#words cannot convey the rage I feel

[dissociyboi]

you go to the ER for excruciating nerve pain. you say my whole body feels like it's on fire. they take one look at you and say well you're clearly not on fire. they write you a prescription for anxiety and send you home

#words cannot convey the rage I feel #this isn't a one-to-one scenario but everyone knows what I'm talking about #chronic illness #mental illness #spoonie #psychosomatic #chronic pain #disability #disabled #ableism #medical trauma #medical neglect

[azsazz]

Lavender Haze

Rhysand x Rhysand's Sister's Best Friend/Virgin!Reader

Summary: Having a crush on your best friends older brother isn't ideal. Especially when he has one back.

Warnings: Flirting, sexual taunting and begging.

Word Count: 3,065

Belongs to the timeline and predates Clandestine Love

_________________________________________

“Where’s Ara?” you ask your dinner mate as Einar places a steaming dish before you. The savory scents of the herbs he used on the fresh meat fill your senses, and your mouth waters at its deliciousness. Vegetables swim in a thick cream sauce that looks all too delectable, and the mound of cut potatoes doused in flavor has your jaw tingling. You simply cannot wait to dig in, only able to keep yourself from diving straight into your dinner as the family cook replenishes your half drank glass of sparkling fae wine. “Thank you, Einar.”

The chef dips his head in response then spins on his heel, quickly leaving the room. A bite of guilt pinches your stomach as you watch the green-skinned, normally bright-eyed fae stalk back to the kitchen to prepare dessert. It’s not like Rhysand is that much like his father. While his personality and aura tend to lean to the more arrogant side, it’s usually attributed to the fact that he is a young, confident male, eager to bask in all of the indulgences son of the High Lord is offered.

Said male sita across from you, pinning you to your seat with searing violet eyes. His spine is rigid and his fingers are curled tightly around his utensils as he watches your gaze follow the chef scurrying from the room.

He wants to fire him, no matter how delicious his food is.

Rhysand doesn’t have a right to feel this way. He doesn’t like the rage that coils his stomach, that lights his bones on fire when your soft eyes meet those of any other male in the court. Ever since you’d worked up the courage to kiss him all those months ago, it had ignited something inside of him even he couldn’t seem to make sense of. He shouldn’t be feeling this conflicted over his little sister's best friend of all people, but even he couldn’t ignore your otherworldly beauty, the musical laughter he always ached to hear, feel those gorgeous eyes roaming down his body while you thought his attention was elsewhere. 

The following months after that fateful night had been spent in the Illyrian camps, avoiding you. He’d tried occupying his mind with training or drinking with Azriel and Cassian until he couldn’t remember what it felt like to have your lips pressed against his own, your breasts pressed against his chest, and your scent burrowing so deeply into his soul he might never forget it. 

You couldn’t be drowned by any female nor male he fell into bed with since. Rhys, as sick as it might be to admit it, had resorted to imagingin his partners were you when he couldn’t seem to get off. Horrible, he knows, but you’ve planted that seed and his feelings are an overgrown slew of vines, constricting his inner being.

And now you’re here, across from him. And he’s here, alone with you. And Ara is not here like she should be and his mother isn’t here to form a buffer and his father is away doing Mother knows what and Cassian and Azriel aren’t here to tell him how horrible this idea is, or how if he’d only fuck you it would get these feelings out of his system, at least, the former of the two would say.

Rhysand is in a dangerous situation right now.

He forces his body to relax, slumping back in his seat with the vanity only the prince of Night can convey. Masking his face into something a little more open—a little more nice—he stalls, cutting into the meat on his own plate. Blood spurts as he takes his knife to it, and Rhysand has to force himself from imagining it to be a certain chef's blood instead. “Mother whisked her into the city for dinner.”

“So it’s only you and I?” you blush, stabbing a potato with your fork. It has been so long since you’d last seen Rhysand, and it seems the few months he’s been away have made him even more handsome than you remember, even if his skin looks a little paler from the blistering winters in the mountains and the drink he hasn’t let up on since.

“It seems so,” Rhys answers, chewing.

“And no one else,” you murmur, almost breathless as your heart begins to race in your chest at the thought of what you and him could be getting into all alone, if he hadn’t decided to run from you. 

Rhysand quirks a brow, looking down the table as if looking for someone else, and replies, “How did you come to that conclusion?”

Rolling your eyes, you mutter, “Asshole,” under your breath, and Rhys fails to bite back his smirk. Both of you fall silent as you eat, only the sounds of your hammering heart and utensils filling the void in the luxurious dining room. You’re not sure how the family doesn't feel lonely like this, eating at the table built for an army. You can’t even hear Einar shuffling about in the kitchen, no clanging of pans or low curses if he creates something his perfectionist self doesn’t deem a ‘creation of the Gods.’

You can’t help but to glance at Rhysand, drinking in the sight of him. His straight nose, the curve of his cupid’s bow as he places a spoonful of vegetables and cream sauce in his mouth. His thick lashes are dark, so dark it looks like he’s let Ara around him with some of her kohl again. They’re long as well, brushing the apples of his cheeks when he looks down at his plate, and you’re envious of them.

Too long you’ve gone without seeing him. The most dramatic male you’ve ever set your sights on, running from you after you’d finally worked up the courage after months of pining to kiss him. It was after Ara had fallen asleep and you found yourself on the balcony, gazing up at the stars, his company warm and welcoming.

It had been everything to you then, the confidence you felt, the rush of adrenaline as you caught him off guard, the feel of his lips against yours, soft still, even if they were wind-chapped from the long flight. He hadn’t reacted, you hadn’t given him the time to, yanking yourself back just as quickly as you leaned in and running off to Araphel’s room, your mind screaming at you that it had been a horrible idea.

But you couldn’t ignore the emotions spilled between the both of you, the times where his hand had brushed yours or his touch lingered too long when he’d muse your hair, stroking the shell of your ear. You couldn’t ignore the heated looks Rhys shot you every time you spoke to another male, nor the way he always found an excuse to interrupt you, guiding you away from them with a large hand on the small of your back.

And maybe it was your silly little heart for wanting him. For crushing on your best friend's older brother who exudes confidence and can have any female in the court he wants. Any female on the continent, even.

The silence is damning, though, and you wish you could be how you were the night you’d kissed him, sanguine and bright with the idea that this could be your true love's first kiss. Of course, the fleeting press of his lips was enough to solidify many things for you, but you’d been unsure about Rhysand’s feelings on the matter, and by the time you’d found the courage to talk to him about what had happened, he’d already fled back to the mountains.

You’d kissed plenty of males since then, dragging Ara for nights out at Rita’s because Rhysand and his friends always raved about it. A part of you thought that he might walk in and see you in another male's arms, tear you away like the warrior-prince he is, but sadly, it hadn’t happened. 

And you have to say that you’re more than a little confused. He’d been blatantly glaring at Einar while the chef served your food. Had he heard about the kiss you shared with the young chef when Donan hadn’t allowed Araphel permission to go out one night and you spent it with the staff the High Lord kept around the house? It was all for a silly drinking game, but the green-skinned fae’s cheeks had been bright pink after the both of you stumbled back from the pantry, lips bruised and eyes shining bright with liquor. Maybe he had overheard some of the handmaiden's gossipping about it after all these weeks? Or maybe, the darkness always knows.

Now, the both of you are here, alone, staring at each other over the delectable meals prepared by the chef you’ve tasted once before. It hadn’t been anything like the peck you’d shared with Rhysand. In that millisecond of the brushing of your lips your world had shifted, body set alight with shooting stars and setting free the wild butterflies in your stomach. 

He has that glint in his eyes, the same one he always gets when he’s watching you, the one that heats your very core. And as you chew the potatoes in your mouth, you muster that confidence into yourself once more.

You will it into the marrow of your bones, rolling your shoulders as you prepare yourself to get exactly what you want. If there is no one here to interrupt, then the stage is set.

“Whoops,” you feign, allowing a drip of cream sauce to slip off the end of your utensil on the way to your mouth. It lands on the bare skin between the plunging fabric of your dress, and you catch Rhysand tracking the movement as you reach for your napkin to dab at your skin. “Spilled a little.”

Rhysnad hums, “You should be more careful, darling. Wouldn’t want to ruin that pretty dress of yours, now would you?”

“No,” you agree, ever the dream of poised elegance. You pop a vegetable into your mouth, chewing for a moment, before continuing. “I wouldn’t want to ruin my dress at all. But, if it’s meant to be, I can always have another one made.”

In that moment, you know you’ve got him. The stars in his violet eyes wink out as darkness settles in, pinning you to your chair. His look sends a shiver up your spine and you know that he is no longer hungry for the food plated before him.

Rhysand flares his wings a little and bites back a curse. For too long he’s been living at the Illyrian camps. There’s no one here he has to compete with for your attention, no one he needs to show off his wingspan to, though, by the way that your half-lidded eyes trace across the membranous skin of them, perhaps he’ll flare them wide when you’re beneath him.

It’s a line that he hasn’t crossed with you yet, one that he promised himself that he wouldn’t. You’re his little sister’s best friend for Mother’s sake, not just another female simpering after him because of his familial ties. You’re…much more than that, and he shouldn’t be thinking about crawling across this fucking table and licking that cream off of your chest and burying his head between your breasts.

“Meant to be,” he echoes, and you hum, tilting your head back with the motion. The exposed skin of your neck calls to him, even more so when you swipe a finger, capturing the sauce and popping it into your mouth to suck on. Your cheeks hollow exaggeratedly, and his cock strains painfully in his pants. He growls your name, a tenor of darkness that curls through your body like the icey patches of snow on the way into the city.

“What was that Rhys?” you ask, batting your eyelashes now. The meal in front of you is long forgotten, your hunger for this male insatiable. The way Rhysand makes you feel, despite only sharing a whisper of a kiss, well, you think you could be mates someday. “Did you need something?”

“I need you to stop doing that before I come over there and make you stop myself.”

You moan a little, legs falling wide under the table. “I think I might like that, though.” 

Rhysand’s nostrils flare as he drinks in the scent of your arousal, thick between your thighs.

“You’re supposed to be a Lady, darling. Who taught you to speak like that?” he purrs, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against the table. You know that he’s only doing it to try and dispel the tension leaking from his body. You can scent it in the air, the raw, heady smell of him that threatens to send you right to your knees.

“You,” you moan in response. You can feel him creeping into your mind, watching. Waiting.

“And you always listen to your superiors, don’t you, darling?”

“Yes,” you hiss, squirming in your seat as those black claws of his rake gently across your mind. Your fingers curl around the arms of your chair, your spine arching at the soft caress. “Rhys, please…I need you to touch me.” 

It’s a simple request, one he’s always indulged you in.

In a moment he’s gone from his chair only to appear behind you, winnowing far faster than stalking around the edge of the table to reach your seat.

He looms over you like a touch of darkness crowding you in, and you revel in it. The hue of his eyes is a dangerous violet, set with lightning striking in the distance instead of stars. It lights you up, your breath turning faster, the beating of your heart thunderous in the silence of the dining room. 

You can see the war in his eyes when you tilt your head back, resting it on the back of your chair. You press your breasts out a little, and watch with rapt attention as his eyes flicker down the front of your dress before he rips them away, the line of his mouth tightening at your hidden tease of a smile.

In your head, late at night, you’ve touched him; a hand around his silky, long cock, mouth pressed to his desperately, too. He’s tasted your slick on his tongue, reveled in it, hardly able to hold himself back from crawling up your body and fucking you how he wanted.

But you’ve never had sex before, and as much as you want to, as much as you’ve tried, Rhysand has been holding back.

Maybe it’s because he’s nervous to cross that line with you. You’re his little sisters best friend for fucks sake, and he’s going to be High Lord someday. Sure, he’s slowly making his way through the camp girls, trying not to grunt your name when he fucks into them, because you’re never far from his mind. 

Maybe it’s because he’s scared, if his sister or father ever found out. Araphel might be happy for the both of you. It’s a thought he has less often than the opposite, if she’s upset that he’s stealing one of her only true friends, and he doesn’t want that. 

Maybe he’s afraid he won’t be able to hold himself back.

Your name is a growl on his lips. A warning, one you don’t have it in you to heed. So you go with your next best idea, taunting.

“I guess I’ll have to drag Ara down to the city when she gets back then,” you say with a sad sigh. You pick up your fork and force your eyes from Rhysand’s burning ones. You shrug a little, spearing vegetables with your fork. “Fuck whatever male I come across there.”

Rhysand is hardly able to hold himself back from baring his teeth. He won’t allow that, ever.

You can feel the tension roiling in his body as he stands at your back, his food long forgotten. You’re not faring much better with the ache pulsing between your legs and the dinner that’s turned to mush in your mouth. 

“I’ll turn any male that touches you to mist.”

“Are you planning on doing that to yourself, too?” you quirk a brow as you glance his way, faking your disinterest despite the way that your core goes molten at his words. 

Rhysands eyes darken in response, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

Your words are working, you can see it in the way that he holds himself back, body nearly shaking at every thought you’re planting in his mind. You know he’s on the verge of cracking, that he wants this just as badly as you do, so you continue.

“What if I told you that I wasn’t a virgin anymore. Would you fuck me then, Rhysand?” 

“What?” His voice takes on a dark tone, the stars winking out from his eyes.

“If I told you that chef Einar was the one to do it, to bend me over his worktop and fuck me, what would you say then, Rhys?” 

“I’d say you’re a liar. And that I’ll kill him either way.”

“If I spread my legs for him just like this,” you continue, leaning back in your seat and opening your thighs wide. His fingers ball into fists but he doesn’t move from his spot, still planted behind you, trying his best to ignore the way your scent hits him like a sword to the gut. “And let his hands roam down my body just like this—” You startle at the loud sound coming from the kitchen, pots falling to the floor in succession. It makes your hands that you’re dragging down your body falter, and before you can continue, your wrists are pinned in Rhysand’s harsh grip, his breath heavy against your throat.

“You should be very, very careful about what you’re going to say next, darling,” his growl sends your bones rattling, shivers wracking your spine. You wish it weren’t the harsh wood at your back but instead his warm body, holding you tight. 

“I want you to fuck me, Rhys,” you gasp, and it sounds like a desperate mewl. “I need you to fuck me.” 

Rhysand’s mouth is a whisper against your skin, a brand of night.

“If I’m going to fuck you, darling,” he purrs and your insides melt. “Everyone is going to know it.”

#rhysand x reader #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #rhys x reader #rhysand #rhys acotar #a court of thorns and roses

[sicutpuella]

Misery Loves Company. (18+)

Simon Riley, the Lieutenant... is a lonely man, his existence shrouded in a cloak of solitude as harsh as a brutal winter. The closest definition he has to a friend, has succumbed to death after a mission gone horribly wrong.

There are no living family members to confide in or visit during his deployment breaks—no home to return to. It is pathetic, truly; a lieutenant of the special forces, his wallet brimming with wealth, his bank accounts similarly bloated. Yet, he finds no comfort in material possessions. He has never been a large spender. He prefers the minimalistic; purchasing only what he needs.

“You should try it. You won’t regret it, sir,” says a cheeky, younger sergeant, smiling as he passes by Simon; his hands nonchalantly tucked in his pockets. Simon is already familiar with the suggestion.

Perhaps it would help; perhaps it wouldn’t. But it feels—pathetic—to hire a woman solely for emotional company.

He's done it now. For weeks. With the same woman.

She’s kind enough. Kind enough to take care of a pathetic, desperate, lonely man like him.

He pays her well, of course. It’s not as if he’s a man without resources. The lieutenant’s wallet bulges with a hefty stack of pounds, after all. He wouldn’t have hired her otherwise. He’s not a man of charity. There are no women like her waiting in his apartment on the other side of the base. Instead, there is a cold, empty dwelling; the furniture a few pieces of bare essentials, sparsely scattered about. He’s not a man who enjoys frivolous decorations. He pays her to act like a girlfriend, to pretend she cares for him.

“Have a decent day today!” she texts him every day, without fail.

And he knows the kindness is fake. They are words; nothing more. There is no feeling behind them, no meaning. He is not so naïve to think otherwise. She only cares because he is paying her; because he is the customer. That is all. There is nothing else to it.

“I’m off to class today. Hope you have had your breakfast already! 🤍🤍🤍!" She signs off with that. Always with a heart that follows her every message. A silly little emoji to convey affection. It is a gesture that only serves to further grate his nerves.

The lieutenant lets the phone buzz for a few more seconds, the constant ringing loud in the solitude that is his office. He pays no mind.

With a resigned sigh, he finally picks up the phone, his eyes quickly skimming through the text on the screen. He does reply this time. A simple “okay” is all he types. He doesn’t want to get attached.

That’s always his fucking fault. He’s too… paranoid. Distrustful.

He has never been close to anyone in his life. He cannot remember the last time he called anyone a true friend, save for Johnny, or the last time he allowed himself to be open to a relationship. No girlfriend. Not now, or ever before. A man like him can never afford to have something holding him down, not when what he does is too dangerous.

It is why he has been in this miserable arrangement. He cannot afford the emotions that come with a real relationship. What he has now is fine. What he does now is a simple transaction—nothing more and nothing less. But.

He needs something more. He hopes she could be… well… understanding enough.

He knows she doesn’t do sex for pay. But he hopes a few thousand pounds could sway her.

It's been a long time.

It is a desperate attempt. His body has its needs; his hormones raging from all the pent-up sexual aggression. He has been on back-to-back missions since the beginning of the year, with no downtime to relieve himself.

A few thousand pounds is nothing to him. He can afford it. He has the money to spend.

“I have an offer," he pauses, "I'll give you double your usual rate if you let me fuck you," he types, his fingers gliding across the keyboard with a cold precision.

A momentary pause lingers, and a flicker of hesitation crosses his mind. He feels a twinge of foolishness, but it quickly dissipates. Guilt is a foreign concept to him.

She hesitates, unsure of how to respond. The coldness of the situation sends a chill down her spine.

"Uh... what exact number?" she manages to type, her uncertainty palpable.

"5000 pounds," he confidently replies, his fingers dancing across the keys without a hint of hesitation. It means nothing. 5000 pounds. He can’t remember the last he spent on anything that expensive. It is pathetic; to be reduced to such a lowly beast by needs of the flesh; when he can simply relieve himself in the showers like he usually does.

The lieutenant bites his bottom lip. It is an insane gesture. He is crazy to even be willing to spend that much on such a thing..

"I'm not experienced. I'm not a skilled... professional in that regard," she confesses, her texts laced with vulnerability.

“What do you know, then?”

How many men has she been with in the past? His jaw tenses as he waits for her reply. The lieutenant does not know why he feels this sudden bout of jealousy; this sudden sense of possessiveness.

“The basics…”

“What’s the most you’ve done?” The lieutenant is tempted to add that he’s not a gentle man in the bedroom; that he wouldn’t be able to hold back on her if they were to get intimate. But. She would probably think he's insane.

“The usual. Vaginal. Hand and mouth stuff. But… I did it last 2 years ago.”

He is relieved to hear she has not had sex in a long while. His fists are clenched on the table. He hopes it wasn’t with anyone she was in a relationship with. And he’d prefer it if her past partners were nobodies; random men she’d met during a quick night out.

But that’s not the lieutenant’s business, anyway. They are not dating.

“I am… not a gentle man, darling.” He presses send; his fingers hesitating as he waits for her reply. He can feel the muscles on his shoulders tensing.

“It’s fine with me…” She was shitting bricks at the moment.

“Come to the hotel after your class.” He adds.

Now, she finds herself in the dimly lit confines of the hotel bedroom, the air heavy. Tension hangs in the atmosphere, as if the very room itself holds its breath. Her naked form lies before him, vulnerable and exposed.

It's a cheap hotel room, the one they frequent. The kind soldiers use on their leave-out days when they get too frisky with their hired company. The bed is old and creaks with every slight movement, its springs and mattress squeaky and worn. The carpet, once plush, is now threadbare and stained, bearing the marks of countless forgotten nights.

It is an insane gesture. The lieutenant can’t remember the last time he had someone like this in his bed. The last time he got out of a long dry spell. What he has with her is a contract; a business transaction. This is not love. There is no love between them. The lieutenant does not know why he even feels a little guilty. But. He quickly pushes the thoughts away. No need for them.

She nervously toys with her lower lip, her gaze locked on him as he slowly undresses.

He is large. His shoulders are broad and thick. His hands, capable of ripping a man’s head off bare handed. He’s not the gentle type. Or the tender type. He’s far from that.

He is all muscle. And it is obvious he works out. His body is all solid muscle; his body littered with old scars and new bruises from past missions.

“Can… can you be careful at first?”

He nods. “I’ll be careful,” he says. He doesn’t know why he’s going so gentle with her. He doesn’t know why he’s even indulging her now, considering how much he’s paid her to have her tonight. But he cannot stop.

It’s awkward. He is a stranger to her. They are not close like a boyfriend and girlfriend. He doesn't know her—or how much she has let other men do to her.

But it feels like she’s known him for a long time. Maybe it’s the way this connection between them is mutual; how they are both desperate for each other in this twisted little way.

Maybe it’s the thrill of it. The cheapness of it… the fact that they’re strangers doing this to each other. The way the bed creaks under their weight.

She feels his length between her legs, a moment of anticipation that hangs heavy in the air. With closed eyes, she surrenders herself to the sensations, her breath hitching in response. He isn't known for his gentle touch, not even with women. The coldness of his demeanor is unwavering, yet there's a nagging feeling deep within him that defies reason.

She is a stranger, an enigma to him. To treat her as if she were the love of his life would be absurd, and yet, a strange sense of protectiveness tugs at his heart. It compels him to take care of her, to protect her in this moment of vulnerability. Her hands grip the bedsheets tightly, her head tilting back, exposing her delicate neck.

"Relax," he whispers quietly, his voice barely audible. His eyes remain fixed on her, absorbing every detail, every reaction. She appears so small beneath him, a precious creature in his eyes. Her beauty captivates him, fueling his desire to possess her.

"Yeah… I will," she responds, her voice laced with a mix of anticipation and a hint of discomfort. Her body tenses as he slowly enters her, stretching her to accommodate his eager cock. A whispered praise escapes his lips, his grip on her wrists firm as he locks them together, pinning them above her head. His fingers coil around her slender wrists, exerting his dominance. His free hand reaches up, gently brushing strands of hair behind her ear, a tender gesture in contrast to the intensity of their exchange.

Soft cries escape her lips, a symphony of pleasure and surrender. He revels in the tightness that surrounds him, relishing in the sensation of her warmth engulfing him. His lips graze the sensitive skin of her ear, his voice a low rasp against her flesh. "You're so tight around me, darling," he murmurs, his breath tickling her. He buries his face in the curve of her neck, his teeth applying a gentle pressure, marking her as his own.

She sinks her teeth into her lip, the force causing it to split, mingling the taste of metallic blood with the thick, heady air. Every twitch, every subtle movement of her body, sparks a surge of tension coursing through his veins.

"Fuck... you feel so damn incredible, darling," he grunts, his voice dripping with a frigid intensity.

He tucks her legs up to her chest, exposing her throbbing cunt to his hungry gaze. With a primal instinct, he plunges his thick cock deeper inside her, feeling a hitch in his breath as the sensation overwhelms him. It's been far too long since he's felt this level of pleasure, and it ignites a fire within him.

"Sweet lord..." he whispers, his voice laced with a mixture of awe and dark desire. He releases her wrists, wrapping his arms around her petite form, pulling her closer against him.

She curls her fists, her knuckles turning white as she punches the mattress in response to the powerful intrusion. Her body trembles under the force of his relentless thrusts, each one pushing her closer to the edge of ecstasy. The vulgar bulge on her small tummy, sends a shiver of arousal down his spine.

And he should feel shame. He should feel disgusted at the obscene, vulgar display they both have going on right now, the way they’ve lost total control over their senses and instincts, their bodies lost in pleasure and passion.

But he does not feel shame. After making them both come undone, they lay spent on the creaky mattress. The lieutenant stares up at the ceiling, a strange sense of clarity washing over him. He glances at her. She is curled up to his side, her breath still rapid and erratic. She turns her back to him.

She feels dirty. Disgusting. He doesn't know why he feels a sting as he watches her turn away. The lieutenant watches her silently, feeling a protective instinct resurface. The overwhelming desire to reach out and wrap his arms around her, to pull her closer.

She lays there in shock.

She told herself this would never, ever happen. He doesn’t know why he feels such a strong desire to tell her it’s okay, that it’s going to be alright. He tells himself he does not know her, does not feel anything for her. But deep down, he knows it is a lie. He does know her, and he does feel something for her. And for the first time, his instinct and emotions overpower logic and common sense. The lieutenant takes her into his arms.

He hears her deep breathing. "I’m here, darling. I’m here," he whispers as he holds her close, feeling her heart racing against his chest. "I’m here, darling. I’m here," he whispers again, sensing her struggle to hold back tears. "Shh… it’s okay." He runs his fingers through her hair soothingly, holding her tighter. "You’re safe with me, darling. I’ve got you."

#simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x oc #simon riley x you #ghost cod #ghost cod imagine #simon riley dubcon #ghost cod smut #cod smut

[flowerandblood]

The Last Word (Oneshot)

 [ canon • Aemond x lady-in-waiting • female ]

[ warnings: angst, humiliation, hard chauvinism, suicide, characters death, a lot of pain, because I felt like it ]

[ description: Being Princess Helaena's lady-in-waiting is her dream come true. However, because of one exchange overheard by the king's second son, Prince Aemond, she may lose everything. The prince gives her conditions she cannot refuse, and she accepts them, not knowing that her life will change forever. This is an Anon Request in which the heroine is flat-chested. ]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

My other works: Masterlist

____

Being princess Helaena's lady-in-waiting was an honour for her. She was a maiden of great beauty and culture, gentle and warm, often immersed in her own world of musings, unable to maintain relationships with other women.

They did not want to understand her, depending on her favour for purely selfish reasons, because of which they acted in an exemplary manner around her, however, as soon as the princess disappeared from their sight, they commented loudly on her behaviour.

"Did you see that disgusting spider she showed to us lately? I believe she even gave it a name. Poor thing." Murmured one of them, a fair-haired beauty, Lord Lannister's niece. She furrowed her brow at her words, feeling discomfort, shaking her head in disbelief.

"You owe her everything you have. Your position, your wealth, your future marriage. Speak of her with respect." She said coolly, the girl approached her, unhappy with the way she had expressed her opinion, the rest of them remained silent, not wanting to get unnecessarily involved in an argument.

"Who are you to lecture me? You came here, some poor lady from the North whose father probably wallows in the muck around his grey castle every day. You don't even look like a woman, your chest is as flat as a child's, I don't know if even the support of a princess will help you find a man to desire you." She snarled, her golden dress shimmering in the sun hovering high above the Red Keep. She swallowed loudly at her insult, pressing her lips together, feeling the tears of shame burning under her eyelids, not letting them flow.

"I see you like to divert attention from your vices. Unfortunately, outward appearances are of little use when the rot has started on the inside. The fish, as they say, rots from the head." She said calmly, she heard a slap and then felt a painful burning sensation on her cheek, Lady Lannister looked at her with wide eyes, red with rage, the girls around them covered their mouths at the sight of her slapping her.

"How dare you, you… my prince −" She muttered, horrified, bowing quickly, she had to look over her shoulder to notice a tall, black silhouette behind her, the face of Prince Aemond, the king's second son, was stony and cold, he was looking down at them with some kind of disgust that sent shivers down her spine.

She swallowed loudly at the thought that he had heard their entire conversation, including what had been said about his sister.

"I will convey to the princess how devoted her ladies-in-waiting are." He said lowly, impassively, throwing her one cool look, turning tense, wanting to leave.

Lady Lannister cried pleadingly behind him that it had been a misunderstanding, and then threw herself at her, the other girls having to drag her away from her as she became completely enraged.

"You will pay for this." She hissed, but she didn't care, thinking only that it was the wrath of someone else that she feared.

She spent the afternoon in her chamber, tense and terrified at the thought that she would have to return home to her three brothers and four sisters, that she would once again be the youngest, unseen child, one of many of the same grey existence.

She shuddered as she heard a knock on her door, and a moment later a servant appeared inside, looking at her with uncertain, frightened eyes.

"Prince Aemond wants to see you, my lady."

She thought she was going there as if he was about to behead her, guessing what awaited her and that she would surely be informed that, like the rest of the ladies of the court, she was going back to where she had come from.

The door to his chamber opened before her and she stepped inside, noticing his silhouette sitting with his back to her with his legs crossed, he was reading a book without even bestowing a single glance on her, he only spoke to her when they were left alone.

"Tell me exactly what you were discussing." He commanded in a low, impassive voice, turning the page with an impatient, smooth motion.

She lowered her gaze, playing with the fingers of her hands in a nervous gesture, feeling her heart pounding like mad, sweat on her back.

"Lady Lannister mocked the princess for naming her spider. I replied that she should speak of her with more respect." She said in a trembling voice, heard him hum under his breath, still looking at the book, bored.

"What did the other ladies-in-waiting said?" He continued, and she blinked, wondering what to answer.

She didn't want to portray them in a bad light.

"They didn't say anything, because Lady Lannister likes to say ill-considered things." She muttered, trying to defend them in some way, not wanting to be vindictive, though part of her mind opted for her to take the opportunity.

"The fish rots from the head." He murmured, and she felt a squeeze in her throat, an all-consuming shame spread through her body at the thought of him hearing this exchange of words.

Gods, what a humiliation, she thought with tears in her eyes.

She did not reply.

She shuddered as he stood up and moved towards her, looking at him with big eyes, surprised, it seemed to her that he was even taller than she had always assumed, watching him from afar.

"Am I to believe that you happen to be the only person who defended my sister?" He asked with a note of mockery and impatience from which she felt a stab of pain in her heart, the fact that he thought she was saying all this out of vanity.

"That is not what I said. You are changing the meaning of my words, my prince." She replied without thinking and lowered her gaze, feeling his whole body tense up after her insolent statement, which could cost her everything.

"You think men desire women who don't know when to be silent?" He hissed, she didn't dare look at him, however, she decided that since all was lost anyway, she wouldn't leave his question unanswered.

"I think men desire what they desire. There's no great philosophy behind it." She replied, and he snorted, as if he didn't believe she still had the courage to speak.

"Do you think men are mere animals, my lady?" He asked with a sneer; she pressed her lips together, frustrated that he was still using her words in a context that did not at all follow from what she had actually said.

"I think this discussion is fruitless. If you wish to send me away, my prince, please do so, just let me bid the princess farewell and express how sorry I am for what has happened and what you have unfortunately witnessed." She said feeling that she had lost patience, tired and resigned, imagining in the back of her mind her return home.

"Just a moment ago you were the one accusing me of not understanding the meaning of your words." He said disapprovingly, and she looked at him surprised, seeing that he had turned away, walking back towards his chair, sitting down on it with a loud creak of wood.

"You stay. You will be my eyes and ears. If any of the ladies who surround my sister speak that way about her behind her back or do other things unworthy of their position, you will report it to me." He ordered coolly, and she swallowed loudly, shocked.

"Do you have anything else to convey to me?" He asked impatiently, looking over his shoulder at her, and she shook her head quickly.

"No, my prince."

"You may leave."

She nodded, wanting to leave his chamber immediately, but stopped in mid-step, feeling her heart pounding fast, wondering if she should do this.

She swallowed hard, turning back, hearing that she had not left his quarters he threw her a frustrated, sharp look.

"Prince Aegon." She started, but he only tightened his lips.

"No."

She grunted quietly and bowed to him, opening the door and stepping out into the corridor, thinking with pain and disappointment that she had at least tried.

She could not count the number of times she had witnessed Princess Helaena's husband entertaining himself with servants, even flirting with the ladies of the court, avoiding her for obvious reasons.

She looked like a child.

Lady Lannister was stripped of her position, which she accepted with satisfaction, the other girls knowing that Prince Aemond stopped her once in a while to speak to her began to fear her, thinking apparently that she had become his mistress.

"How is my sister?" He asked her one day as she was just passing through the courtyard when he was training with Ser Criston Cole, seeing her he ordered a break and approached her, resting his hands on the hilt of his sword stuck in the ground.

She sighed heavily, covering herself more tightly with the thin blue cloak she was wearing.

"She sleeps badly. Prince Aegon wakes her up at night when he comes back drunk from…. we must then lead him to his chamber, and she is restless until morning." She said tiredly, knowing that, as usual, she had been lecturing him about how his brother had a bad influence on her and was the cause of her unhappiness, and that, like always, he would do nothing about it.

She saw him lick his lips in a sign of impatience, looking to the side.

"Anything else?"

"No."

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, his nostrils quivering, she knew her attitude and form of expression devoid of courtesy frustrated him.

He swallowed loudly and pressed his lips together as if he wanted to say something else, shifting from foot to foot, an awkward silence fell between them.

"If I were her husband, I would make sure that she could at least feel safe. My current role ties my hands." He replied after a moment, and she lowered her gaze, feeling a squeeze in her heart at the thought that he had just confided in her. She nodded with sympathy, thinking that his words spoke well of him.

"I know. You are a man of honour. I also regret that such an injustice has befallen her, my prince. She has been deprived of the good husband she deserves." She said looking at him, wanting him to know that she understood his pain, something changed in his face, in his gaze flashed something like surprise and pain.

He nodded, letting her know that he had nothing more to convey to her, and turned back towards Criston Cole.

She moved ahead, thinking that she truly respected him as a man.

However, a few months later, something happened that changed their lives forever.

Prince Aemond returned from Storm's End along with the word that he had murdered his nephew.

A great war broke out, Princess Helaena's son was murdered, her husband suffered great wounds in the battle, and their younger brother flew to Harrenhal only to find that the stronghold was empty and to give his life to the woman everyone believed to be a witch, into whom he had put his bastard child.

Long months passed before she saw him again, a servant entered her chamber late in the evening as she was already preparing for sleep, informing her that Prince Aemond had arrived at the keep and demanded her presence.

She hurriedly put on her robe, covering her nightgown, without even having time to tie up her hair, and headed for his chamber. As she stepped inside she felt a squeeze in her throat when she saw his familiar silhouette sitting as usual in a chair right next to the fire, gazing into the flames, even though they had spoken many times, he now frightened her more than ever before.

"Has her condition improved in any way?" He asked coolly, looking at her only after a moment, she saw something similar to surprise flash across his face when he saw what she looked like, a glimpse of his healthy eye sweeping over her figure.

She swallowed hard, looking down at her hands, feeling the rapid pounding of her heart.

It was getting worse.

"No." She whispered, and heard him sigh heavily, burying his face in his hand, tired and defeated.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, not hearing any further questions or his words that she should leave, she didn't know what she should do with herself so she stood still, looking around his chamber anxiously. An idea suddenly occurred to her and she licked her lips quickly, deciding that perhaps she should say it out loud.

"Your visit would certainly lift her spirits, my prince." She said finally, but he laughed mockingly at her words, shaking his head in disbelief, she felt an unpleasant shiver run down her spine.

"A visit from the man whose actions led to the murder of her son. Most certainly." He replied, revealing his face, spreading himself comfortably in his chair with a loud creak of old wood, placing his hands on the armrests, looking at her expectantly.

"I'm going to be a father."

She looked at him, horrified, swallowing loudly, surprised that he had said such a thing out loud. She felt her whole body quivering, that this conversation was overwhelming her, for some reason she felt a dull, piercing pain in her heart, something akin to a huge, sad disappointment.

"I am aware."

"What do you think of me, my lady?"

Silence.

"Go on. I've always appreciated your sharp tongue." He hummed, tapping his index finger against the wood on which his hand lay.

"There is nothing I can say on the matter. I'm not well-read on the subject of lovers and mistresses." She replied, and he sneered under his breath, there was something mischievous in the sound, but also a kind of relief, as if for some reason he needed to speak to someone about the matter.

She didn't know if he was aware of it, or if he was trying to confide in her subconsciously, unable to hold it in anymore.

"I'm curious what you would think of her if you met her. About my Alys." He muttered under his breath, the woman's name sounded mysterious and proud, he said it lingeringly, as if thoughtful, as if saying it he saw her face in his mind.

For some reason she felt a burning wetness under her eyelids.

My Alys.

She pressed her lips together and swallowed hard, feeling a tightness in her throat, her body trembling, trying with all her might to stop what was happening to her, not to think or feel, but a single, solitary tear ran down her cheek anyway.

Before she managed to wipe it away his gaze settled on her face and stayed on it, his lips parted in disbelief, as if he had only just realised that his words were inappropriate.

It seemed to her that he wanted to say something, to apologise, but his voice stuck in his throat as she covered her mouth and laughed desperately, tears flew, flew and flew down her face, as if something inside her had burst.

"− she is surely a wonderful woman − and now, with your permission, I would like to return to my chamber −" She muttered with a grief-stricken smile, wiping her cheeks, eyes and nose, knowing that she was now as red as the tomatoes from which she had eaten soup that evening.

She left immediately when she saw that he had nodded, and it was only behind the door of her quarters that she burst into a loud, uncontrollable sob.

She had never gotten her hopes high, she had watched and loved him from afar, in silence and humility, but his words seemed downright cruel to her, as if he knew he would hurt her with them.

She had always been faithful to him and his family, so why had he humiliated her?

The next day she avoided the places where she could meet him, spending all her free time in his sister's chamber, who lay in her bed, gazing at the sky outside the window. She sat beside her and held her hand, as she had always done for many months.

There was nothing more she could do for her.

She helped her bathe, dress, walk and lie down.

Although she tried to engage in conversation with her, the princess locked herself in her mind and did not leave it.

She did not come out of her chamber until late in the evening, heading to her rooms, exhausted, walking inside with a loud sigh, throwing the books she had been reading in the meantime onto her bed.

She shuddered and screamed, frightened, catching her heart when she heard movement behind her, saw his silhouette rise from a chair standing on the other side of her quarters.

"− gods −" She muttered, sighing heavily in relief, thinking that perhaps it was some kind of assassin again, trying to calm herself down.

He didn't even say a word when he approached her in a lazy, unhurried step, towering over her with his figure, holding his hands entwined behind his back, his face impassive and thoughtful, his lips clenched into a thin line.

"I am returning to Harrenhal. Another uprising has broken out." He began, and she felt that painful tightness in her throat again. She nodded and clenched her eyelids, wanting to show him that she understood and that he did not need to explain anything to her, he continued, however. "I trust only you. I wish you to keep me informed of what is happening in the keep."

"As you wish, my prince." She said quietly, looking blankly at his chest, angry and bitter that she felt a pleasant heat in her lower abdomen and a tickle in her fingertips from his distinctive scent, a mixture of male sweat, dust and smoke.

She didn't understand why he stood there and remained silent, why he couldn't leave her alone, why he was torturing her.

"After what happened in Storm's End, for many nights I considered taking you by force. I came close to doing it many times, close to taking you with me to Harrenhal, but I spared you." He whispered in a quiet, trembling voice and she shook her head quickly, horrified by his words and how much they hurt her, she wondered how he could be saying this to her now, what purpose it would serve.

"I am grateful to you for your mercy. It will not be forgotten." She said in a hollow, impassive voice, from which he swallowed hard and tense all over, she heard him draw in a loud, impatient breath.

"Do you resent me for this? Would you rather I made you my whore? Hm? Nothing is lost yet." He hissed, taking a step towards her, and she stepped back, looking into his face with a fury from which she saw the hesitation in his eye.

"Get out. Run to her. Enjoy the birth of a child similar to those you have despised all your life." She said coldly, saw something flash across his face and for a moment thought in disbelief that her words, her rejection had hurt him.

He swallowed hard, turned and simply walked away, as he always did, leaving only a void behind him.

The word of his defeat, that he and his uncle had fallen from the sky, that Daemon's sword had pierced his skull, reached her and sliced through her heart like a dagger.

She wept that day in her bed thinking of all the things she had never told him, of how deep inside her even though he had broken her heart, she recognised as an act of his warm affection and respect that he had not stripped her of her dignity, that in thinking of her he had given up himself and his desires, even though a part of her wanted so much for him to destroy her.

Helaena threw herself from the window a few days later, and her death, the most innocent of them all, made her lose her reason for living.

She thought of following in her footsteps, but instead, before the troops of the Blacks occupied the keep she fled, heading along the king's tract to Harrenhal and then beyond to where he was last seen.

She felt a sense of relief when she jumped off the cliff, as if she was free at last, the water she fell into was icy.

The thought of death terrified her and calmed her at the same time, she thought for a moment her body would struggle for one more breath and then it would resign itself to its fate and become silent forever.

She felt a squeeze in her throat, the last warm sensation surging through her lower abdomen as she sank down into the darkness and recognized in the distance his long, white hair.

#aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #ewan mitchell #canon aemond #dark aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #dark aemond angst #aemond angst #aemond targaryen angst #prince aemond #prince aemond targaryen #aemond #aemond one eye #aemond kinslayer #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x female #aemond x female #aemond fandom #aemond fanfic #hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd fic

[paragonrobits]

the unspeakable, unfettered rage i feel when i see that apparently a trending opinion on twitter is that Optimus Prime shouldn't be written as kind and compassionate but only an unfeeling warrior, how do you misunderstand a character that badly, how do you not get that the entire REASON this character completely redefined a major archetype and has kept a grip on the hearts and minds of fans for over 40 years is BECAUSE he is a kind and compassionate person who always extends a hand even when it'll get him hurt, who has been fighting an eternal war against tyranny because its the right thing to do

HOW THE FUCK DO YOU GET AWAY SPEAKING SUCH SLANDER, SUCH WRETCHED WICKEDNESS, YOU [remainder of post excised as the incomprehensible gibberish of rage cannot be conveyed in actual words]

OKAY. Okay.

so anyway I think this is a serious problem in media comprehension actually because you keep seeing these people on Twitter saying stuff like that, complaining about Optimus being tearfully horrified at the fragility of organic life and calling him weak for it despite his compassion being the core of the character; if you remove it, you literally remove the entire concept of Optimus' personality, motivations and reasons to do anything

and you keep seeing in with those takes because they have simillar opinions about Superman and similar characters motivated by heroism and kindness; these are the kind of people who obsess over power scaling and curbstomps, who have no interest in character dynamics deeper than 'who beats who in a straight physical fight'

#queued #optimus prime #transformers

[ganondoodle]

Dude I love how you make gods feel like *gods*. One thing I think a lot of people have trouble with is making their deities feel like either A. Non-characters that are just forces of nature, like a hurricane, or B. making them *too* much like regular characters, negating the impression of how powerful they're supposed to be.

In every part of that first Demise vs Hylia fight, it felt like something that would be both awe-inspiring and terrifying to witness, and when you mentioned in that other post how Demise would use his true form to escape a mountain, it gave me mental images of a massive volcano, but simultaneously all the *rage* that would be involved. Like I don't know the context but. Oh boy is Demise probably not going to be happy about getting stuck in a mountain

I just!! It is very early rn and Idk if I'm making a lot of sense but you are *so good at this*

I'll be honest, at first i wondered if this ask was actually meant for me or perhaps got to the wrong person ( i got teary eyed reading this ... multiple times qoq)

ANd yes i agree that often gods tend to be either too distant or too much like a normal character, personally im not a fan of the latter xD

the deities in destiny are supposed to be like a middle ground, the three golden gods are very 'other' while the deities are supposed to be a mix of mortals and gods, not half-gods since they more god than mortal but still with a connection to the world (thats almost the entire reason the gods made them like that, bc the gods themselves cannot walk the worlds they created on their own; the deities are essentially their hand to control the world - which isnt working to well as we see gnvfjdknkdfn)

anyway, waht i mean is ... Thank you??!! i, sometimes get so lost in self doubt and how others do similar concepts just wayyy better and like .. idk how to express how this lil ask makes me feel (positively!!!), i always hope i can convey at least a fraction of what i feel writing my stories, which is hard with no movement and no sound, just art, to hear that i am actually somewhat succeeding at it is kinda .. idk, baffling?? i am no good with words myself ;O;

the scene you mentioned is from chapter 3, and i got so motivated by this ask that i had to .. attempt to draw a lil concept of that scene in it, even tho i know its really rough and i hope will get it done better once i get to that chapter .. but its something? ;u;

#ganondoodles answers #zelda #art #its super late and i still gotta do sth for work #but i #had to try and get this doodle out #althought it fails to convey the sheer scale of it i think #i tried #its ok for a 1am attempt drawn in an hour i think #i was told im good at a thing i worry about not being good enough!!!

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Moon Above And Stars Beside Her

Me, rising from the dead after a hundred years to post fic? It's more likely than you think! These specific characters were laser-targeted and lovingly crafted to activate every single one of my neurons and I am immensely grateful for them. Please enjoy the result of me endlessly rotating them in my mind ever since I met them.

Be warned that this fic is pretty much made up entirely of spoilers for Act 2 of the game.

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Ketheric Thorm, Balthazar, Withers, and a smidge of Selûne herself Length: ~11000 words Rating: M, for canon-typical violence and sexual content

Hurt/comfort, dealing with trauma, an overabundance of righteous anger, a smidge of Came Back Wrong, and some pretty complicated and peculiar parent/child issues.

Summary:

What of the gnawing in thine holy gut, the rage clawing up thine throat? A great weight, inclined to tip the scales once more. Which way shalt thou cast it? When you had nothing else, caged in darkness, you learned to cultivate your anger like the finest of crops. And yet there seems to be so little for you to reap.

The Nightsong is no more and Dame Aylin is returned to her most holy duties. Isobel Thorm is free of her grave. How they handle their past, present, and future is, perhaps, up to them.

Also on AO3.

—

Moon Above And Stars Beside Her

"And what of thee, god-child, moon-graced, silver-blood?"  

It is the Scribe who addresses you one entirely unremarkable evening, looking up from his scroll to arrest your gaze with his deathless one. They introduced him, a camp guest most unexpected, by some nonsense name you cannot even call to mind. But you would know him anywhere. And so you stop in your path, as you are bid, and listen. 

"A tipping of the scales most severe: thine mother freshly spared mourning her daughter, her dark sister's triumph snatched away at the very last moment." 

"You have guided these adventurers well, Scribe," you incline your head in respect and a small measure of thanks.  

"I do not guide," the grave-wind voice is raised just enough to convey something resembling annoyance at a minor inaccuracy he simply must correct. "I offer what services I am bound to, nothing more."  

You arch an eyebrow at him. "And yet you wish to speak to me, who did not ask any service of you." 

"Yes," he responds, and leaves it at that for a few moments that feel like an eternity. A timescale he is used to, one would imagine. 

"Dame Aylin. Thou art a curious creature, I admit - immortal, yet appearing in my records many times over. Moreover, thine fate stands indelibly entwined with one whose name has been freshly struck from the archives in a manner most uncommon and highly questionable." 

A tension floods you as you realise he talks of Isobel, and your hands tighten into fists at your sides.  

"What of her, pray tell?" It comes out more curt than you intended, perhaps, but the words are spoken before you can properly settle on them. 

"She lives, and shall do so for the time that is given to her, as it is to most. And still," he nods, unnervingly calm, all taut paper-thin skin, a being of unlife if you've ever seen one, "thou wouldst cleave thine malefactors in twain and rejoice in their screams. Thou, who burnest so deeply to reflect back upon them every spear-strike, every lash, every cut, every shattered, twisted bone and sinew, every drop of blessed blood they dared spill."  

You breathe in a leaden breath, knit together as you are, the divine birthright of your Mother lacing your scars with shining gold, proclaiming that the testament of your newly ended immeasurable suffering is something to be proudly displayed. You know the marks on your face glisten in the firelight much like the woven gold that decorates his skull, his sunken cheeks, as he looks upon you half-expectantly.  

"I would, and I do," you can but confirm through grit teeth. 

"What of thine anger? What of the gnawing in thine holy gut, the rage clawing up thine throat? A great weight, inclined to tip the scales once more. Which way shalt thou cast it?" 

"I would destroy them. I would scorch the very traces of them from the world. Some, I already have - as you are doubtlessly aware, Scribe. Much like they tried, and failed, to destroy me." 

"Or did they?" There is the infuriating calmness again, and a question meant for no answer, or perhaps merely a word of caution aimed at you. 

His withered countenance is as utterly illegible as a weather-worn tombstone, but if this was meant to stir hated doubt in you, it does. For you have grown well aware it is not just the bright, righteous blaze of justified anger that fuels you now, but something relentless that stings and cuts you as it wants out, out, out. This is not the way of Protection, of Devotion, of measured Justice. This is not the duty you were once sworn to, the sacred oath that has resounded in the marrow of your very bones since the first breath you ever drew upon this land. No, it is something new, and yet Vengeance has served you just as well - better, perhaps - in this brief time you've been free. 

"For all their infernal efforts, I have pieced myself together over and over and over again. It is my nature to do so, not a choice to be made, nor a conscious effort. Their betrayal and their sins against me are but a chapter in my tale, nothing more. My task is not done, and for as long as it is so, Dame Aylin will not stop, will not falter. You know this as well as I." 

The calm of the tomb refuses to be disturbed in any way, least of all by your tirade. "And yet, along the way, a piece of thee was lost and replaced with another, ill-fitting. Many stand to win from this, as many stand to lose." 

You frown as you scrounge around for a reply, and find yourself lacking one. He looks not at you, but into and through you, and it is uniquely discomfiting.  

The Scribe raises his hand in dismissal, and offers solemn parting words. "A godling thou art, but no god. It is in thine nature, too, to wonder, and question, and change in response. As it is in mine to observe, and take note, and stand witness to the weaving of fate. Forget not: thou art not near as tide- and cycle-bound as thine divine moon-mother." 

- 

You are given little time to contemplate the Scribe's weighty, ominous statements. Yet another comes seeking, coveting, poaching. Craven-clever mouth full of honeyed praise for your "gift" and only ever wanting to take, take, take, all for himself. 

How dare, how dare he, how dare they how DARE--  

A thousand echoes of deaths upon deaths swarm and you take the vainglorious fool, lift him bodily up and-- 

He breaks upon your knee like a dry kindling scrap and your breaths come loud and half-choked and heaving. What was once a vile wizard is now nothing and for a moment, the briefest, most fleeting of moments, neither are you. 

Until the world rushes back in, exhausting in its sheer weight. There is no glorious, triumphant rush of battle-roused blood singing through you. Vengeance didn't taste sweet. It didn't taste like much of anything.  

When you had nothing else, caged in darkness, you learned to cultivate your anger like the finest of crops. And yet there seems to be so little for you to reap. 

As the sounds of the city far, far below slowly fill the enchanted tower, competing with crackling magic and bubbling potions and a complete absence of words spoken by any of your present companions and allies, all you can pinpoint whirling within you is a rising despondency. 

One more, and then another, and another after that, extending before you all in a line, down the endless, endless years that await you, immortal and eternal. Magus or sorcerer or ruffian or necromancer or halfwit charlatan, it won't matter much, will it? Because they will try. 

Do you dare ever again let your guard down for even a few precious moments of respite, when another villain with designs on your person could be lurking, scheming just around the corner? 

Worse yet, far more chilling - what if they, conniving, decide to aim their ambitions at a different target, at your soft underbelly, and come for Isobel in turn? 

When you draw yourself out of the crowding thoughts and return to camp at long last, subdued, tired, painfully aware you are far removed from your usual mighty bearing, hours have flown by and the sun has already set. Isobel is there, and for a moment that is all you know. She is there, and whole, and alive, and it is all you can do not to drop to your knees once more and offer prayer upon prayer of gratitude. 

She looks at you, eyes brimming with a potent mix of concern and questions, then rushes towards you and wordlessly takes you by the gauntleted hand to the small sanctuary you've carved out for yourselves in the midst of your newfound allies: a simple tent, a soft, warm rug, a comfortable enough cot. A small washbasin Isobel keeps filled with conjured, moonlight-laced freshwater. 

"It was a glorious victory, my love, worry not," you rush to reassure, though even you can tell your heart is not in it. "Yet another villain slain, his devilish designs denied -  as has become the habit of our merry retinue. The battle has tired my mind somewhat, that is all."  

You can see the doubt writ plainly on her face, but it is no lie you tell her (never, never could you bring yourself to lie to her). It is more that… you do not know the reason yourself, or, rather, that it feels too manifold to ever encompass in simple words. 

"I wish you would give yourself time, Aylin, let yourself rest," Isobel says, soft, endlessly caring, achingly perceptive, and only slightly disapproving. She starts taking your armour off piece by piece as you sit on the small campaign stool you appropriated recently, then dampens a washcloth to wipe the traces of recent battle from your face. "Please. You endured more than a hundred years of horrors I can scarcely imagine."  

You grit your teeth at the mention and try, foolishly, to hide from her the tension that runs through you at the mere evocation of the thought. She palms your cheek and tilts your face to look up at her - her, standing above you and yet barely exceeding your height, though you remain seated - and oh, how you adore the sight! 

Isobel frowns as she notices a scrape on your temple, slightly singed in a near-miss from one of the mage's commanded elementals. It is nothing, you want to insist, no need to fuss over it, but you know how to recognise a battle lost before it has even begun. "In Her radiance, you are made whole," she murmurs, and you feel the familiar tingling and slight warmth of the gash knitting itself closed. 

Her incantations are perfect and as subtly melodious as ever. There is healing even before her spells take hold simply by the fact she is here. It is Isobel's touch that has ever been a balm when you returned from a skirmish, feathers ruffled, just as it is now when you feel burning echoes of abuse tear through you at some unintended motion or runaway thought. 

Satisfied for the moment, she dips the cloth in water again, and runs it gently over you, in a cycle as regular and comforting as that of the Moon itself: brow, nose, cheek, jaw, neck, then brow again, and again. For a little while the gentle, refreshing, cleansing caress is the only thing that exists in your world, and you let go of the death-grip you only half-consciously had on her other hand. 

"I confess… I hate to see you throwing yourself back into the fray like this. I understand why, and that it is necessary, but…" she trails away and pauses for a heavy moment, cloth in hand. She resumes, more determined, now scrubbing at a stubborn mark on your chin. "I wish it didn't have to be so soon. Duty or not, you shouldn't have to. You should be allowed to recover in your own time, to heal in peace, until you are ready." 

You cannot help but bristle at that. "You would deem me unfit for my purpose? My duty and my self are so entwined, it is not possible to have one without the other - would you call into question a sword's place in battle?" 

"Listen to yourself," Isobel snaps, harsher than you can ever remember hearing her, stopping her ministrations and standing tall to face you down, cheeks reddened. "Can't you hear what you sound like? Like a misguided Sharran, making yourself out to be nothing but a tool to be used and used and used until you are useful no more!" 

You gape at her, useless, wordless. "Isobel…" 

"Yes, you are the resplendent Sword of the Moonmaiden, performing great deeds in Her name… but you're so, so much more than that, and I treasure all that you are." The words are so impassioned and so openly honest you are struck silent in pure awe. Isobel, clutching a dripping, bloodied washcloth in the middle of a patched-up tent, might as well be a queen making proclamations before her devoted court assembled in a lofty palace. And oh, devoted you are, endlessly, endlessly. This can never change. 

"My Aylin, my angel. You always have been, and always will be, and if it takes me years to remind you of all of these things I know you once knew, I promise I will." Her palm is back on your face, a gentle caress that soothes many wounds long invisible, never healed. 

She speaks her promise as solemn as any vow you have ever made, and you bow your head to kiss her hand.  

"There is no need for recklessness, after all," Isobel smiles, the slightest wry twist to it, as she tips your chin back up, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead and murmur against your freshly washed skin. "The Moonmaiden's shield is mine to wield. You know its strength, the blows it can take. Let it be a sanctuary for you as well. Give me - give yourself a chance. Slowly, step by step - there is time." 

You have time, she is correct, even if you've never managed to have a very good grasp of it. All the time in the world, and then some. 

Isobel does not. 

You've already lost her once, had her ripped from your arms by whims of fate, or rather something far more sinister. There is no way to know, but you suspect, oh, you do. Your Mother's dark twin schemes ever on, and Moonrise, beacon that it was, surely seemed to her a provocation, Ketheric Thorm a crown jewel to be poached, and Isobel, your Isobel, a mere means to an end. 

Isobel, brought back, a miracle paid for so very dearly. It would be foolish to count on another. 

You stand up and reach over and almost crush her to your chest in an embrace - one she returns not a moment after completing her surprised exclamation. You hold her and hold her and allow yourself to lose track of time again. 

- 

Moonlit, timeless, subdued in her glory, you listen to Isobel recite the Words as she pours fresh milk into the small silver ritual bowl before her.  

"Our Lady of Silver, whose light falls upon us all, hear me."  

Her reverent voice is barely above a whisper but carries impeccably, harmonising with the gentle bells and chimes surrounding the private little altar.  

"Sheltered by Your radiance, guided by Your hand, I come not to entreat, but to reaffirm." 

Motes of moonlight buoyant around her dance in the rhythm of the prayer you've heard and repeated so often it feels like breathing itself. It would feel stranger not to join in, so you do, if only in your mind. 

- 

Ever-changing, ever-returning, as the silver Moon waxes and wanes, so too does life.  

- 

You lurch back into awareness in a place you have never seen before, but that you recognise without a shred of doubt. The utter absence in the dark dome of the sky above you, the storms that swirl and rage all around, the assault on your ever-heightened divine senses - the reek of the Shadowfell feels like it has sunk its claws into your lungs already. You shudder, then startle, scrambling to stand when you realise your armour is gone, your sword nowhere to be found. 

Your feet are bare on the cold, cruel rock; your mind reeling, disoriented. Half-blinded by the glowing runes that encircle you, your tunic still stained with the fresh blood of your latest, very recent death, you come face to face with the two men you made the mistake of believing and turning your back on mere moments ago, in what must have been a different pocket of the dark realm.  

And so, the last time you see him for what is to be more than a hundred years, Ketheric Thorm locks gazes with you and wordlessly draws a dagger. Then he cuts his palm, deep and deliberate and unflinching, and your own muscle and sinew feel the slice. 

The hideous grin of savoured success on his pet necromancer's face upon witnessing your startled, pained reaction chills you to the bone. It is then, perhaps, that you begin to grasp the scope and shape of what they have in store for you. 

You try to rush at them, charge and claw them into submission with your bare, bloodied hands if needs be, but the boundaries of the sickly-bright rune-inscribed circle flare up, the cage tightens around you, phantom hands grasp and wrench and restrain and keep you in place, your foes and would-be tormentors only just out of reach. 

"What are you doing, you dog ?" You roar at Ketheric, your insides twisting at the sight of the dark disc newly burnished on his armour, Sharran symbols adorning his brow, his chest. "Oathbreaker! How dare you conspire against Dame Aylin, against Selûne herself! How dare you so betray Isobel--" 

A heavy gauntlet smashes into your jaw as soon as the beloved, yearned-for name leaves your lips, and Ketheric's voice rises above the ringing in your ears. 

"You do not get to speak her name, thief. I am the one betrayed, abandoned. By your witch of a mother who hoarded my misguided service for far too long." 

Ketheric steps back and calms, somewhat - or merely restrains his rage into something crueller and colder, while you recover enough to speak.  

"Shar will not help you, Ketheric Thorm. Oblivion does not heal, does not mend - and oblivion is all she offers. But what she will ask of you in return will damn you forever." 

He waves a claw-armoured hand in mock-dismissal of your warnings. 

"Do what you will with her, Balthazar, as long as it doesn't impede my Lady's plans. Break her, if you can. Let her rage and pace and fume and rot, if not. But I want her to know," he steps closer again, so close, almost close enough to touch, if not for those accursed hands holding you back, "when our Dark Lady's acolytes come calling, when her wretched silver-stained blood fuels the creation of an army the likes of which the world has yet to see - I want her to know and never forget: it was on my orders." 

You calm your breathing enough to answer, the burning rage within you forging your words into steel - the only steel you can aim at him, for the moment. But the tides will turn, as they inevitably do. "The Moon shows many faces. Our Lady of Silver is ever-changing. You should be careful, traitor, lest the Hunter's Moon marks you as Her prey." 

Ketheric scoffs, unimpressed. "Let her try! Let her come, let her send all her legions after me, when she would not lift one holy finger to help me when I needed it most, for all my decades of faith and devotion. No, you will see," the quiet conviction in him is chilling to behold, in all its sheer wrongness. "This place, this bond, will sustain me, and it will take everything from you, piece by piece, until you whine and cry and beg your moonwitch mother for salvation. And when you are met with the same merciless silence as I was, perhaps I will consider it payment enough for the precious hours of my daughter's presence you dared steal from me, interloper." 

You cannot reach him to wrap your hands around his worthless, treacherous throat and wring. But the trap, the cage, is imperfect, and you spit silver-flecked blood at his face easily. 

He flicks his cheek clean, all dismissal, then motions to his foul, death-reeking companion to come forward. "Start with her wings. She has no need for those anymore." 

"I would be delighted, General," comes the sickening, rot-sweet voice of Balthazar from somewhere behind you, along with the deceptively gentle sound of him tinkering with his ghastly tools and implements. "How very appropriate, how symbolic, to start by clipping our little bird's wings." 

You roar your rage at Ketheric's back until he is out of sight and your throat is raw and bloody and capable of nothing but a hoarse whisper. You strain and pull and beat your wings in great gusts with all the desperate force you can muster; you burn, entire, with a scorching radiance unlike any you've manifested before. But the newforged bonds persist, and drag you down, down, down, merciless, until you see and breathe nothing but dust, the magic of one of the caging runes stinging against your cheek as the sounds of what can only be termed butchery fill the stale air. 

It is the perhaps unfortunate attribute of your particular strain of immortality that you are obliged to feel every wound, every hurt, every blow that seeks to lay you low. That you rise to fight again only after you have been truly felled. That your memory is one made to suit your long life - blade-sharp, exact, and infallible.  

You lie there afterwards for a long, long, quiet while; unmoving, though the spectral hands loosened their grip and vanished along with Balthazar, a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year ago. There is too much pain still, you think almost idly, feeling quite far removed from your own self. Too much for any of it to have been a killing blow.  

It is the first time in your storied existence you dare to think of death as a possible mercy and wonder if you might ever welcome it. 

- 

Let all on whom Selûne's light falls be welcome if they desire.   

- 

You do not see Ketheric after that, except in gory fantasies produced by your mind's eye. But you do get to know, intimately, each and every battle he deigns to fight personally, each scrape and cut and bruise and jab, arrow and spear and sword - all unseen, but far from unfelt. 

Then comes the steady stream of misguided Sharrans, would-be Dark Justiciars.  

You try to speak to them, at first. Reach out. Try to make them see their terrible error while retribution might still be within their grasp. 

You fail, each and every time. And each and every time you pay for that failure with a death. Some of them are more decisive about it, quick, almost merciful. Some stretch it out, savour it. Some can't bear to meet your eyes. 

But all of them, in the end, do it. And you choke back to life over and over and over again, knit together anew, as the murmurings mount. 

Descend to her. Look upon her. Listen to her.   

Kill her.  

You remember the first time you died: out on a quest taking you through a steep mountain pass, falling into an ambush, peppered by poison-tipped crossbow bolts. You remember also the slight fear, the uncertainty of what exactly would happen to you - the fact of your Moon-blessed immortality until then only a suggestion, a curiosity somewhere in the back of your mind. 

You remember the gradual change into certainty over several misadventures and the ensuing determination - you were indestructible! Indomitable, as befits the Sword of the Moonmaiden, put upon this earth to enact Her will. Who would dare stand before you, resplendent, eternal, uncowable? 

And you remember the long, slow slide into being utterly used to it, down in these seemingly bottomless shadows, stuck on another Sharran spear, listening to your own blood drip drip drip as the darkness grew even heavier, laced with increasingly triumphant whispers. 

- 

As we turn to the Moon, we trust She will be our true guide.  

- 

Exhaustion overwhelms even the most righteous of furies, and you fall into a fitful sleep now and then. You dream of Isobel, soft, warm, brilliant, alive, and it makes the cruelty of awakening all the worse. 

Balthazar comes, sometimes, your most frequent and most despised visitor by far. He delights in letting you know how much time has passed - impossible to tell, in the umbral pocket of your prison. Regales you with tales of Sharran tyranny being visited upon the land and the people you were sent to watch over and protect and guide, your one mission and the purpose written into the very blood flowing through your veins. And yet you did nothing but fail. Precious Isobel, dead; Ketheric, lost, determined to tear down with him the world entire. 

Balthazar rejoices in the disgust you cannot help but bear openly upon your face as he expounds on his experiments, hands unbound by any trace or suggestion of morality and propriety and with Selûnite victims in abundance. He crows endlessly over his successes, his sick triumphs - but oh, none as impressive as you!  

He does much worse, later, and you learn you do not need a tongue to curse him. 

You know nothing can come of it but even more pain and sick retribution, yet you goad the corpse-rotted bastard every chance you get. The necrotic embodiment of every foul undead creature you would have wreathed your sword in radiance for, if only it were at hand. Whom you would have longed to smite until nothing but ash remained. 

There is nothing else here. Empty shadows, as befits the Lady of Loss. A void without and within, yours to fill with gnawing, searing, holy wrath. Nothing left to sustain you but the thought of a long-distant but inevitable escape and vengeance.  

One day. 

"I keep a tally just for you, Balthazar." You pace the infuriatingly familiar bounds of your cage, precise in your steps in order not to trigger the wretched closing in, the grasping-- 

He looks up from the stitching he is doing, morbid handiwork on some poor Moon-devoted stonemason he wanted you to see. "Aylin! I did not know you cared so." 

"Why, yes," you bare your teeth at him in mockery of a smile. "When your little spell inevitably fails and this game of yours runs its course, I will come find you first. I will tear you apart, limb from mismatched limb, into your grave-robbed constituent parts. And then I will mince them further, until there is one rotting morsel of you for each and every hurt you have ever visited on me." 

"You will find," you prowl closer, just out of reach of the necrotic claws, "I have an excellent memory." 

Infuriatingly, the corpse only smiles, laughs in your face. 

"I was expecting just a touch more creativity, but then I suppose that has never been much of a strong point for you moon-followers." 

You scowl and swallow back a growl and want only to provoke him further, itch to make him react, to make a mistake. 

"So very boring and predictable. Painfully straightforward. Laughably easy to trick." 

He waves a hand and conjures a muddy image of the lost Selûnite child you were made to chase down here what feels like a lifetime ago, the perfect bait they contrived just for you. 

"You were nothing, Aylin. A meat-headed little errand girl for your useless mother. I, well, I have made you into a treasure." 

Balthazar's smile splits the corpse-bloat of his face. The stench makes you want to gag, makes you yearn for the duller senses of one not trained from birth to be a paladin.  

"As thanks, let me leave you with a thought you will doubtlessly appreciate. Do you know, I wonder, how very little it would take for you to be freed? What little effort I had to invest to ensure your captivity? One friendly touch would break the confinement spell, a mere moment of kindness. Nothing more." 

He steps forward, waving your clawed shackles into existence. Then he moves as if to pat your head or caress your face - but instead pulls at your hair, whipping your head back, and sneers. 

"How lucky for both of us you will never find such a thing here. There is not the slimmest hope of reprieve, not for you." 

And for a hundred years, he is right. 

- 

The Moonmaiden will never allow us to bear a burden we cannot carry.  

- 

The burning flare of indignant rage sours somewhere deep in your belly along the way. You are not of Ilmater's stock, made for the rack, proud to endure all pain, indignities, and abuse, for oh, good things would come to those who waited! With idle waiting you were long done. There was no glory to be found in suffering. No, you were made to be a beacon soaring through the sky, driving away shadows and fear and doubt, illuminating with the stark, silver light of your Mother's truth all the myriad lies your foes so loved to wield. 

What have they done to you? When it might be easier to ask what haven't they, over the months, years, decades, uncountable. Tongue, eyes, wings, heart. Yours to lose, all of it, when it was never theirs to take. And then, darker still - what use it all, when your heart's love had gone already? Isobel, most cherished of all, taken so suddenly and cruelly - you always knew you were going to be painfully parted, for your nature made that an inevitability. But not so soon. Not cut so short so abruptly, when she had so much still to give, and do, and be. When you were supposed to watch her grow old and say goodbye slowly and gradually with every precious day. 

You try to fill the hours between deaths with something kinder: memories of her gentle smile, her soft touch, her grace and her wit and her light. But all you can picture here among the accursed shadows is the beautiful, heartrending serenity of her laid on her bier, awaiting her final rites. 

Your own words to Ketheric resound in your mind. "Dear Isobel," you whispered, reverently, words you now know fell on deaf ears, "in my Mother's care at the Gates of the Moon, no doubt, with noble Melodia by her side. One day you shall be reunited on the silver shores. One day, my mission will be deemed complete, and I will be released from my duty… and I shall be permitted to join you." A tentative, tender smile to the bereaved father, and a hand on his shoulder. Trying to meet the man's grief with your own and perhaps thus relieve both your burdens. 

In a kinder world, you could have mourned your mutual loss together. But it wasn't to be. Instead - this. Instead, you, here, caged, tormented, made to carry more than just the hurts visited upon Ketheric's flesh and bone. Though in your mind it seems it has all done little to soothe his own pain, instead merely doubling it and vomiting it back into the world. 

Your contemplation is cut short by a sudden agony. This in itself is nothing new - Ah, you think, Ketheric has run afoul of a Harper's blade or a druid's claws again. You know enough from Balthazar's boasting to distract yourself with dreamed-up possibilities, a comfort as meagre and thin as the rags that clothe you. As if you could will his own hurts back onto him.  

No, the pain is nothing new. But there is something different about it this time - it feels like it has no end, it does not ebb, and you take such a very, very long time to die. And when you awaken again, the crushing in your chest continues, then stops so abruptly you feel like you can breathe for the first time in years. This was clearly no normal battlefield injury and it makes your entire being burn with hope that, for all the unusual suffering it is foisting upon you, it means that something shifted -- 

That perhaps, somehow, miraculously, even with leeching off of you, fat and silverblood-gorged, Ketheric failed. Was defeated. 

That perhaps your torment is reaching its end, and soon enough some enterprising hero, a fellow Selûnite perhaps, will find themselves guided into your prison to help you pry the bars wide open-- 

And then, a roar. A quake of the very foundation of your unseen cell so strong it knocks you down, and a surge of darkness and fury greater than anything you've ever seen. An entire storm of shadows, howling, screaming with a thousand enraged voices, ever-wretched Shar's above all, rushing up and up and up and blasting through the black dome that stood for the sky in this abyss.  

You dare not think of what this could mean: the Shadowfell pouring out its umbral essence over the world so suddenly and violently. 

It is a moment, perhaps, of ultimate weakness - for a precious few seconds you had the nerve to think it might finally be over, but instead… this. 

"Hear me, Mother," you rasp out against the ground stained over and over with your own blood, unable even to lift your head and address the words up high, where they belong. "Hark, Moonmaiden Selûne, Your blade is dulled, stolen. Your will delayed, undone. Your daughter… begs for Your aid…" 

"I need… I pray… a boon. Bless me with Your help, so that Your bright sword can once again be lifted as an instrument against the darkness. At Your service, as I ever must be, I incur this debt gladly. Let us answer this invasion with all our might." 

There is no response to your prayers. Not a glimpse of your Mother's ever-changing face. Not a single droplet of silver moonlight penetrates these shadows, and no other voice reaches your ears. 

The thought rises, unbidden: is this what Ketheric meant? 

There is no shadowy shroud of Shar that a moonbeam of Selûne cannot pierce. You have staked your entire being on this belief, a thousand times over. And yet not a mote of light reaches you in all your years of captivity, and you, curse you, you wonder. The swirling shadows whisper and tickle your mind and your very soul and you despise this intrusion but-- 

If she can, and yet she does not - does that mean she does not want to? Does not care to? 

Among the wild shadowy storms and the gusting winds and lashing lightning, the silence is deafening. When you repeat your prayer, a year later, then a decade, there is still no answer. 

An incredible loneliness stretches before you, a nothingness so profound and so very, very long you think you might even miss Balthazar's rancid presence. 

And then, a sudden crushing in your chest again, and an agony exploding behind your eyes. Mercifully brief, as far as these things have gone before, but igniting such unspeakable anguish in you that you bellow and pound your fists against the ground until they are raw and bloody. For you know this can only mean one thing: the cycle is starting anew after all this time, and what you took for Ketheric's defeat had somehow only been a temporary setback. 

- 

As Your starglow soothes and bolsters, so we promise to aid our fellow faithful, and guide those whose path is not yet clear.  

- 

You've flown over these lands countless times, but now, as you rush forward to your long-promised reckoning, you might as well be flying over one of the hells. The ruin and desolation drains away even the heady rush of newfound freedom, the sheer relief of feeling the wind on your wings once again. 

It is hard to reconcile the shadow-swollen horrors below you with the magnificence of Moonrise Towers as you once knew them, striking pillars of faith without question. Reithwin itself and the land entire have changed, twisted, in the end but a mirror to the devotion of their ruling family.  

There is nothing here of what you remember, nothing left of the simple, blessed life you got but a taste of, not even an echo to be found of all that you once came to treasure alongside your beloved. Fields and orchards you helped work; vineyards you helped bless; fine, silver-wrought fountains you helped make ever-pure, all in your role as your Mother's emissary. 

Ketheric Thorm, now False twice over, in whose throne room you stood in audience, promising your fealty and your aid, as recognition for his family's long list of deeds in Selûne's name. 

And Isobel, his daughter, still fairly young for one of half-elven descent, but an accomplished cleric in her own right. Her mother's daughter through and through. 

The first in Reithwin to stop being star-struck when faced with you, made of far sterner stuff than she might have at first seemed, and insisting on meeting you as an equal. Wise, caring, and skilled. And achingly beautiful, with a soft face and rosy cheeks meant to be bathed in the gentlest of moonlight. 

It was odd, but meant to be - clearly part of some plan you happened not to be privy to, but had no desire to question. 

- 

All love alive under Her light shall know Her blessing.  

- 

Isobel, living and breathing before you, is a miracle if you've ever seen one. 

Isobel, still hurt, bruised from what you are told was a kidnapping attempt ordered by her own father - you bristle, and bite it down. 

"It is nothing," she insists when you belabour the point, and you want to chastise her for never thinking of herself enough, even after a century, always putting her own wellbeing last, knitting everyone else's wounds closed and leaving no salve for her own. 

Instead, you take her face between your palms, trace her cheeks with tentative fingers and carefully, carefully tap into the healing magic you've ignored for a hundred years. The face of the Moonmaiden is ever-shifting - the fierce, warlike guise of martial prowess is but one of many in Her exalted repertoire, and so, too, in yours. 

Then, in the privacy of the spacious upstairs room granted to Isobel as the haven's pivotal goddess-touched protector, the very embodiment of the Last Light, you do the same for the rest of her.  

Her body is warm, though she complains of a coldness she cannot be rid of. 

You fall before her, on your knees as if in supplication, as has always felt like the most natural thing in the world. Face buried in the softness of her bare stomach, a dam in you breaks, and you weep for the joy, the relief beyond all hope, of her real and breathing and whole before you. 

She leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head, like a benediction, hands running through your hair and cradling you ever so softly until you regain yourself. 

"My darling, my angel. I can hardly believe you are here." 

In this, she speaks for the both of you, and spurns you to action. 

"Then let me banish all doubt," you murmur, trailing kisses all the while, reverent hands on soft thighs. "I would taste of you, my love, if you allow it." 

There is a fleeting moment of hesitation that was never there before as her hands and lips still. But then her shiver becomes one of anticipation as she murmurs into your ear. "I welcome it." 

It is yours, then, as ever, to do as you are bid. 

You wish to touch every inch of her, impress upon her again and again in a thousand kisses the affection and adoration welling within you inexhaustible. You crave to recommit to memory what you once studied and learned like the most fastidious of students. You need in a way you never have before. And she obliges - no, answers, just as eager and driven by your age-long separation, though her experience of it has been so wildly, incomprehensibly different. 

The sounds you draw from her (familiar, dearly missed) are like a balm, a private song you were certain you would never hear again.  

You hold her as close as is possible, and she returns the favour. Her caress is familiar, warm, healing in ways few things could ever be. After the hundred years of emptiness interspersed with biting, death-inviting pain and foul, crushing hands holding you in place, after unspeakable things visited upon your body, your person, a gentle, loving, careful touch is a treasure unmatched. The sharpness of the contrast makes your throat tighten. 

"Isobel," you breathe into her shoulder, neck, and can think of nothing holier to say than her name. 

She holds you entire in her gentle hands, heart and soul and body, and whispers fervent vows to never let you go, never allow you to feel hurt and harm again.  

Isobel is slight compared to you, small and soft, for your strengths have ever lain in different areas. Treasured and safe in the circle of her arms, in the sanctuary of her embrace, finally, finally, you find rest. 

- 

You are back in your circle-cage, face down, limbs leaden. 

The bloated corpse-face of Balthazar leers over you and you launch upwards, swipe at him, near-desperate to drive him away before he continues his wretched work. Aching to make him pay for every insult he has dared commit upon your blessed flesh. 

Only to find yourself gasping, gulping down cool night air, seated on the bed in the pleasantly twilit room on the upper floor of the Last Light Inn. 

You focus for a moment and effortlessly as ever manifest your wings and take stock of yourself. You know you have not escaped unscathed, unchanged, but your strong limbs are still there, as if nothing had ever happened. Shoulders wide and sturdy, downy feathers, wings. Every sleek vane and fine bit of plumage in their place, pearly white-silver and perfect.  

Yet any human rosiness that used to reside there is long gone out of your skin, grey like marble, criss-crossed with precious gold. If you look down, there is a severe, pronounced crack lying right above your heart. It makes sense, of course, if you think on it, though you so desperately prefer - try - not to. 

And the dream - nightmare - insists on sinking vestigial claws into you, leaving you with a burning, torn sensation between your shoulder blades. 

Isobel stirs beside you, and you curse for having woken her from such hard-won and rarely granted serenity. She sits up, sleep-cottoned, and traces gentle fingers down the tensed, trembling part of your back, though you have said nothing. But Isobel, wise, insightful Isobel, always seems to know at least part of what ails you. 

"One of the Flaming Fists encamped here... a traitor. Marcus," she speaks somewhat haltingly, cautiously. "We were all struck by his betrayal, but I... when I saw him, when he came for me, when he was sent for me..." 

Her eyes meet yours, almost reluctantly. 

"He had wings. Hideously warped, blackened, rotten things, but..." 

A question is raised, a mirror of one you've asked yourself, during long hours-turned-days of morbid contemplation in your prison. 

"Balthazar. He got them from that wretch Balthazar." 

"And he got them--" Isobel cuts herself off, fully awake and alert and wincing at the confirmation of her fears. 

You swallow, throat parched and burning as if the screams from then still scrape against it. Harvesting, he called it. 

"He got them from me." 

It is simply not something to be thought about. The bile of wrath rises, crawls up your throat instead, and you spit out words almost in a growl.  

"He has been dispatched, I trust? The traitor?" 

Isobel understands.  

"He has, of course," she rushes to reassure. "Jaheira and the Harpers made quick work of him and the horrible creatures he called to his aid." 

You hum, move to sit back against the headboard, then change your mind as soon as it touches your skin. "It seems I have much to thank High Harper Jaheira." 

Your hand is still tightened into a fist in the coverlet, and Isobel reaches over, pries it open, to hold it ever so gently between both of her palms. 

"We both do. We'll see them all come morning, exchange tales over breakfast. Outside, perhaps, in the sun, at long last." Her smile is as bright as this promised dawn, but there is a note of silver-filigree steel behind it. "We can thank her then. Make sure she knows she can count on us through whatever is to come." 

She reaches over to cradle your chin, tugging you down, and kisses you softly. "Let us get some more rest, my love." 

The both of you slip back under the moth-eaten but soft covers and she burrows insistently into your side, under one wing. You lie - and, blessedly, sleep - on your stomach, Isobel's arm thrown over your lower back in that perfect balance she is mastering of being reassuring while not calling too much to mind. 

- 

When we are beset with shadows, You mend our hearts with the silver thread of Your radiant loom.  

- 

You let Isobel braid your hair, one idle evening in camp. You can sense she is just as starved for simple contact as you are - her hands seem restless, even more so than usual, and flit over your back, shoulders, arms... so you let her occupy them, as she perches in your lap and peppers you with kisses, and speaks not a single word. 

There is no mirror at hand to see her handiwork when she is done, but she looks pleased with herself, and with you, and you feel like this should be... enough. 

But another memory stirs and inches through, of the times you knelt, crouched, sat in that glowing circle that your world had seemed shrunken to, and, for want of anything to do with your hands (now past punching, past clawing for the freedom that was out of their reach) you set to braiding your hair, as if preparing to don a helmet and march off to glorious combat. It was something to do, and pretend. 

You undo the braids as soon as Isobel falls asleep. 

- 

The city, that meeting point of fates, draws ever nearer. 

Isobel's cough comes and goes. Nothing as bad as the fits that sometimes awoke her while you were still in the cursed lands, but it persists, frustratingly. 

"Isobel, I--" you barely get to begin to voice your concern before she brushes you away. 

"Please, it's nothing. Don't worry about me, dearest." 

"I find I cannot," you state simply, as it is a very simple truth. 

"I- I don't want to burden you. You've enough on your plate as it is." She gives a small smile so forced you almost feel insulted. "It'll pass, I'm sure." 

"Burden…? Isobel," a mess of words past her cherished name stick in your mouth, awkward, nigh indignant, and you take a moment to calm and order them. Simple and earnest is what you settle for, in the end. "Isobel, my love… You are first in my thoughts, always, you know this. I would gladly bear all your burdens if I but could, if you were to allow it - each and every one." 

She frowns, shakes her head, and you hate that you seem to have somehow displeased her. "That's just it, isn't it? I don't want you to. I don't need you to. You've born more than anyone's fair share." 

"Ah, but Dame Aylin is hardly anyone, is she?"  

You aim your most winning, blinding white grin at her, but fail to induce the reaction you were once used to getting on a whim. No blush or giggle hidden behind a dainty palm at your deliberately overtuned charm being pointed at her, no smirk and tease in return.  

No, Isobel is subdued, troubled, and, most vexing of all, everything you say seems to only serve to make it worse. 

There is something new behind her eyes, too, those beautiful, wise eyes that won your heart entire the first time you met them. A darkness, you would dare call it, a shadow not unlike the curse once fallen upon the land. A question, a yearning for some understanding that never seems to come, a futile grasp for something in an emptiness that was not there before. 

"Please, my love," you say with the utmost tenderness, reserved for Isobel alone, "do not hide your heart from me. You know I cherish it as if it were mine own." 

"I haven't felt… myself," she haltingly begins in answer to your plea, as you step forward and encircle her, first in the embrace of your arms, then in the shelter of your wings. A treasured sanctuary saved for the two of you alone. 

"I cannot… the death, it clings, I..." 

She buries her face in your chest as she struggles to pick out words one by one, plucking them out like painful thorns. You let her rest tucked under your chin, restrain yourself to quietly running one gentle, slow hand through her hair. 

"I am afraid," she settles on, finally, almost a whisper, hiding still, refusing to look at you. "I am afraid there is no fixing this wrongness I feel day after day, that's been… in me, over me, ever since I awoke. That something has been taken from me, and now there is no way to remove this vile mark that's been left on me instead, whatever it is. Not even by the grace of the Moonmaiden." 

She shivers, and you tighten your hold on her, even as the sentence after that tears into your very heart, sharper and more jagged than any Sharran knife. 

"I am afraid, most of all, that no matter how much I pray or plead, that whatever I do to try and prove myself worthy, I… cannot be. Ever again. I will never be worthy of Her light again. Or of yours." 

"No," it comes out far rougher, angrier than you ever intended, ever wanted to aim anywhere near precious, beloved Isobel - not at her, never at her. But she is wrong, because it is an impossibility, unthinkable, ridiculous to even suggest. Her, treasured, cherished, held high above all in your regard, and lofty in your Mother's. 

"Please, Isobel," you move a half-step back, if only to make it possible to cup her face, tilt her chin up and look at her. "Do not ever, ever think such a thing again. You could never be unworthy, not you. Not you." 

The hitch is back in her laboured breath as she moves to protest, the haunted look shadowing her eyes. "How? How can you be so sure?" 

And that is the question, isn't it? Your love for Isobel and faith in her intertwined, utterly certain and utterly relentless. Like the rage that sustained you through a century of torment, settled heavy and deep in your bones. You don't know any other way to feel, to be. 

"I will prove it to you, I will drive away any shadow of any doubt. Her light, through me. For you alone, Isobel." 

She acquiesces, at least, to being led over to the bed and sitting down. You lower the shoulders of her tunic. Place a gentle, reverent kiss on the revealed skin, trying to press in with it all the love and devotion you desperately need her to be aware of. 

You lay a hand on her bare back, palm flat and flush with warm skin. The rush of joy and slight disbelief that she is once again yours to touch is still fresh, and yet the familiarity of every freckle, shift of shoulder blade, and light shiver of gooseflesh is ancient and deep and right. From the outside it is the same, perfect, unchanged Isobel. But you believe her unquestioningly when she says something is wrong. 

A mere moment of focus has a silvery glow bathing the room, unwinding from underneath your fingertips and sinking into Isobel's back. She breathes in deeply, breathes out, then in again, shifting under your touch, until she seems to find at least some relief. 

"Thank you, that's…" she murmurs, barely above a breath. 

There is a dawning, deeply saddening comprehension rising in you - Isobel, insisting on pouring all her heart and soul into taking care of you, healing and protecting and doting on so devotedly, driven not just by your love most mutual, but also by fear. By a desperate need to prove herself worthy of Selûne's grace again, prove her return to life was not a horrifying mistake. Chasing redemption where none was ever needed, not for her, clinging to the thought like a lifeline. 

"Whenever, whatever you need of me, however many times." You allow your fervour to seep into your voice as you feel your eyes burn, and continue trailing moonlight-dipped fingers down her back. "If you but say the word, I will provide what relief I can, I swear it, until you are free of any shadows haunting you, or until there is no light left in me - whichever deigns to come first." 

Isobel smiles wryly, turning to steal a glance at you over her shoulder, a tiredness in her that she has only ever shown you alone. "I promised I would take care of you. And yet here you are, taking care of me. After… after everything." 

She knows enough not to specify. Even this brief almost-mention is enough to make a darkness creep at the edge of your thoughts, but you swallow it back hastily, and focus only on the treasured countenance before you, on brushing stray silver locks behind her ear with your free hand. 

"A fair and just exchange, I would think, if you are amenable." 

Isobel hums something that is neither agreement nor disagreement, then turns to face you fully, sombre in the circle of your arms.  

"I always thought that when the time came, I would be ready," she begins, slowly, as if every word was a trial. "Foolish and naive of me, probably. But I thought I knew what to expect, what I would have awaiting me, after a life of service. The City of Judgement, as awaits us all, and then, hopefully, and - I pray - deservedly, an audience in Argentil after being Claimed." 

She stops, swallows, looks at you so pleadingly you cannot help but pull her back into your embrace. 

"But instead…" you hold her tighter as she shudders, "...nothing. Darkness. A void." 

Nothing. Like the black hole of your prison. And it seems fitting, for a moment, that fate has decided to match you in this, too. 

"It is I who failed you. When it truly mattered, when it was of most consequence, I wasn't there. And you… you were lost to me. To us." 

A small frown furrows her brow as she grasps around for something, anything. "I don't remember." 

"Perhaps… perhaps that is for the best," you exhale, half-sick of dredging up shadows you would prefer remain buried. "My own memory is prodigious, and yet how I wish I could forget much of the past century."  

But Isobel looks at you longingly, searchingly, and you oblige, at least for a little bit, calling to mind what should have been the darkest days of your long life. "For all our efforts, we were never able to capture your attackers - the cowards struck so suddenly, fled so swiftly. You were laid in state, for a while. The entirety of Reithwin mourned - the Silverbrow Priestess conducted the funeral services most beautifully. The very Moon, full to bursting, cried over it. And your father…" 

Your throat seizes up. Her father, your tormentor. A wretched man you feel the two of you have to speak of, some day. The man who gave the world Isobel twice over, but selfishly, impossibly, wanted to keep her all to himself both times. 

Her countenance grows steely and determined in a way you have yet to get used to. "My father was lost to me far before he died at your hand. I mourn the man I remember, not the monster you killed. A loving, kind, generous man, who should never have been capable of such horrors as Ketheric brought down upon my home, upon you. And yet... if I was all that was keeping him from such a fall, I cannot help but think--"  

Isobel's voice cracks and you wonder when, in your absence-captivity, he stopped being Papa and became Ketheric. Your anger towards him tastes bitterer still. 

And you think of Isobel, fleeing her own grave and the twisted visage of what was once her beloved father. Dragging her own burial shroud across a land of shadow and horror, full of echoes of a life half-remembered. 

Isobel, alone, convinced of your demise, mourning you as you endlessly mourned her, both of you unknowing. 

Isobel, left to desperately and single-handedly guard the only meagre surviving pocket of her childhood home, doomed and destroyed by her father's violent, misaimed grief over her own death. A pillar of light in an all-encompassing darkness and one final, crucial defence against it, without even a fair promise of hope or future to sustain her.  

It sounds, at first, like a noble task you would think worthy of a cleric of Isobel's most excellent calibre. But you can't help but think it a test of devotion far too harsh, and entirely superfluous. Such incredible weight to place on any one person's shoulders. And for what? 

Needed and necessary she once called herself and her efforts when you asked, insisting on dismissing it all in a way you perhaps understand entirely too well. 

Perhaps, together... you, hollowed, and her, overflowing. And, in turn, her aching for something that is missing and you fit to burst with wrath and vengeance and violence. Perhaps there is hope yet, and healing to be found for both. 

Together. Only ever together. 

- 

We trust in Your radiance, Moonmaiden, even when it is out of our sight.  

- 

The battle you were waiting for is over - won, by most reckonings, but not without great cost. What is left of the city now needs care and careful restoration. There are still stray cultist enclaves to root out, remnants of the illithid army, as well as mere opportunists who always show their vile selves in such circumstances. As part of an array of unexpected, colourful allies, you make short work of them all, whenever any come to light.  

But rebuilding takes precedence, as does healing, and Isobel has taken point among Selûne's devoted in a way that is nothing short of awe-inspiring. The situation seems altogether more suited to her talents rather than yours at the moment, so you follow her readily, without question, and provide whatever aid you can. 

It is a cycle as old as time, after all, as reliable as the phases of the Moon. Building, destruction, rebuilding - the world will always need both of you. 

But tonight is the night of a full Moon, and Isobel has gone to conduct the requisite rituals with the rest of the Selûnite encampment that has been so welcoming to you. Isobel, death-touched but untainted, no matter what she may fear, will excel in whatever role they set out for her, of this you are certain. 

You, on the other hand, have begged off, your own communion awaiting you elsewhere. 

Your path leads you away from the outskirts of the city and up into the hills, your back turned on the Chionthar. Through remnants of farms and hunting lodges, up and up to cliff and brush and down again to sparse woodland, your steps are guided, as is your birthright. 

It is becoming easier to hear Her voice once again. She does not always speak in words, but Her presence She makes felt.  

And so you stop in a clearing, before a pond, crystal clear and fed by a jolly, clamouring stream. It is quiet, otherwise. Peaceful.  

You dismiss your armour, letting it dissipate into motes of moonlight. You remember with a touch of warmth and immense fondness how sweetly Isobel would pout whenever she did not get to take it off you piece by piece.  

The air is crisp and the water, once you touch it, is almost icy. The moonlight on your skin cleanses and soothes, combining with the chilly water into a refreshing blessing. It is the sensations of the world that you so dearly missed during your captivity, that you now allow to rush over you, all at once. 

It is the first time in over a hundred years you stand and behold the full silver face of your Mother, the trail of Her Tears beside Her, and wonder, idly, if She shed any for you.

Please, you beg as you step into the pool, without shame, without words. A kinder fate for Isobel, this time. 

A kinder fate for the land she still calls home.  

A kinder fate for me.  

The cool silver water seeps into every crevice of your being and washes away with it some ichor of darkness you didn't even know still clung to you. You lie back and let yourself float, the rush of water in your ears drowning out even the small nighttime noises of the clearing and surrounding woods. In the soft waves you hear your Mother's voice, and She sounds kind, inviting, forgiving. 

Why, you want to ask, why would you allow…  

There is new dampness on your cheeks, and you realise haltingly that it is tears. "Hello, Mother." 

The light of the Moon is caring and compassionate, and bathes you in love. It is the only embrace She has ever been able to give you, here. It is almost enough to forget a century of sorrow and the cries that went unheard.  

No more, She says. 

Rest, the murmur continues, soft and sad - a familiar melancholy, though not one you would expect during a Moon so full and bright. Earned, a hundred times over. My Sword, tempered to perfection. My Daughter, put through trials undeserved. Lost to me for so long. You are welcome here. Safe. I would have you know peace once more.  

"Not… not yet. There are still too many, I cannot--" You sit up, rivulets of water running down your face, following the crevices of your scars. It is unlike you to struggle so with your words. You proclaim and vow, you do not stammer and hesitate. 

What would you have for yourself, then, daughter mine?  

"I would seek and extinguish the tyrants, the oppressors," your hands tighten into determined fists as you channel and reflect all that has been done to you, aglow with silver, wings unfurled. "Those who would bind, capture, enslave, who would subjugate and rule another for their own gain - let them sleep with one eye open. Let them know: Dame Aylin sees their deeds and offers no mercy." 

Your cause is righteous, and I bless it as my own. But a burden should be shared. And you are not the only champion at my call.  

It is true, of course, and you grasp the intent, but you cannot help but bristle. You may not be the only one, but surely you are the most-- 

--fearsome? Reliable? Accomplished? 

Doubt creeps in, that most rare and hated of sensations. There is a shift, then, into a plea for you to understand, from a mother to her child. 

A broken sword can accomplish little. And even the finest steel has a breaking point. Do not too eagerly seek your own.  

You sink back into the pool, water up to your chin, as if bowing in acceptance. 

If you crave a task, I task you: offer aid in healing and rebuilding, and thus rebuild yourself. Worry not - I will call upon you when the time comes. But for now, shore up the bulwark within you.   

A smile, a tender grace. 

And let each and all know yours is a blessed union.  

The last fading words leave you puzzled for a few moonlit moments. And then Isobel is next to you, bare and glowing and embracing you, holding you to herself as if she will never let go. 

"Isobel," you start, a host of questions forming on your tongue, but she places a finger over your lips. 

"Guided back to you, as you were to me. As I promise I will be, for as long as I can."  

A shiver runs through you at the undercurrent of steel and sheer devotion in her sweet voice. 

"Then I vow I will never let myself be torn from your side again. And any who seek to part us will meet a swift end by my hand." 

You spoke such promises to each other once already, what feels like a lifetime ago, even though it should by rights have been nothing compared to your eternal years. It is a heavy lesson to have learned so well in breaking them, though - that no tomorrow can ever be guaranteed. Not even for you. 

Not near as tide- and cycle-bound, the Scribe had said, and you wonder at the recalled words. No endless rise and fall for you, then, perhaps. No waxing and waning. No rote repetition of tragic history in this world changed and strange, but instead something altogether new, hewn by the two of you. 

Isobel takes your face between both her hands and kisses you, putting a swift end to your reverie. 

In response, you pick her up out of the water, twirl her around, splash the both of you back down happily. Your smile turns into a grin, then a laugh, open and simple, and her giggle is crystal-bright and utterly free of the grasp of the grave. You feel lighter than the feathers you leave behind like a snowy trail. 

You hold her and kiss her again and again and again and allow yourself to lose track of time. 

#baldur's gate 3 #dame aylin #isobel thorm #aylin x isobel #bg3 #fanfiction #bg3 spoilers #oathkeeper writes things #my fic #i love them and wish them all the succor in the world #cross-posted on ao3 if you prefer to read there #poor unprepared me starting the game salty that they didn't let me play my aasimar paladin staple

[threadbaresweater]

she is driven by powerful forces I scarcely understand. that's what love has done to her, I guess. (Arthur's journal, regarding Sadie Adler)

I've been trying to gather my thoughts on this quote for days and nothing feels quite powerful enough to convey what it might mean, but I'm going to try.

Arthur loved Mary. Still loves her, in my opinion, but knows they cannot be together. The quintessential "doomed by the narrative" couple who, even in another lifetime, might not ever get their day in the sun because as much as they both want it, it really could never work.

Sadie was married to a man she loved with all her heart and soul. We don't get a lot of information about their background, but judging by their cozy homestead, the wedding picture on the mantle, her weeks of grief and isolation following his untimely death, I really think they were deeply in love. True love, passionate even. There were no children to speak of, so I imagine that even with all the chores required to keep up their little ranch, they made plenty of time for each other to keep that flame alive. And to have that ripped away so suddenly- not just that, but to have her entire life's work burned to the ground and then for her to be rescued by some rough, tough rival outlaw gang and torn away from all that she'd probably ever known as a young woman had to alter her brain chemistry in permanent, devastating ways.

Arthur's life hasn't been all sunshine and roses, either, but Mary has always been part of it. Even when they weren't together, even when he ran with the gang and she married someone else and he didn't hear from her for years, he still knew she was alive. He was able to rest in the fact that even though he couldn't be with her the way he wanted to, he knew she was alive and well. That alone let him sleep at night, I think.

Arthur and Sadie both know what love feels like, but only Sadie knows what it feels like to have loved and lost in the truest sense of the word. So when she goes completely off the rails during the Shady Belle raid, I think Arthur is just in awe. He watches her savagely kill, without remorse, without a second thought, without any inhibition whatsoever, and he's totally gobsmacked, if not a little bit scared of her and what she might be capable of. He's always respected her, but I think after that incident, he acquires a newfound confidence in her that maybe he didn't have before. Powerful forces he cannot understand– grief, rage, pain that cuts so deep it changes a person. He's felt them all too at some point in his life, but he doubts that he's ever felt them the way Sadie does.

#rdr2 #sadie adler #arthur morgan

[hella1975]

hella if I may ask how do U feel abt the canon touya we were given vs the previous fandom perception of him🎤? apologies if youve alrdy said but I just watched dabis dance n im GNAWING on the bars of my cage over it

hiiiiiiiiii max <333 hmmm im not entirely sure what ur asking bc i am still very new to mha (sat and thought about this for a second, i caught up to mha a year ago. a YEAR. I HAVE BEEN HERE A YEAR ARE YOU KIDDING. LET ME UP) and i was never in the fandom pre-dabidance/touya reveal so i actually dont really know a lot about past fanon perceptions. i will say for current fanon perceptions i actually dont HATE how touya gets perceived. maybe i am just that good at curating my fandom spaces but from what ive seen people generally characterise him pretty well. his fanon perception is very mardy/broody with big spikes of sudden, intense emotion and he's also a massive bitch with a penchant for dramatics, and while those things get twisted sometimes/over-exaggerated they're still all canonical traits. like he has an inherent Just Some Guyness to him.

i think broadly speaking there's a considerable part of the fandom that are so blindly pro-endeavour that they insist on dying on the 'touya was always an insane irrideemable monster and endeavour did nothing wrong!' hill which is. blood boilingly ridiculous so in THAT regard the fanon characterisation of him somehow just being an inherently evil child (two words that cannot exist together) who has gone on to be a mindless, sadistic adult is a perception that GRATESSSS on my nerves. or even if people don't take the evil child route and still insist touya is sadistic/excessively cruel/senselessly violent. that bugs me bc we get no proof of that. in fact dabi as a character is a shockingly blank slate in the grand scheme of things. we get told that he killed a lot of people, burning them alive in cold blood and that they were innocent, but we dont actually know anything about the situation. for all the time he's on screen, he's quick-tempered and unable to walk away from a fight even if it's illogical, but not sadistic unless it specifically comes to his vendetta. unless something sets him off he is very uninterested in anything else (the snatch comment HOURS later always makes me laugh HES SUCH A CUNT).

if ur asking SPECIFICALLY about dabidance and how it was handled (bc it's a very Active scene and that's hard to convey through manga, so people had very different expectations for it from what i've heard) then i LOVED how it was done. in that regard i think there's very much a fanon dabi that is Very Cool And Sexy so people find it hard to reconcile that with the fact that the touya reveal was so borderline silly, because they only ever want him to be suave and attractive. but when facing off against his abuser for the first time in a decade and finally, finally crawling from the shadows after living through hell and LITERALLY stapling himself back together again, touya is manic. i fucking adore that, especially from a character with such a temper bc high-charged scenes like that usually only ever go in two directions: anger or tears. we didn't get that here. yes, he's clearly angry, but it's done in a manic way. it would be so easy with a character like dabi to have him screaming and yelling his head off in a fit of rage, but we get this instead. he's so clearly slipping and it's both uncomfortable and cathartic to watch. he can't even contain it. he DANCES. it's almost laughable but in a seriously disturbing way, and i think anyone who didn't like that about the touya reveal is seriously missing out.

#I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE HIM I LOVE H #ask #touya todoroki #mha #mha spoilers

[temperedink]

talk refined

For @elucienweekofficial (not related to a prompt)

Newly mated Elain has pretty much adjusted to being fae after all this time. What she’s still hung up on? Being able to express things in the bedroom. Luckily, Lucien is totally willing to let her try that out on him.

Featuring:

Happily mated in the Day Court 🌅

PWP 🥵

Elain learning to talk dirty 🗣️

Lucien returning the favour 🧼

Face-sitting 😛

4.9K words, one-shot

For the most part, Elain had gotten used to being fae and all that entailed. It had taken years at this point, but embracing her newfound fae strengths and abilities and of course her mate had finally made her comfortable in Prythian. 

There were still some things she couldn’t quite get past yet. Words had been especially hard for Elain since she turned fae. She had been bubbly and chatty in her youth and relentlessly positive even when her family was at their worst in the human lands, but after the Cauldron, words couldn’t begin to convey what she had gone through and how she was feeling. 

It wasn’t like she’d been all that great about talking about her feelings anyway before the Cauldron. She was the peacekeeper in the family, always soothing over Nesta’s rage and Feyre’s temper, her sisters’ roiling emotions almost too much to contain in that tiny cottage. She had her own fears about their ability to survive another long winter, and her own dreams about escaping the bleakness and being surrounded by flowers and light and love with a family of her own someday. But she and her father had both tacitly understood that their feelings were additional complications the Archeron family didn’t need, not when they were just trying to keep body and soul together. Being quiet had been easier for everyone.

She had found her voice again when their fortunes were restored, busy and cheerful playing the socialite and the soon-to-be wife of a prominent family, but after the Cauldron, she retreated into herself and into silence. It had taken time, understanding her Seer powers, and accepting the bond with Lucien after they defeated Koschei to fully accept herself as fae. Lucien had been the unwavering support she’d needed to do that, from her first breath as fae, to her resentment that he’d gracefully borne for so long, to finally living happily in Day Court with Helion and his mother.

Read on AO3.

Author thoughts under the cut.

Oops, accidentally included a character study and a meditation on internalized shame in my smut.

I'm 100% certain that Lucien is going to be a dirty talker when we finally get his book. Man who CANONICALLY cannot shut up will be an absolute menace in the bedroom.

But in looking for inspiration fic for Elain's dirty talking here, I realized there's not a lot of women in fic or in romance books who actually talk the talk. I could name you a ton of stories with alpha males (and the cinnamon rolls too, for that matter) who can talk a blue streak in bed, but women are much harder to find. Obviously there's a long way to go to normalize dirty talk for women. Elain is working her way through it in this fic (SAME, Elain) so she's not perfect at it from the jump, but she definitely emboldened by it, and makes a valiant effort, as I hope I did in writing it.

#lucien's love language is words of affirmation #elucien fic #elucienweek2023 #elain x lucien #lucien vanserra #elain archeron #acotar fic #working through internalized shame while writing about working through internalized shame is a TRIP #fic: talk refined

[lumpyorganelle]

Heartbreak & losses quotes pt.2

Ah, merciless Love, is there any length to which you cannot force the human heart to go?” ― Virgil, The Aeneid

“How starved you must have been that my heart became a meal for your ego.” ― Amanda Torroni

“every loss, every mistake, was seared into her soul, creating a different kind of tattoo, one made from rage and abandonment, heart break and tears” ― Kami Garcia and Margaret Stohl

“He started to estrange her… And they became strangers Who knew each other's heart, So broken as they drifted apart.” ― Ana Claudia Antunes, Pierrot & Columbine

“Did the destruction of one dream leave a vacuum that required filling with another? Is a broken heart more vulnerable?” ― Cinda Williams Chima, The Exiled Queen

“Thoughts are as simple as the process…a message from the soul; conveyed through the heart; received in the mind” ― Jeremy Aldana

“She ached so badly to be held it felt like a sickness had invaded her muscles and bones. As usual, her own arms provided little comfort.” ― Helen Hoang, The Kiss Quotient

“When the heart is down and the soul is heavy, the eyes can only speak the language of tears” ― Ikechukwu Izuakor

“Then I feel I have given away my whole soul to someone who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day.” ― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

“A faint cry; I can't figure out if it's mine or if it's echoing the other half of my broken heart—the one beating in his chest.” ― Aura Biru, We Are Everyone

“There has to be a whole other level of pain when your soul gets ripped in half.” ― Karen M. McManus, One of Us Is Back

“Those words created in my heart and stomach a physical effect so sickening, so painful, that I have never since doubted that these vibrational frequencies traveling upon air can land a knock-out punch more excruciating than any fist or weapon.” ― Erin Zelinka, On Love and Travel: A Memoir

“My wounded heart, too burdened by scars, struggles even to fathom the concept of love, let alone embrace its gentle touch.” ― Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

“An Ocean full of thoughts, a broken heart, and a tragic shore of insane storms. I am trapped in a body that is not my own, a world that's too alien for my soul and an evil wounding my heart.” ― Sapppho Khizar

“When stranded in a desert, and you’re dying of thirst, a mirage is the cruelest trick the mind can play. And when you are a stranger among regular folks, and you’re in search of love, a disillusioned or misguided heart is the cruelest thing.” ― Soroosh Shahrivar, Tajrish

“That was the end of the integrity of their love. The succeeding days were a shambles of falseness and hypocrisy, mingled with her tears and moments of animal passion to which she abandoned herself with a greed made indecent by the hollowness of their days.” ― Ian Fleming, Casino Royale

“…my father explained to me in a hushed tone that in times of extreme stress or trauma, humans of all ages will resort back to the fetal position, because it is an instinctual way to protect all our vital organs and because it reminds us of the safest place we all began, thee womb.” ― Lucy Keating, Dreamology

“This was just the world. You trusted people, you loved them, you offered them the dignity of your time and the intimacy of your thoughts and the fraility of your hope and they either accepted it and cared for it or they rejected it and destroyed it and in the end, none of it was up to you. This was just what you got. Heartbreak was inevitable. Disappointment assured.” ― Olivie Blake, The Atlas Paradox

“Being of heart resists no hurt, they savor poison like fine wine. The benevolent takes no notice of betrayal, while the somnolent just moan and whine.” ― Abhijit Naskar, Yarasistan: My Wounds, My Crown

“How can I be reasonable? To me our love was everything and you were my whole life. It is not very pleasant to realize that to you it was only an episode.” ― W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil

#lost love #heartbreak #love quotes #quotes #poetry #poem #ex #exes #miss them #break up #heartache #ex gf #ex bf #ex girlfriend #ex boyfriend #ex lover #ex lovers #longing #miss him #miss her #love of my life

[art-monsters]

honestly, I am always amazed by your style of writing. the way you manage to capture thoughts/feelings, it’s fascinating and it’s raw. it’s more like reading poetry than anything else

anyways, I wanted to give my own definition of art a try :) (loved pandoras btw. in general, they all suited the characters so well!!)

I have to apologise for the length though haha:

Art is a stance, a question, and a motive.

It so not what you see that is translated into a blank canvas, but rather your unique perception of surrounding, of the world as a whole, a message which is visualized through art and carried forth to an audience who will, in turn, interpret that and twist it into something comparable with their own ideals.

Art appeases not only the creator but also the beholder, however; it’s purpose is not to please but to acknowledge, rather, to enrage and inspire a thought process deeper than a simplistic, surface-level ‘pretty’.

Art is a medium carved out for those who fail to articulate their thoughts, for those who deem words insufficient and lack-luster, at times when nothing truly manages to mediate the conflicts raging in your mind. Art is being, art is creating, art is conveying. It’s an escape, the drive to evade thoughts which fight their way to the surface yearning to be spoken though not tangible sound escapes. Art is carved out for the horrific, the surreal.

What frightens us: demons, the dark, death, uncertainties looming unaddressed, are all something we refrain from verbalizing. But we can draw. We can pretend, we can romanticize, we can conceptualize. Create a vision that only the artist will ever truly understand.

Art is a manifestation of being. A declaration of defeat, an appraisal of societal constructs, an acknowledgment of instinct and primal needs. Of humanity; or the lack thereof.

Art is the truest form of self. A mirror of mind but also deception. Desperation and mortality.

Ultimately, you cannot create without chipping away parts of yourself in the process. To indulge in art and walk away unscathed would be the true ideal.

To be consumed by art is inescapable.

hello! thank you very much for the kind words!

art as temporality

art absorbs us, it absorbs the human experience in its entirety and reflects it back to us. our fears, our hopes, our dreams, our innermost thoughts. it is the product of the artists' experiences and the viewer's experiences and societal expectations. and the canvas stands before us all voracious and daunting.

art is something that takes, art is something that endures, art is something that evolves and morphs and gives voice to the unspeakable. it is something to be both feared and fascinated by. it is the essence of all of humanities events from the point of creation onward, a collection of histories as we move through them.

i am putting you with the monstrous group with Marlene, Dorcas, and Pandora because art is a reflection, it reveals all parts of the viewer and the world around us, whether we want to see it or not. it is there. it is the true-self, it is scathing. it is something that you cannot walk away from unmarred. it is simultaneously what is left when you kill the angel in the house and the expectations of the angel in the house reflected back at you.

#🏺

[the-real-housewives-of-waterdeep]

Poor Little Rich Girl Chapter 11: Terms and Conditions

Summary: Dulcinea and her companions receive distressing news from a mentor of Gale’s. Dulcinea learns the hard way that she cannot always have what she wants. Rating: MA Category: F/M Relationships: Tav/Gale Chapter 11/? Word count: 1.8k

“Where are the hand-axes?” Dulcinea asked Karlach demandingly.

Karlach’s eyes widened. “You alright, soldier? You’re running hotter than I am.”

“Where are the hand-axes?” Dulcinea asked again, her voice becoming a deep growl. Her eyes burned with a smoldering rage, her teeth gritted together.

Karlach nodded towards Astarion’s tent. “He’s got ‘em.”

Dulcinea turned without saying anything, stomping over to Astarion’s tent. The pale elf was reading a book, as usual, looking up from the pages upon Dulcinea’s approach.

“Need something?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

Dulcinea said nothing and grabbed the small crate of hand-axes from next to Astarion’s tent.

“Were you raised in a barn?” Astarion asked incredulously. “Or did training with the barbarian knock the manners out of you?”

Dulcinea glanced up at him briefly. “I’ll bring them back when I’m done. If there’s blood on them, I’ll clean it off for you. Fair?”

Astarion could feel the intense anger radiating from Dulcinea and took a half step back. She seemed volatile, dangerous, and ready to erupt at any moment.

“Alright,” Astarion conceded. He wasn’t about to argue with Dulcinea in her current emotional state. She was a demanding, spoiled brat, but being angry and demanding was unusual, even for her.

Dulcinea was angry. Her body, which often manifested her emotional state before she could recognize that she was feeling, felt like molten iron. She took the hand-axes into the woods outside of the Rosymorn monastery where she and her companions made camp, seeking a sturdy tree for target practice. Short of tearing apart the entire camp, this was her outlet of choice.

This all started several days ago after Elminster’s visit to their camp, bearing news of Mystra’s conditional forgiveness. The cost was exorbitant and unfathomable; Gale would have to pay for Mystra’s forgiveness through self-detonating, wiping himself from the face of existence.

Each axe Dulcinea threw struck the tree trunk with a dull thunk as the blade embedded itself into the tree’s bark. Her aim was haphazard, yet another manifestation of her emotional state.

How dare he?

Thunk.

How could he betray me like this?

Thunk.

He‘s supposed to be mine, dammit.

Thunk.

Her last axe hit the tree, but it failed to embed itself and fell with a disappointing thud to the forest floor. Dulcinea growled with anger, stomping over to retrieve the axe and throw it again. Once again, the axe didn’t stick.

“Fuck!” Dulcinea roared.

“Hey, soldier,” Karlach said tentatively. “Wyll and I came to check on you.”

Dulcinea looked at Karlach over her shoulder. “I’m fine, damnit. Just give me some space.”

Wyll sighed. “Dulcinea, you’ve been sulking and throwing axes all day and night for the past two days. You aren’t eating or sleeping and you’re not exactly the most skillful at concealing your emotions. We know this is about Gale.”

Dulcinea snorted. “Well aren’t you the best godsdamned detective of the whole Sword Coast,” she sneered angrily as she turned towards her friends. She felt exposed and ashamed, which only agitated her further. “And what business is it of yours anyway?”

“You’re making it about yourself,” Karlach said bluntly. “And you’re scaring everyone. Gale sent us because even he’s scared to talk to you.”

Dulcinea froze, her eyes wide. Even he, the man she sought to protect and care for, was scared of her. She opened her mouth slightly, but was unable to speak.

“Soldier, take a knee,” Karlach instructed, taking a seat on a fallen log alongside Wyll. Their expressions mirrored each other, conveying sadness and sternness in equal measure.

Whenever Karlach told her to take a knee, Dulcinea knew her friend meant business. She did as instructed, kneeling on her right knee.

“You need to pull yourself together,” Karlach said, her tone uncharacteristically serious. “We’re all upset. We’re all furious. If Mystra’s commanding Gale to kill himself for her approval, she’s no god worth following.”

Dulcinea opened her mouth to interject, but Karlach held up her hand.

“We need to keep a strong front for him,” Wyll added. “That includes you.”

A single tear trickled down Dulcinea’s cheek, followed by another. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to blink away the tears.

“Anger is the guardian of grief, the protector of sorrow and fear. A tempest of raw emotion,” Wyll continued. “Though it be strong, it can be controlled. For Gale’s sake it must be controlled.”

“He’s supposed to be mine,” Dulcinea whimpered, her tears starting to fall faster than she could blink them away. Her chest began to heave in an angry sob. “Why does Mystra always get her way when it comes to him?”

“Soldier, we’ll find another way. Paladin’s honor,” Karlach sighed. “We’re all in bits about this. But Gale needs you more than ever. He needs all of us. Cry as hard as you have to but you’ve got to be strong for him.”

Dulcinea was sobbing harder now. “He’s going to do through with it. He’s going to fucking go through with it,” she said through her sobs. “He’s going to destroy himself for some worthless god who won’t even do her own fucking dirty work and whose fault it is that he’s got that fucking bomb in his chest to begin with.”

Dulcinea’s chest heaved as she tried to breathe through her sobbing. “You don’t fucking understand. I am Dulcinea Selemchant and I get what I want. I always get what I want. I’ve wanted Gale’s attention since I was 17 years old. Over a decade. I could’ve had anyone and I wanted him. Now, he’s slipping from my grasp.”

“You can’t get your way all the time,” Wyll said, growing uncharacteristically irritated. “You are 28 years old. It is high time you learned that the world owes you nothing.”

Dulcinea buried her face in her hands, unable to look Wyll or Karlach in the eye. She knew they were right. They were her closest friends in camp, the people who had been the most patient with her, yet even they were growing frustrated with her.

Dulcinea was silent, staring at the ground beneath her. She had stopped sobbing, but her chest still heaved as she tried to catch her breath. “I think I need a moment to myself,” she sniffled.

“Take all the time you need,” Wyll said, rising from the log where he and Karlach sat. Karlach followed suit, looking over her shoulder at Dulcinea. She gave her a gentle half-smile before she and Wyll walked away.

Dulcinea rose to her feet and slowly began to collect the hand-axes. “Fuck…” she whispered to herself, her throat still raw from crying.

She’d made this about herself, as if Gale considering Mystra’s offer was somehow an affront to their nascent relationship. Gale seemed to feel that the only way he could save Faerûn was to end his own life.

Dulcinea returned to camp several hours later, carrying her box of axes, which she deposited by Astarion’s tent.

“Blood free, as promised,” Dulcinea sighed. Her demeanor conveyed her exhaustion from training and processing her emotions. Astarion didn’t respond to her beyond glancing up from his book.

Gale sat by the fire, silently watching the roasted deer he was making. His expression conveyed that he had been deep in thought for several hours, alone with his inner life.

Dulcinea took a seat beside him. She waited for him to acknowledge her, but he said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Dulcinea finally said, her voice soft and apologetic.

“For what?” Gale asked, looking at her quizzically.

“For making this about me. For sulking for days,” Dulcinea replied. “And I’m sorry that I scared you.”

“The intensity of your anger was truly something to behold,” Gale said, choosing his words carefully.

“I won’t deny that I’m still upset,” Dulcinea sighed. “But there has to be some other way to do this.”

“Why can’t a god do their own dirty work?” Dulcinea spat.

Gale looked down at his feet and then up at the fire. “She no doubt has the power, but permission from Ao is another matter altogether.

“This is a suicide mission, Gale,” Dulcinea said pleadingly. “Do you realize that?”

“It’s the clearest solution to our problem. All I have to do is close my eyes and let go. The Absolute will be gone and I along with it.”

Dulcinea studied Gale’s face carefully. He spoke with confidence and intent, as if he was certain and accepting of his demise, yet his eyes revealed his fear and sorrow.

“I feel the most at ease I have in months,” Gale continued. It sounded as if he was trying to convince himself, not Dulcinea.

Dulcinea shook her head. “Gale, I’m not letting you blow yourself up. It’s a non-starter.”

Gale smiled weakly. “We need to find the heart of The Absolute first.”

Dulcinea pursed her lips and stared at her feet. She nodded, saying nothing. Gale subtly moved his hand towards hers, holding it gently. Dulcinea jumped as his hand grasped hers. When she realized it was only Gale’s hand and not the hand of an undead beast coming to drag her away, she laughed inwardly and smiled at him.

“Dinner smells nice,” she commented as she nodded towards the venison roasting on a spit.

Gale returned her smile. “That’s high praise coming from Miss ‘Needs More Garlic’,” he teased.

“You know I was right about that,” Dulcinea retorted playfully.

“Perhaps one day, you’ll grant me the kindness of allowing me to leave my affront to your tastebuds in the past.”

“Maybe, but not tonight,” Dulcinea grinned impishly. Gale wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her to his side.

“I smell terrible,” Dulcinea laughed. “I didn’t have a chance to wash up after axe throwing.”

Gale smiled softly at her. “I quite like your musk.”

“Ugh, whatever gets you off,” Dulcinea replied, curling her upper lip in a disgusted grimace. “I think I smell gods-awful. I miss my perfume collection, my bath house trips, and my Calimshan soaps.”

“Ah, the Temple of Beauty in Waterdeep is a spectacular bath house,” Gale sighed contentedly. “How I miss it.”

“I practically lived there,” Dulcinea snorted. “Nearly everyone there knew my name.” She rested her head against his shoulder, smiling softly.

“If we were back home, I’d want to go there with you,” Gale said, giving Dulcinea an affectionate squeeze.

“When we get back home,” Dulcinea corrected. “Because we will get back home. I will do anything that I can to see to it that you return home unexploded.”

Gale smiled and shook his head. “You’re a stubborn one, Dulcinea.”

Dulcinea shrugged. “Only when it comes to what matters most to me. Either way, I want to ask you something.”

“Ask away,” Gale replied.

“Will you teach me how to cook?” Dulcinea asked sheepishly.

Gale took both of her hands in his and looked Dulcinea in the eye. “Dulcinea Selemchant,” he said solemnly. “It would be my honor to tutor you in the ways of the culinary arts. We shall start tomorrow morning.”

#bg3 #bg3 gale #bg3 astarion #bg3 shadowheart #bg3 karlach #bg3 wyll #bg3 lae'zel #bg3 halsin #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #bg3 fic #baldur's gate 3

[lafcadiosadventures]

Madame Putiphar Groupread. Book Two, Chapter XXIX

Degradation Ceremony

Arthur Rackham, pen and watercolour illustration for Irish Fairytales.

Patrick is surprised to be summoned from the dungeon so soon. He is ordered to dress in his gala uniform.

He is then taken to the main courtyard where the whole company is assembled.

The reader already knows what’s up since we read Putiphar’s letter to Villepastour, but even though he must have heard about this punishment during his military instruction, it takes a second for Patrick to realize what’s coming. The chapter depicts Patrick’s state of mind as kind of numbed by anxiety and exhaustion. Once he hears the trumpets he doesn’t doubt any more and takes a challenging stance because he realizes he is about to be degraded. He is soon overcome by shivers and cold and sweating, and feels almost faint. This is when they force him to kneel (and we suffer with Patrick because of the psychological accuracy of the description. Also because we remember the narrator portraying Irishmen in book one, chapter five, as those who “(...) ne se tenant jamais pour battus, ne pactisant jamais avec l’iniquité; la gorge sous le pied de leur ennemi rêvant encore l’insurrection.” Patrick is in such a bad state, he is being devoured from within by his own fear. He is not to be blamed, he seems to believe all of this is unavoidable, and in fact it now is, and we feel terrible it has come to this. I don’t know. It’s terribly well conveyed and we just feel impotence at our inability to protect him)

After that, Villepastour has a lieutenant read Patrick’s charges in Ireland, and therefore decree him to be banished from the Musketeers corps.

Patrick cannot help weeping. His suspicions that he wouldn’t attain long lasting happiness in this world seem to be confirmed and he is pierced by helplessness. This sense of suspicion that joy wasn’t meant to be lasting for him is not incompatible with a lifetime of instability he has endured, not only in Cockermouth Castle, but also in colonized Ireland as a whole. (and Cockermouth Castle is a microcosm representing that larger imperial power) And he had idealized France so intensely, seeing his life fall pray of the same arbitrary power that haunted him back home,,, is too much.

[⚠️speculative tangent alert⚠️ It seems as if the narrative is punishing Patrick for his naif belief that he could trust the French monarchy, and work for it (even in such a minor role he still becomes part of an imperial army) and find joy... Perhaps this story kind of has that fable morality with a twist Borel served in Champavert, Is Patrick being punished because he wasn’t lucid enough to condemn/reject all monarchs, and all imperial armies, only those that affected him personally? While of course stressing the cruelty and pettiness of it’s two main villains. Patrick does not in any way deserve what happens to him. But the Dark Fate Borel is constructing, is described as having some preferred victims/who are the best of people and do not deserve this rage,,,, So far we've seen that fate as a blind and random force that allows the cruel and powerful of the earth to stomp and pray on those weaker than the just because they can. We have also seen if defined as an evil deity who tests the fate of its stronger followers.. I realize this tangent has lasted long enough and i don't have a closing conclusion to offer yet. It's all speculation for now because perhaps we haven't seen enough, but summing it up there seem to be three vectors here at play:

we are alone in the universe and the dark fate is ruled by those with the means to abuse others aka the rich and powerful,

there is an evil god tasting the faith of his strongest believers

there is a system of reward and punishment at play, like in traditional folktales]

His words from last chapter return as a mantra (comparable to Diderot’s Jacques’ mantra*):

“My God! my God!” he whispered like the previous night in the forest, “what destiny have you prepared for me in the afterlife to make this one so cruel?”

(tr. @sainteverge )

After reading him his charges and his sentence, they make him rise to proceed with his degradation: his uniform is torn, his sabre broken, his hair cropped like that of a man condemned to death, and he is finally made to wear a hood made of some kind of rough fabric, to mark him as a man worthy of no respect, he is marked as dishonoured.

After the “insulting”fanfares ring, the ceremony concludes with Villepastour riding towards him and hitting Patrick three times with the blunt side of his blade, and crying out: go, you are vanished.

---

*Jacques utters his mantra in all kinds of situations, among them times of extreme distress. Although the tone in the Diderot scene I’m copying bellow is somewhat farcical, the situation is comparable, since Jacques is forced by his social status to submit to the Master: a man that is usually less smart than he, and physically less strong.

«Voilà le maître dans une colère terrible et tombant à grands coups de fouet sur son valet, et le pauvre diable disant à chaque coup : « Celui-là était apparemment encore écrit là-haut… »»

“See the Master in a terrible rage and furiously beating his valet down with his whip, and the poor devil saying with each stroke: “this was apparently also written up above...””

While Patrick is not forced to submit to a single weaker individual, he is forced to assume a possition of submission (while he wanted to challenge the whole regiment) and allow himself to be humiliated and abused.

( @counterwiddershins @sainteverge )

#madame putiphar #scheduled post

[corviids]

hi birdie! just saw your post about impostor syndrome hitting you and i just wanted to remind you what an excellent artist and writer you are. i know it's difficult to think so when impostor syndrome is at its highest, but i do hope this brings some comfort anyways! <3

as a writer, i cannot being to explain why your writings are out of this world, insane, crazy, wonderful. whatever emotion you try to go for, you achieve it in a way that it just clings to the reader's mind and carves a place in our bones. your dialogues, your world-building, the details, the characterisation, the sadness, the joy, the despair, the love, the yearning, the rage, the passion…. i've cried reading your writings, because they hit so hard in my heart that i just cannot stay quiet about it. and i have devoured your smut, and i have laughed with the lucemond kids' shenanigans. you have a way with words, you are so unique. i consume every single piece you publish, and i would consume any book of your own if you published, too. you were one of the first writers i read and followed when i came to this fandom and i just hope i can keep supporting you in anything you do.

as an artist, your talent knows no limits. that magic you have putting emotions into words, well, you also have it when you draw the faces of your characters. it's like looking at them in the eye, their smiles and the twitches and tilts you capture so well, and it feels like i'm looking at a real person with real emotions. i'm in love with your style, from the sketch to the colouring to the way i can see any of your art out of context and know it's yours. you have magic in your fingers, and daily dust in your soul and in your mind, and that's why every single piece you draw and you write is a treasure to be kept and protected, love and cherished.

personally, i know we haven't talked much, but you have been so kind to me. and i just love your sense of humor, your commitment, the way you treat with such respect and love your readers. how you give your heart to answer to our asks and questions just as you give it to create content.

we're very lucky to have you in this fandom, a nd i will always be grateful for every single thing that you have given us that has made me fell even more in love with lucerys, with aemond, with lucemond. with this site and with the culture of fan creating and providing.

you're a star, and i just hope i can continue to see how much you achieve as time goes by! we have your back! you don't know how much your writings and your art mean to people, and i know because i'm one of those and i have friends with whom i talked about your creations! you made hundreds of people from different places in the world to fall in love with what you do! i would say that's such a pretty neat job! <3 <3 <3

hope you feel better soon! i'm here if you ever need to talk! sending you the biggest hug and the best of vibes!!!!!! <3 <3 <3

i’ve waited a couple days to answer this because i’m genuinely speechless. i don’t cry very easily for reasons but reading this, especially after such a hard day, made me tear up. there really aren’t words to convey how grateful i am for everyone here that has supported my works. lucemond and this little community we have built have really became a safe space for me to ramble and share my stuff without fear.

i’m eternally grateful for every single person that send me asks, comments, or just comes round to check my stuff out. this is one of, if not the kindest things i’ve ever received and i hope that i can continue to make y’all as happy as you all make me <333

#wanna give op a hug #asks

[possumcollege]

Y'all, I feel like all the love for Mikey and Nicky really glosses over the part where Nick takes Mikey to his girlfriend's place, has sex with her on the floor against her wishes while Mikey waits awkwardly in the kitchen like 10ft away, then offers her to Mikey like she's a drag off his cigarette and when she rejects him, Mikey fucking strikes her. Fucking nuts if that ain't a dark turn.

The earlier scene where Mikey blows up over the cream at the diner felt like an act of desperation to care for his friend. It's aggressive and dramatic, but the scene with Nick's girlfriend is disturbing. Mikey is led into a scene that none of us can unsee and he knows it. The scene feels like Nick saying "I need you to want what I have for once, and then feel bad for wanting it." It shows us how irreparably broken and toxic this relationship is.

From then on, the movie is so much less, "find ya a buddy who'll fight you like a puppy for your own good" and more about how this mode of fraternal loyalty has brought them into this escalating doom spiral where Nick, jealous of his best friend, sets him up to be shamed, tested and put in very real danger while still depending on him for his literal survival. Mikey is pulled deeper and deeper into Nick's narcissistic self-destruction and it's almost certainly been the arc of their entire relationship.

Neither of these characters are "good" people, but we see the way Nick gets into Mikey's head. Mikey starts to become more hostile with his wife after Nick's jabs leave him feeling like she doesn't see him as clearly as Nick does and that was done on purpose. Nick needs to be the most important person in every interaction. He needs attention, power, validation, comfort, and protection, and he needs to constantly test the limits and devotion of the people around him.

In the end, Mikey is pushed into the understanding that the only way to retain his own identity in the face of Nick's increasingly unstable behavior is to be rid of him. In that moment of breaking free, we see Nick play every emotional card, love, pity, rage, resentment, in an attempt to hold on to what he has even if it threatens to pull everyone he loves down with him.

I've seen the film described as an exploration of friendship and betrayal or self-preservation vs loyalty, but no amount of love, support or sacrifice will change or help Nick. Nick has many opportunities to escape, but he needs the people in his life to prove to himself that he is real. He clings to Mikey like a security blanket. He degrades and humiliates his girlfriend who for whatever reason hasn't turned him in. He can't stop calling his wife just to torment and emotionally blackmail her. He keeps returning to places he knows aren't safe to solicit comfort and validation.

Mikey's commitment to his friend consumes and compromises him. There is real love between them but Nick cannot conceptualize other people existing independently of him. Mikey is willing to put himself at risk to give his friend the slightest chance of escape and Nick repays that by playing shit-magnet on Mikey's actual front porch.

Nick's last words may as well be, "I can't live with myself, so watch me die and know it's your fault." Nick sucks.

Before I actually watched this movie, I kept getting the impression that people saw something sweet and *maybe* a little queer in the relationship between Mikey and Nick. Now, honestly the queer angle is neither here nor there for me on top of what feels like romanticizing a toxic and abusive relationship through omission. The memes and gif-sets can't convey Nick treading on Mikey's Jewish values or undermining his other relationships.

I see the appeal from arms length. Nick is impulsive and intense. Mikey is fiercely loyal and sweet. They have a series of little adventures and from a distance, it's a damn near love story but any closer, it's clear this is a tragedy. The only way for Mikey to live his own life is to let go and let his best friend burn out alone.

(edited 12/1/22, after it was noted that it sounded like I was calling the potentially queer angle toxic. Not the case. Maybe if they'd just made out when they were younger this might have gone differently)

#mikey and nicky #peter falk #john cassavetes #narcissism