, his face burned into your mind like an after-image.

Everything is so... bright. It's difficult to open your eyes. There's a persistent buzz humming deep in your ears, but even louder and more jarring than that is the steady beeps. You blink again and again, each time the world around you becoming less stark white. You no longer taste or smell wet pennies, just overly sterile air.

Oh, you think. You know this place. Hospital.

Amidst all the harsh white and fluorescent light, a shock of color catches your attention. The beeping of the monitor follows the beat of your heart as it kicks up at the sight of red, white and blue poised at your bedside.

Homelander exhales shakily, halfway between a smile and a grimace, visibly overwhelmed. "Hey, buddy," you rasp. The absurdity of it startles a huff of a laugh from John, incredulousness now fighting alongside the relief and turmoil in his expression.

"Buddy?" He echoes skeptically. He's holding your hand, you realize. Tight, but not too tight. There's a minute tremble in it. "That's what you're going with?"

"Brain's a little empty," you say. Your voice sounds strange in your own ears, rough with disuse. You're not sure how long you've been out.

His relief falters at that. You can see guilt twist up in him immediately, a familiar beast that has been eating him from the inside out this whole time. "It's my fault," he confesses, voice quieter than you've ever heard it, gut-wrenching in his grief. "I should've— I should've been faster, I don't... understand how this happened, I was so—"

"John," you croak, smiling weakly. "We're here now. That's what matters, right?"

Homelander's shoulders sag. He looks utterly defeated by your unrelenting assurance, but so too does he seem baffled by it. "Why?" He asks quietly, timid, as if he's afraid to know the answer. "How can... How can you still want to comfort me after what happened to you? I f— I fucking failed you." He thinks it must be the shock, or the medication. Maybe you're still delirious. You'll come to your senses, and that's when you'll realize it.

He's a funny little guy, you think. You exhale a weak little laugh. "I think it's pretty obvious," you say, stroking his hand as best you can with your thumb. "It's because I love you, dear." Disarmed and without riposte, John sinks down into you, resting his head as gently as he dares atop your chest. "Thank you," he whispers, so quiet you barely catch it. It sounds and feels exactly like I love you, too.

You manage to put your hand on his head, your eyes falling shut with relief of your own. It's all going to be alright, in the end. You'll prove it to him.

[kaybronz]

Warning, incoming novel ahead.

If the Chris Evans shit show has taught me anything it's that you truly can't trust anything about public figures. There's always a narrative being spun or some kind of image being crafted and projected. I think that's the part that is the most disappointing to me that I bought into the image and it was nothing more than a mirage.

I had always liked the marvel movies, RDJ was my favorite for the longest, but I really started getting into Chris once he started being politically vocal. He seemed like a breath of fresh air, down to earth, relatively normal for his position in life, vocally on the right side of political history, and a self-proclaimed feminist. So I dove right in! It felt good to throw my support behind a famous person that for once, didn't seem to be so wildly out of touch with the everyday individual, whose values seemed to align with mine. I invested time and energy into promoting him and his work, I frequented and participated in his fan spaces, and I followed his ventures outside of acting. The red flags were there along the way, particularly with ASP, but I wanted to believe he had the best of intentions but was fumbling the follow through, so I pushed those to the back of my mind and kept supporting.

That investment and support existed solely because of the image he presented to the public, humble, down to earth, politically and socially conscious everyday guy. But that glass has shattered now. I'm a firm believer in the fact that you are who you surround yourself with. And I clung to the idea that this was pr because because it was some kind of hope that the image wasn't a false narrative and that he wasn't actually a phoney underneath a facade. But now it's quite plain that his morals and values very much align with his racist, fatphobic, antisemitic bride and her like minded friends. If he was the man he projected himself to be we wouldn't be where we are now. Who you marry says even more about you than your friends do and this marriage doesn't say anything positive about him and most certainly shines a light on who he actually is and how he actually feels about marginalized groups.

I do not believe in the ability to separate the art from the artist. I believe that continued participation and interaction with the work and other ventures of a problematic person is inherently showing acceptance and support to that person. Which I cannot condone any longer. This is why if you're a fiction writer and I unfollow please understand that while I likely think you are incredibly talented I cannot in good conscience continue to interact with your work as in my mind it supports and benefits him, even if indirectly. In my mind continuing to read and reblog like nothing has happened is a big fuck you to the most most directly affected by this farcical of a man.

With that being said, I've met some great people throughout my time in this fandom, and I hope that they stay on and pivot to other more worthwhile things (though I understand if they leave), I hope to be able to continue those wonderful interactions with the smart, kind, empathetic people I've encountered. I personally don't think I'll be jumping into another fandom space anytime soon for fear of another let down. But in the meantime I may venture back into my old faithful, I present to you Mr. Paul Wesley.

Paul who while not a politically active as Chris once was (and maybe that's a good thing as it's likely far less performative) he has directly called out his very own costars for their right wing political support and backwards ass thinking. And was one of the few on the vampire diaries set to stick up for Kat Graham and pushed back so far on the abhorrent treatment from the show creators that he as one of the main characters threatened to leave the series if they killed her character off.

[holmesxwatson]

The Television Sherlock Holmes by Peter Haining

[The Television Sherlock Holmes by Peter Haining, hardcover 1986.] (x)

I found a used, hardcover copy of this beautiful book with special thanks to one of the previous owners who lovingly wrapped it in a dustjacket, it's in really great shape! It's coffee-table size with lots of info on the history of Sherlock Holmes adaptations on stage, screen and tv, with tons of behind the scenes stuff on the Granada production. There's a foreward by Jeremy Brett and two afterwords by David Burke and Edward Hardwicke. It also includes a 15-page interview with Jeremy Brett that took place during the filming of an episode. Here's a pdf of the table of contents, in case you have your eye on a copy, but want to know what you're getting first. It looks like there were a few subsequent editions with different covers to coincide with later seasons as well.

Excerpt from the interview with Jeremy Brett included in The Television Sherlock Holmes:

"‘But the most important thing of all I discovered was the relationship with Watson. He wasn't the doddering plodder following behind as is so often shown. He had the compassion to stay with Holmes, picking him up. It is one of the great friendships of literature.’

Jeremy's understanding of this relationship undoubtedly started when he played Watson in 1981 in The Crucifer of Blood. ‘If you look at it from Watson's side, Holmes emerges as about the loneliest man in literature,’ he said.

‘Really, Watson is much more my kind of part than Holmes – Holmes is a big stretch. I don't like working alone. I'm not a one-man band, so when I took on Holmes I came to rely on Watson as much as I could without bending the willow.’

'Holmes is a very private man, a tragic genius. But Watson has his friends and his surgery. He's not a dull man, he's an ordinary, good man of great compassion, warmth and consideration. He's a gentleman. Everybody would like a friend like Watson.’

‘The relationship between them is terribly British. Holmes has a great deal of trouble saying such simple things as "Help!", “Thank you” and "I'd be lost without you". Watson sees beyond that. He's fascinated by Holmes and his intuitive leaps. And he realizes that if he stays away from Holmes for too long the man will overdose.’

'Yes, there is no doubt in my mind that it is Holmes who needs Watson and not the other way round. I didn't see any of that in the earlier films, nor did I see anything of the vulnerability of Holmes. So that's why I set out right from the beginning to show the insecurity and to explore the amazing friendship between those two men.'

Jeremy's evident understanding of both sides of this partnership helped me fit another piece into the jig-saw of how he has achieved his outstanding performance as Holmes. This also seemed like a suitable moment to discuss the two men who had partnered him as Watson, David Burke and Edward Hardwicke.

Jeremy's face broke into a smile at the mention of David Burke's name. 'We made a very good odd couple,' he chuckled throatily. 'Of course it was a terrific gamble that we would be able to work together, that we would see our parts in a compatible way. But in fact there was no cause to worry because we soon found we got on so well.’

‘David is debonair with an attractiveness about him that proved to be unusual and appealing in a Watson. That was a real bonus and helped to break the traditional mould,' Jeremy added.

Just as Jeremy's Holmes had thrown a whole new perspective on the detective, so David Burke's Watson had shattered the old image of the bumbling and rather comic doctor. How did he feel, though, when David decided against making The Return of Sherlock Holmes.

‘I was very sorry, naturally.' Jeremy stretched his lean frame further out from the chair and contemplated the fireplace. ‘But being an actor I quite understood. And if it had to happen, that was the right time between Holmes’ disappearance in The Final Problem and his reappearance three years later in The Empty House. Looking back, I think the change has been very useful.'

Jeremy closes his eyes for a moment as if selecting his next words carefully. ‘The thing is,’ he says after a pause, ‘if you work together with the same person it becomes almost like a marriage. However fresh you try to be on a day-to-day basis it becomes a known way. So for me the change of Watsons was like a breath of fresh air, a shot of adrenalin in the arm.’

Whether Jeremy had intended the pun or not, his face remains unchanged as he continues. ‘What happened was a chemical change – and it is a chemical change – of a new person adding a new element to the friendship. Remember that three years have passed since the two men last met, so things have happened to them both which enabled us to restart the friendship at a different angle.’

‘It was revitalizing for me, though not easy for Edward. But he is an immensely sensitive person and a brilliant actor so it really did not take us long to find our way into a new relationship.’

‘I have this feeling that The Return of Sherlock Holmes is better even than the first 13 stories. I can't quite tell you why that is – It is to do with some shift of emphasis, some confidence, some chemistry between Edward and me. But there is definitely something.'

Jeremy has clearly been re-charged not only by this change, but others that have taken place during the series. ‘You can so easily fall into a kind of complacency if things don't change,’ he went on. ‘It's something to do with the human animal. So I have enjoyed new directors, new actors in guest roles, even a new lighting cameraman or technician joining the team. On a long series you become terribly aware of new faces, but if you are trying to continue being creative then you need them, for each new face brings in new ideas. All the time the format is changing ever so slightly and that is terribly important, I think.’

I found Jeremy's examination of his art a fascinating insight into the man himself, and it seemed appropriate at that moment that he should be called to play another scene. He invited me to come and watch."

[sunskate]

VM show: ep 4 Scott's back injury, Skate Canada in St. John, Tessa photoshoot

this episode is upbeat, and they're getting along so well that you have to think a lot of the tension in the first 3 episodes wasn’t balanced in the big picture. either that or the upbeat part is exaggerated too😅

Tessa is doing a photoshoot that the show is pretending is in Canton whyyy? though it's in the VM tradition of telling unnecessary untruths and making things more complicated than they need to be😅💀

left is the show, right is from the house & home 2018 feature on her London house

T: i'm a very private person, and yet part of what we do is promote our brand and bring on sponsorships [...] you know, a little bit of that notoriety is great because it helps our career and helps the sport. i don't know what the future holds for me after skating, and i want my options open

she's always called herself private, but i think she's not so much that as self protective and wanting to feel in control of her image, because she's used a lot of personal stuff strategically in ads, sm, and media in general. using the word notoriety is odd? that's usually being famous for something negative, though in celebrity culture it can grant an air of interest or mystery - so does she actually mean it - she likes using their *thing* to draw people's interest? does notoriety relate to shipbaiting, or is it just a word she means without the negative connotation

what would come after skating was very close at the time. she clearly was interested in the "business side.” it's probably relatively easy compared to skating while using her performing skills and strategic brain with the gratification of feedback, pretty pictures, and a guaranteed $$ reward

VM had been driving themselves without a break from an unusually young age - late childhood, all of teenhood to age 24/26 was in a pressure cooker of sacrifice and severe discipline. but on top of that, she had pain - i don't think anyone but her can really understand what kind of grit it took to endure shattering pain and push through and deliver. to make her efforts not feel wasted and to feel she hadn't let herself, Scott, and others down. by 2014 she *had* to want the relief of being done and flying the cage? when you're in distress, it's hard to feel much except you want it gone. and she'd suffered that for years and two surgeries

so i think she can sound like she hated skating and wanted to push everything about it away, but maybe it's like if you're having an anxiety attack or feeling claustrophobic, the distress has to stop before you can feel much of anything else. and while she stopped skating, it sounded for a while like her legs didn't stop hurting even after

if you didn't keep her pain in mind, how she's talked about skating can feel kind of callous and like she didn't value it that much. i hope she's come to more peace about it for herself. and that Scott understands, because otherwise it seems like it would be hurtful to hear her talk that way?

another piece of all this is her father. she said in this interview that she had a "tumultuous" relationship with him and that she decided when she was 15 to be financially independent so there's a piece of 'i'll show you' about her wanting to go make her own money. he was still around at the time of this show as we'll see, but maybe not for long

all this out of a 43 second clip of an episode 😅

[still-a-morosexual-help]

Share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway.

@yourboyhack thank you for the tag!!! Also @ anyone who wants to join in :)

1. The Exposé

"So... why are we doing this again?"

Mephisto gives a sigh, dragging out his frustration from deep within his chest and letting it out in a rush of air. He's almost sure the human is doing it on purpose - he wouldn't put it past anyone from that family.

"For the fifth time," he says strained, eyeing the way they sit straightbacked on their chair, knees pressed together and hands on them. He has never seen them sit like that before, he's almost sure it's meant to be mocking. "The student body wants to know more about the exchange students. You - for some unknown reason - have caught a lot of eyes. And as RAD's primary source of news it's our duty - my duty - to expose you."

"Ex...pose?"

"Interview."

2. Friends in High Places (chapter 4)

The ceramic clinks as a steaming plate is placed in front of him.

Mammon's jaw clenches, hard enough that his teeth grind, and conscious effort must be put into opening his mouth so he can say to the pancakes, "I didn't order this."

"No," drawls an amused voice from across him and his not-ordered pancakes, "but you looked like you could use them. Comfort food, you know?"

Mammon whips his head up, snarling at the thing in front of him, with its big eyes and curling lips. "How the hell would you know," he hisses.

"Oh, Mammon," they pout, but are unable to keep up the image of hurt for long as their mouth once again stretches into a wide smile, "shouldn't I know everything about you? After all, we are fr–"

"Don't say that word," he snaps and watches how they stop even trying to hold back their delighted laughter, the distant chime of bells – melodious, sonorous, echoing that make his skin tingle.

3. Empty Spaces

He thinks he could fall in love with Eliza Ramskin.

He thinks of their warm, steady presence. An anchor in the whirlwind that is his life, slowly shattering around him. He thinks of them; cool and calm; always there to help; to listen to him; to slide a warm stack of pancakes in front of him. Stubborn and unwilling to wither under anyone's bullshit. Someone who knew exactly what they wanted and was determined to grasp it all within the palms of their hands. And what if they wanted him? What if they cradled him? Held him? Broke him? And lovingly put him back together? And yet. So, so adaptable. So accepting, that they have found a way to love something as overwhelming as a Sin. Then surely - surely – he wouldn't be too much?

He thinks. He thinks he could fall in love with Greed. With the creature that embodies the very concept of it.

Greed - Mammon - is loud and boisterous. And so painfully optimistic even when all the odds of the worlds are against him. A burning sun that could keep you warm and safe and sustained if you're careful; that could scorch your entire world, devour you whole if you aren't. A ball of energy, bright and fun and outgoing; a soothing bath after a long day, comforting and familiar and understanding. Sharp smiles and sharp eyes followed by cackling laughter and a veneer of arrogance so thin it was almost transparent. They had not got along when they first met. His own defensive, reserved personality rankled by Mammon's prickly outer edge. "He's soft, underneath it all," Eliza whispered that day. And he had been. Underneath it all, so very soft.

4. The Devil in Disguise

It crawls through this world.

Through the shadows casted.

Swift and yet so achingly slow.

And It watches them.

All of them.

Loud and quiet, squabbling and crying, the living and the dying.

And It watches and It breathes and It watches.

Like It has for millenia.

The walking, talking, breathing meat that covers this world.

It's grateful for them - for all humans - for the food and home their flesh provides for It.

And so It watches them, fondly.

And so It stalks them, hungrily.

Because when left to age they become so exquisite.

5. Under the Gentle Rains

His chest heaves from that too fast rush of adrenaline rather than from any real exhaustion.

A pant, pant, pant that makes his jaw clench even tighter around the human's throat. The crunch of bones and tearing sinew under his sharpened fangs, the rip of skin and flesh, the gush of blood when he rears his head back bringing with him a dripping chunck of the hunter's neck. The pitter patter of the gentle rain around them - him and his prey, now him and his meal - as he bends over the corpse, jaw working, shredding bones and flesh alike between his canines. Swallowing down and tonguing at his teeth, licking away the remnants of the sweet meat before diving down for another taste straight from the source.

6. Changing Seasons

Looking back, there are reasons he doesn't recognise the feeling clawing up from the pit of his stomach, threatening to choke him. Multiple reasons.

Envy, for one, had always been a troublesome emotion, always dragging other troublesome emotions - anger and bitterness and self pity - behind it. One too messy and complicated for him to bother dealing with.

Besides, being one of the youngest in the family, Belphie never really had many chances to feel envy. He wasn't like Levi or Mammon or even Asmo, he had always wanted for very little and he had always gotten what little he wanted for. Envy had never been his vice. Could you blame him for not recognising it when the first tendrils snaked out.

7. Tap on Wood (for fuck's sake)

Lucifer, for a lack of a better word, is shaking. He's also drinking (read: chugging) quite copious amounts of alcohol, decanter to mouth. He'd discarded of the crystal glasses (didn't meet the exact criterion for this current shit-pile of a situation) and there's no one here to judge him except-

His idiot brother (affectionate) was lounging on the chair across his study desk, looking mildly concerned (but not concerned enough for someone whose boot was currently on Lucifer's desk).

Lucifer continues to drink (read: chug) his demonus.

"It's," says Mammon after a beat of eye contact over the rim of the bottle, "not that bad?"

8. Speaking to Myself

The brothers visit Lilith.

They visit her and it's not a frequent thing but they do visit her.

9. New Friends

It's hard.

But he doesn't know what's harder.

His aching body, twisted to form something wholly new?

Or the gaping hole that Lilith left behind.

The searing anger of their newest family member.

Or Lucifer's suffocating self-hatred.

The screams of his little brothers as they jolt out of another nightmare.

Or the burning of his eyes as he sacrifices another night of sleep to stay vigilant by their sides.

The old-new-stronger urge for more, more, more.

Or the eternally dark skies and sneers of creatures he'd once mercilessly ploughed through.

It'll get better, he thinks. One day it'll get better. But today. Today it's hard.

10. Deadlines

Millions of years later, once humans have finally evolved from apes in trees to semi-functional beings that are able to question the many mysteries of the universe, they will say that God – be it the one guy or one of many depending on what human you asked – created soulmates.

Mammon, however, knew 'God' and knew for a fact that the guy had as little knowledge about the existence of soulmates as the average human. Mammon doubted his 'Father' even knew much about what exactly created the universe, the humans, the demons or even he himself. Mammon thought that maybe it was all created by whatever ancient, unstable magic that powered the universe and the three worlds. But. Well. He didn't know that. Not really. Not for a fact.

What he did know was that whoever or whatever it was had damned him to his fate the minute he was created.

[novankenn]

J/C - the Idols of Beacon

--==(Table of Contents) ==--

(Chapter One - the Beginning) Jaune was a nervous wreck. His breathing rushed, and his heart crashing against his rib cage. He was convinced this was it. That his dreams would be shattered... but deep inside he knew it was his just reward for his actions. Images of what his family would do, and echoes of what they would say, caused Jaune's legs to start shaking.

Cardin glowered, he wasn't not the least bit impressed at being called out by Professor Goodwitch. So what. He picked on other students, he was a equal opportunist when it came to tormenting people. Male, female. Human, faunus. It's didn't matter to him. If you couldn't stand up for yourself, then why were you even training to face grimm.

Professor Goodwitch hadn't specified why she had sent Jaune and Cardin to the Headmaster, she just called them out at the beginning of combat class and ordered them to the Headmaster's Office. the man of the hour sat in his chair behind his desk, studying the two young men.

"Mr Winchester. Mr Arc. I has been brought to my attention that both of you have been acting in ways that contravene what is expected of a trainee huntsmen or huntress in attendance here at Beacon." Ozpin leaned forward, clasping his hands before him, "Do either of you have anything to say in your defense?"

"Defense for what?" Cardin snorted. "I've done..."

"Blackmail is a serious offense Mr Winchester... one that requires expulsion, not to mention the nearly endless complaints about your negative behavior and blatant harassment of other students."

"If they can't stand up for themselves, they they can't stand up for people when they are..."

"Interesting sentiment, Mr Winchester, but you have readily showcased your complete lack of regard to values that a huntsman or huntress should ascribe to."

"Whatever. Kick me out. I can..."

"No you can't. Once you are expelled, you will be blacklisted, and thereby unable to seek any training through one of the Academies, though it possibly wouldn't prevent you from finding a licensed huntsman or huntress who could take you on as an apprentice."

"You..."

"We can, Mr. Winchester, and we will." Ozpin stated flatly. "Now Mr Arc..."

"With your permission, I'll go and pack my things." Jaune offered, knowing full well he had no defense for his crimes.

"Unfortunately, Mr Arc... your actions while commendable for your intentions... however are far from legal. You I am afraid will be facing criminal charges."

"But... but..."

"You purposefully used falsified documentations to gain admittance to what legally is a governmental facility. That is a crime." Ozpin informed the completely panicked young man.

Ozpin regarded both young men before him with a practiced eye. Taking a sip from his mug, he prepared to give his counter offer to the young gentlemen.

"Beacon currently has a public relations issue that requires addressing. You will probably be unaware of it, but it is there and it needs to be rectified."

"What's this have to do with us." Cardin growled.

"I have done some digging into both of your backgrounds, much further and more in depth than what we traditionally do for applicants to the huntsmen and Huntress programs." Ozpin let his words sink in, before continuing. "Both of you have... skills and talents that would be perfectly suited to the task I have in mind."

"Skills? Talents?" Jaune looked at the Headmaster with pure confusion. "You already know I'm a fraud... I have no..."

"On the contrary Mr Arc, you do have training, just not in combat. Twelve years of ballet, classical and contemporary dance training to be specific."

"What does that...? I don't understand."

"As for you... Mr Winchester..." Cardin's smirk was erased as soon as Ozpin started speaking to him. "You have about eight years of dance training, some vocal coaching, and musical instruction... for what six years?"

"How?"

"I have my ways. Now to be honest I saw potential in both of you, which is why I was being lenient in regard to your behaviors and actions... however you pushed the boundaries too far with Professor Goodwitch, and as such you are now... my problem."

"So... so what's going to happen to me?"

"You Mr Arc will be give a change to stay, and avoid prosecution, however it will NOT be in the huntsman/huntress program."

"My team?"

"Unfortunately as of this moment both you and Mr Winchester are no longer team leaders, or even members of any team."

"You can't!" Cardin growled.

"I assure you I can, and have." Ozpin responded to Cardin's outburst with a flat voice and stern look. "So here is the offer, you will sign a contract with Beacon and join our Public Relations initiative, for a term of four years less the time you have already been enrolled as a students."

"And if we don't?"

"Yo, Mr Arc will face criminal prosecution, and Mr Winchester will be black listed and expelled." Ozpin picked up two almost book thick stacks of paper and placed one before each of them. "This is the agreement. Please read it. Ask questions if you have them. If you wish we can provide access to legal representation, and if you accep..."

"Do you have a pen?" Jaune asked.

"Aren't you even going to read it?" Cardin asked a little shocked at Jaune's rather uncharacteristic decisive action.

"Why? I agree or I possibly end up in jail. I'm too pretty to be in jail... I'd end up becoming someone's wife!" Jaune replied, before taking the pen Ozpin offered him.

"Please sign on the indicates lines on the first and last pages, and initial the bottom right hand corner of all other pages." Ozpin turned his gaze to Cardin. "So Mr Winchester will you at least consider the offer, or should I arrange for security to escort you and your possessions from Beacon's grounds?"

"This straight up coercion." Cardin commented as he idly flipped the pages of the document. "It's no better than blackmailing us. We either agree or we get punished... not much of a choice, especially for Jauney-boy."

"I don't care." Jaune countered, "It's like a plea deal. I do something for them, they do something for me, and if it keeps me from having forced prostate exams... all the better."

"Still..."

"You are correct Mr Winchester, this is very similar to, no it is exactly that... but it is also much like Mr Arc has described. It's a plea deal. You are admitting your mistakes, and we are taking the action NOT to punish you to full extent we are capable of."

"I'm still..."

"You can take some time to review the document... but I do need an answer before Friday."

"So two days?"

"Unfortunately, yes. With the Vytal festival being hosted by Vale, and the recent dust robberies... I have other constraints on my valuable time... your situation is not as pressing or as complex so... short deadline."

"Don't know why you're not signing." Jaune commented. "I mean it's not like they're going to more from us."

"Keep your advice to yourself Arc."

"Whatever."

"I can provide temporary lodgings for you while you consider your decision, Mr Winchester." Ozpin informed the burly young man.

"Fuck it. Give me that pen." Cardin scanned the documents sporadically as he went through the required actions. Once done he tossed the pen down on the desk and crossed his arms over his broad chest. "Signed. Now what?"

[llondonfog]

lettie, im not sure if youve seen this artwork around twitter since its popular rn imo but regardless??? I GOTTA SHARE BECAUSE THIS IMAGE HAS BEEN **HAUNTING** ME (NO JOKE)

https://twitter.com/bunbunspoils/status /1678375905792786432?s=20

https://twitter.com/bunbunspoils/status /1678375905792786432?s=20

that twitter thread who also explained the symbolism around that art is just *chef kiss* AND ALSO PAIN....

as if SILVERS DISTRAUGHT EXPRESSION WASNT ENOUGH IMPACT-

The clock hand acting as like a guillotine to lilia who just couldnt careless if time will just inevitably kill him- SILVERS DESPERATE HOLD ON HIS WEAK FRAME PLS IM SO DEVASTATED ABOUT THAT‼️💔‼️💔🥲

malleus' finger stopping the clock hand but silver is hesitantly pushing it away AND PLS QUOTING THE THREAD??? "hes distraught his father is dying but understands that the clock needs to move"

IM CRYING BECAUSE WHEN HE ENCOUNTERED THE LILIA ON SEBEKS DREAM SILVER SAID SOMETING LIKE " If (staying in Briar Valley) was what you truly wished for, then I wouldnt mind spending the remaining days with you!" 🥲😭🥲😭😭😭

the composition!!!! THE CONCEPT???? the storytelling!!!!! JUSTA GRJAJDJQJD!!!! i wish i can word how much emotions this has been giving me but all the best i can do is just keysmashes !!!! !!!!!❤❤❤

LIAN I FEEL SO DUMB, YOU SOLVED SUCH A BASIC MYSTERY FOR ME 🥲

so i got sent that piece of fanart from several sources and of course it tore my heart out, BUT I NEVER PUT IT TOGETHER THAT IT WAS A CLOCK HAND WHICH SEEMS SO OBVIOUS NOW???? AND IT'S EVEN WORSE????

the tortured expression that the artist gave silver is EXQUISITE— the raw desperation of holding on to his father and yet at the same time, the selflessness of understanding that he cannot stop the inevitable? like can we just take a MINUTE to unpack this because i don't care how often we do, it never fails to render me utterly speechless with awe.

lilia is silver's only living family member that we know of at this point in time. he is the one who raised him, shaped him into the compassionate and loyal young man that he is, who wishes for nothing more than to carry out his father's desire for peace among fae and humans. we know that silver has already experienced one crisis of faith about their family of two when he was younger once he realized that lilia was not his father by blood, and overcame it with the understanding that regardless of their circumstances, lilia truly loves him as if he were his one and only son. silver has already proven as well that he has grown up so sheltered away from briar valley society, with only the zigvolts and malleus on the occasions that he could visit for company. lilia is his cornerstone— he is both the bread and the wine at the childhood altar where silver learned devotion through patience and unconditional love.

and yet, despite being rocked to his core and foundation shattered by lilia's announcement of his fast-approaching demise and departure, silver is the one to yield and let him go? silver, the one who has the most right of them all to rage and despair at lilia for how he sprung this news on them and how cruelly he carried out his departure, is once again, his father's greatest supporter? that he would go up against malleus, their prince, someone he has sworn to defend, in a hopeless battle that he must know he can never truly win in terms of magical ability alone, all to allow his wretched, selfish father the choice to leave their side as he so desires to lick his wounds in relative anonymity for the rest of his dimming days?

all lilia had ever known through his long, tragic life has been the human capacity for callousness; is it any wonder that he would be floored to realize his own son's boundless capacity for love?

[authorchase]

Mirror Scene

So uh, I wrote the mirror scene. Leave me alone, this scene is still golden in-game.

Valdon is checking on everyone in the camp and can see them talking to each other. Wyll, Karlach, and Shadowheart are laughing at something ridiculous while Gale and Lae'zel share knowledge about their own studies. Valdon smiles as he sees everyone getting along, other than the tension between Lae’zel and Shadowheart. However, there is one man who is not with the others. Astarion is looking at a mirror with a look of mourning as Valdon approaches.

"Looking at something?" Astarion asks, surprising Valdon. How did the vampire notice his approach?

"Um…just looking" Valdon stutters, not knowing exactly what to say. Astarion sighs sadly as he sees the sorcerer flustered, but not his own image.

"I am too, though not seeing much" Astarion sighs as he turns to face Valdon. "I haven't even seen this face. Not since my teeth grew fangs and my eyes turned red. It is a consequence to my….affliction" Astarion complains, as he looks at the mirror in sorrow. Astarion is being rarely open to Valdon and they both don't know why. It's almost as if they understand each other in some way.

"What was your eye color before?" Valdon asks, trying to paint a picture of Astarion's past. Astarion looks shocked at the question, then sorrowful.

"I…I can't remember. All of my past before I became a vampire is vague at best. It is another thing Cazador took away from me" Astarion sighs. The vampire growls as he suddenly throws the mirror to the ground, the glass shattering around the grass. Valdon feels he needs to do something to comfort the vampire, knowing how fickle memories can be.

"I can be your mirror" Valdon admits as he begins to memorize every detail of Astarion's face.

"What?" Astarion gasps surprised. No one has ever done this for him before.

"I can be your mirror" Valdon repeats with conviction as he continues to memorize the vampire's face. Astarion looks rather vulnerable as he considers Valdon's offer as if it is a trap.

"Alright, what do you see when you look at me? What would others see?" Astarion asks gently as he does a twirl around. Valdon snickers as Astarion twirls, but gets back to business.

"I see your piercing ruby eyes. They pierce our enemies' hearts and strike fear. But at the same time, they smile as we are traveling in the sunlight" Valdon explains, feeling strangely poetic. Has he done this with someone else before?

"Oh? Go on" Astarion blushes with a gentle look, surprisingly liking the attention. He has never been sappy, but for some reason, Valdon's words strike him.

“You have a striking smile, especially when you reveal your fangs. Anyone who learns to fear them is foolish to think so, I think. The power behind that smile is rather addicting” Valdon continues.

"Good. Now just tell me I’m beautiful and we can call it a day" Astarion says, suddenly embarrassed. Valdon smirks as this game is coming to an end.

"You're beautiful" Valdon admits, not sure if he is pretending or not. Astarion sighs and runs his hand through his hair.

"I may not be able to see myself, but to look through someone else's eyes. Well, I could do worse" Astarion admits, genuinely surprised about this encounter. They both don't know what to think as the other keeps each other company. Scratch soon joins them and Astarion starts acting dramatic again when the dog asks him for cuddles. Valdon finds amusement in the situation and pets the goodest boy of the realm as the vampire continues his dramatics.

[myristicisms]

Cont.

W/ @phantasiiae | Sephiroth

There are times where there's no telling how he's perceived by those around him, something that always bothered Genesis because while he's become great at reading body language and reading into the way he's spoken both to and of, that didn't mean it was fully accurate and he'd hated being left wondering if those who looked up to him knew what sort of man the crimson mage was; Bitter and angry, full of so much spite from years of neglect and trying so hard to be looked upon with the same awe as his companions, Genesis was just a pretty face amongst incredible warriors and beneath that pretty face was a beast that bore its fangs to anyone who dared test him. It's an idle thought he has, mindless in the way he speaks it and before he realizes he's spoken it he sees that curious look and wants to curl in on himself. ( How would I define good..? )

Eyes briefly flicker to the new point of contact, fingers twitching for a second before the tenseness in his features melts away into confusion, he feels like a child and yet it's still a soothing gesture. “ Just... Getting lost within my own mind again I fear, I've continued to come to realize that nobody really understands me the same way you and 'Geal do and it's... It's made me wonder if those adoring gazes I get from the lower ranks and the citizens of Midgar would still be present if they knew how ill tempered I really am. ” Or how easily perturbed he could get over the smallest things, how his bite is just as painful as his bark and how vicious the man can be within his own mind.

His tongue darts out for a moment, wets his lips despite knowing he'll be fussing over needing to be extra thorough in moisturizing them when it's time to turn in for the night before offering a gentle smile to Sephiroth. “ I appreciate you more than you'll ever know, dear friend. I suppose I'm just worrying over foolish things that I can't control and you know how quickly that spirals within my head. ” Such as the fact that some day Sephiroth and Angeal too might grow tired of him, of dealing with the auburn haired man's dramatics despite how they constantly reassured him that they understood him well enough.

“ Like... Sometimes I worry whenever we're out in public that the mask will slip and they'll all see me for what I am or perhaps I'll be to dinner and something won't work well with my pallet and then that image of perfection and charisma will be shattered and I'll have nothing, I'll be nothing because I'm not who I pretend to be. I feel as though I'm a liar and that's why I don't believe I'm a good person. ”