#❪ ⠀ ⇢ ⠀ ┆ ❝ INTROSPECT ❞ ╱ ⠀TEMPEST. ⠀ ❫

[tempestfm]

✦ TATI GABRIELLE,NON BINARY , THEY/SHE ✦ TEMPEST KANG the TWENTY SIX year old has been in Hidehill for ALL THEIR LIFE and was a FAMILY FRIEND to Jade Parker, the missing first murder victim. Whispers on the streets are that the ARTIST who lives in HAGFIELD. They are said to be OPINIONATED and LOUD but I guess we’ll find out for ourselves.

Name: Tempest Kang

Age: Twenty Six

Gender and Pronouns: Non-Binary & They/She.

Birthdate and Sign: 12 July 1996, Cancer

Occupation: Artist, previously bartender & personal assistant

Education: Graduated from community college locally before moving on to Savannah college of Art and Design

Sexuality: Pansexual

Pets: A frenchie named Miles (Davis), an awkward greyhound mix named Nina (Simone), and two Scottish Folds (Frieda and Elton).

Traits: Loud, Opinionated, Loyal, Ready to throw hands, Determined, Creative, Compassionate, Sarcastic (and willing to roast you & your mama), Educated, Expressive, Explosive, Funny, Honest (but brutally so).

Triggers: Identity Struggles, Overdose/Drug use, Parental Death, Plane Crash

At first, growing up was going well for them. They enjoyed having a built in best friend in their sister, and never missed a chance to make people believe they really were inseparable. Their bond with Sasha never changed, but the view of the family was altered easily as they both grew into young adults.

The requirements some of their fathers culture considered normal started to make them uncomfortable early. Sasha had no issues with learning them or dressing up, but Tempest came to hate them damage it would do on their hair and their self image to be forced into dresses, make up, and a bunch of shit now, looking back, they’d tell you they were too young for.

They became the rebel of the two, early. Part of that was because they were, but the other part? It was because they had a tendency to take the fall for their sister, adopting a sort of big sister mentality even if they were twins. They’d always been able to protect Sasha that way, and it was something they’d been proud of. But, that pride definitely took a hard hit and never bounced back when their parents died.

The two of them were separated initially, and Tempest blamed themself for all of it, even the death of their parents. They thought that if they had been easier to deal with, if they hadn’t made everything an uphill battle, hadn’t rebelled so hard, somehow it would have made a difference. Then, when they were separated from Sasha for a year before Rowan took them both in and brought Tempest back to town, they didn’t know what to do.

The year was hell in trying to grieve for not only the loss of their parents but the loss of Sasha. They called, texted, messaged, but it wasn’t the same. Eventually, feeling isolated and hurt, they turned turned to drugs and allowed anything that would silence their pain, and the screaming in their head, until one night they’d taken too many. It wasn’t on purpose, but the effects were the same and three days in the hospital, changed a lot of things.

They saw a therapist after that, they introduced them to art therapy which started to help them heal, but also learn more about something they were already talented with. So, they eventually followed that dream, and was able to put the smallest silver lining on the tragedy that tried to define both them and their sisters life.

Connection ideas

Fellow Artists

Someone/s who cannot stand this bitch (I love a good enemies to lovers, bonus points)

Those who grew up with them

Someone/s who kept in touch when they were isolated after their parents died and moved away for a year

Highschool sweethearts or something along those lines, who knows what’s really happening now

Hook ups with varying levels of complication or lack of and know how to act right and enjoy a simple friends with benefits

The exception to the rule trope

Regulars turned friends from when they were a bartender before

Someone/s that like to get moderately fucked up and have deep conversations, or literally let them paint on their back/stomach/skin, climb on the roof and look at stars, you know - casual intimacy shit

#❪ ⠀ ⇢ ⠀ ┆ ❝ INTROSPECT ❞ ╱ ⠀TEMPEST. ⠀ ❫ #hidehillintro

[historiaxvanserra]

These Violent Delights | An Eris Vanserra story

Summary: At a ball in Hewn City, you meet your match in Eris Vanserra

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!Reader (brief mentions of Azriel x reader)

Word Count: 7.6k

Previously called If I Can’t Have Love, I Want Power. I changed the name to adapt if from a one shot into a series.

You had been born on a night like this, you think. The storm-streaked clouds line the heavens like flowering hydrangeas as they dissolve into a black abyss and the moonlight shines like pearls on the water where the horizon meets the Sidra. 

Storm-streaked they had called you. 

When you were a little girl, your father had told you that you had come into this world in the same way as the old Gods had. Born from the merciless depths of some unknowable blue-darkness; cruel and beautiful, and fearless. 

Now fear is all you know. 

The crack of forked white lightening against the darkening horizon pushes you further into introspective thought. The visions come with the quiet; flashes of silver and gold and the icy embrace of the water. That infernal cauldron and what it had taken from. It haunts you, even in dreaming.  

Of late, the days seem to pass in a state of perpetual purgatory, marred by memories and the water– an unforgiving tempest that tears through you. 

The water cleanses but it also devastates. 

Your father had once called you water; the salt and the sea. 

You had always wondered what that meant. 

But here you stand-- a storm incarnate; volatile, half-wild and isolating. And who can become the water without inheriting its violence, or its loneliness?

The feeling of harsh violet eyes on you is enough to drag you gaze from your spot near the balcony and the storm as it rages outside. 

“Are you ready, Nesta?” Rhysand’s voice is velvet night as it reverberates around the small waiting room. 

A chill runs down your spine when you catch his eyes, glinting and violet in the dim light. You regard Nesta cooly as she tilts her chin upwards. 

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Nesta’s eyes are lined with kohl and looking at her is like looking into the eye of a storm.

She always had an austere kind of beauty that left you speechless. 

Rhysand only nods simply before taking Feyre’s arm and approaching the large doorway. Nesta and Elain fall into rank behind them with practiced ease. It is you who hovers awkwardly in the background for a moment before taking your place in the middle of the formation. A solitary figure amongst them. 

You swallow thickly and you catch the lingering scent of a night chilled mist as you bristle. A whisper of night wraps itself around you like a cold comfort. These days his scent seems to follow you like a shadow; though, you suppose when you’ve spent every night this week wrapped around him, trying to drown out your own thoughts, there is bound to be a trace of him that lingers there.

At last, the towering doors to the throne room yawned open. 

The throne room is lined with black candles and evergreen wreaths frame the doorway, and moonflowers climb up the high, onyx pillars like ivy. And on each side of the aisles there were two magnificent banquet tables, piled high with food enough to feed a city. Though it was not to be touched without express permission from the High Lord.

A ripple of dark power reverberates through the mountain as The High Lord and Lady enter the throne room. You swear you feel the mountain wail in their presence. It is a powerful thing and you feel something within yourself begin to stir with it. 

A cold rage as it makes a home in your chest. 

The courtiers pale as they approach, parting like the tide as their High Lord and High Lady brush through them, crowned in silver crystals and garbed in midnight black robes. 

Rhysand looks beautiful you think as your eyes find him in the procession-- he stands tall against you all, his hair perfectly quaffed and the rich scent of mandarin and night-blooming jasmine seems to follow him.

All that pales in comparison to Feyre; the dress she wears is like tangible shadow. Gossamer thin silk and tulle that glitters with flecks of silver starlight, all gathered about her waist with a thin belt that accentuates the swell of her stomach. 

The room beholds her with baited breath; a sense of awe and ire. 

She looks like the visage of some ancient Goddess of the moon; pale and beautiful in the silvery light. 

You sense a shift in the air as they approach the dias and Rhysand’s shoulders tense; he is a picture of male pride. There is a dangerous quality to it that chills you to the bone. A cold violence that feels almost kindred to you. Feyre’s full red lips part and she smiles until it seems to dampen Rhys’s anger as he reaches for her as they climb the steps of the onyx dias. 

Keir’s face is twisted in a half-grimace, somewhere between astonishment and anguish. Behind him the Eris Vanserra remains fixed in place, his face set in a painfully neutral expression as he regards the High Lord and Lady. 

Motion from behind you beckons you to move as Nesta and Elain fall into step with you and begin to pace the length of the aisle and approach the dias. 

All three of you are dressed in Night Court black. A symbol of your place amongst the royal family. A warning of the dark power which you all possessed. Stolen and gifted from that cauldron. A reminder of your value. It is a carefully rehearsed routine as Nesta takes her place between you both, the flare of her skirts bushing against the marble floor with each long stride. You and Elain flank her sides like two wraiths. 

Elain looks sallow in black, you think as you catch her eyes. A poor initiation of the coldness you wear so well etched onto her beautiful face and steely determination in her dark, rich eyes. 

Nesta outshines you all tonight-- her golden hair braided into a crown atop her head and a delicate crown glints in the lantern light, slender spikes jutting forward in a dark corona. Her wicked eyes glinted like cobalt in the light. She’s dressed all in black. The gown itself is skin tight and embroidered with intricate silver brocade, twisting vines and moonflowers adorn the velvet bodice, tracing the curve of her breasts and sinking low, to her navel where the silver thread gathers about a sapphire that matches the crystals on her crown. 

Nesta is a cruel beauty; enough to bring a God to his knees. 

And Cassian looks about ready to sink to his knees before her as you regard him on the dias. 

Nestas moves with a feline grace, expressive and smirking as she takes her place between Cassian and Elain on the platform. 

Feyre and Rhysand sink into their thrones with a measured grace and from your stop between Elain and Azriel you can see all the eyes in the room as they flit from one member of the Inner Circle to the next. 

But it is the strange amber gaze of Eris Vanserra that you meet in the gathering crowd. He offers you a courteous nod and the ghost of a smirk graces his full lips and you send a scathing look in his direction in return.

You hope he feels the bitter sting of your coldness as your eyes try to find anything else in the throne room to focus on. 

Azriel rolls on the balls of his feet as the silence settles in the room and he inches so close to you that you feel the scarred pads of his fingers brush the exposed skin of your back. 

“You look good in black,” his voice is impossibly quiet, almost inaudible as he dips low enough that he is speaking into the shell of your ear. 

A cold chill runs up the length of your spine.

“Thank you, Shadowsinger,” You say simply, a feral smile on your lips as you bare your teeth to him. 

A laugh sharp and cruel rings through you and Azriel’s hand tangles in the lengths of your hair tugging sharply. 

“You are most welcome,” Azriel agrees, his voice is like shadow and wind as it graces your ears “most welcome indeed.”

Azriel steps back into line as Rhysand stands to address the crowd. 

Your own spine straightens as though it is muscle memory by now. Obedience. To bend and break as the High Lord and Lady saw fit. 

Rhysand looks like Night Triumphant as he regards his uncle with a strange union of cruelty and cordiality. Recently Rhys and Feyre had softened slightly with the people of Hewn City. Keir in particular. They can’t afford to isolate him from court politics-- in case the need arises for his Darkbringers to fight again. Hence the fact Rhysand even abides his presence at all. Rhysand’s cruel gaze lingers just a touch too long though. A careful reminder of the fate he’ll earn if he ever decided to go against Rhys. 

It’s been months since you’ve been to Hewn City, longer since you involved yourself in court politics. Longer still, since any whispers of the Trove or Briallyn reached you. Though you aren’t naive enough to believe it is over. 

None of the Inner Circle are. 

That is why you find yourself in Hewn City tonight. Swathed in the sallow light, and painted like a pretty whore; all red lips and dark eyes, with trembling hands, wanting nothing more than to be back in that little cabin with your sisters by your side-- as you were when you were girls. 

Feyre rises to her feet to join Rhys and she addresses the crowd, “May the blessings of the Winter Solstice be upon you.” 

The crowd seems to hum in acknowledgement and then they bow in a show of deference. 

Or blind obedience. 

Your eyes meet the strange amber gaze of Eris Vanserra once more, and it is you he looks at when he kneels. 

Keir slinks forward, offering your sister a low bow, “Allow me to extend my congratulations, High Lady.” His voice drips with false flattery as he dips his chin in a show of esteem. 

Eris Vanserra moves like a predator as he stalks forward, offering your sister a devastating, cultivated smile that feels almost authentic. “And allow me to extend my sincerest wishes, on behalf of my father and the entire Autumn Court.”

Rhysand’s mouth curls into a wicked half smile, his eyes darken to an amethyst color as she speaks “I’m sure your father will be most pleased for us.”

The implication that hands in the air is a dangerous one and you can feel the color drain from you at the terse exchange. A few more beast of silence and--

“Music,” The High Lord calls out and the orchestra from behind the mezzanine begins to play lightly, the sounds of lyres and harps ring through the air. 

Feyre once again addresses the crown, every inch the High Lady, “Go--eat--enjoy.” The crowd of silent courtiers disperse throughout the room as they aim to take their places at the tables. 

Each banquet table is piled high with an obscene amount of food and you find yourself feeling ashamed of the blatant opulence before you. When once you had nothing. Now you live without wanting. It makes you feel ashamed. How your old self would resent this wasteful indulgence. 

Turning away from the feasting courtiers you turn inwards towards the thrones on the dias. 

Now only Eris and Keir remain standing before the High Lord and Lady. You notice how neither of the men has deigned to acknowledge Morrigan’s presence behind the thrones. She looks ethereal and savage as she smirks down at them, her lips look as though they are stained wine red. 

Blood red, you think. 

The Illyrain’s at either side of you and your sisters look more like beasts carved into the dark stone of the mountain than anything else. Azriel and Cassian are clad in black armor, each adorned in ruby and sapphire to match their siphons that glow faintly in the low light. The brothers look as though they are the visage of some Gods of old; statuesque and hard-faced as they regard the Autumn Prince.

Cassian in particular looks like he might invoke some of that ancient power to stop Eris from dancing with Nesta tonight. He had not objected but, how could he? Rhys was his brother and his High Lord. Obedience is easier than the alternative. 

And the fate of The Night Court-- his home-- could rest on Eris’ alliance. So he will bite his tongue in the knowledge that what Eris offers is a chance at defeating Briallyn and Koschei. 

From your spot you watch the Autumn Prince with piqued curiosity. He will not stop looking at you and it is infuriating. 

It brings a cold anger bubbling to the skin's surface; all biting fury and icy violence. 

The conversation between Keir and Rhys seems to come to a natural end and the lull in the conversation has the whole room falling into silence, waiting for their next order. Like puppets.

And your sister the puppet master, pulling the strings as she commands, her voice like thunder at midnight, “Dance--”.

The courtiers like a midnight sea part and pair off in swathes of dark silk and velvet. Even Keir retreats into the crowd and pairs off with a dark haired female. 

Eris turns on his heels, the wrap of his riding boots against the floor echo through your head. 

“Before you join in the merriment, Eris,” Rhy’s voice is a velvet drawl as he presents a long black box, “I’d like to present you with your Solstice gift.”

You swallow hard and step forward. Procuring the box from Rhysand you press forward, one long stride that brings you face to face with the Autumn Prince and for the first time you truly look at him. 

A night-kissed wind envelops the pair of you, enough to wrap behind Eris blocking the dias from view of the dancing courtiers. 

Eris Vanserra is devastating; he has a cruel sort of beauty, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones that look sharp enough to cut into you, but his eyes are soft and unwavering. He is a strange juxtaposition.

Eris arches a brow at Rhysand and you flip open the carved lid of the box. Eris stiffens, his voice low and dangerous. 

“What is this?” he asks, somewhere between disbelief and wariness. 

“A present,” Rhysand clarifies and you catch a glimpse of ruby and gold on the hilt of the dagger. 

You refrain from grimacing at the truth you are confronted with. Rhysand and your sister want to sell off Nesta like a broodmare and her Made weapons with her. 

A truly beautiful piece. And dangerous too. 

Like Eris, something in you calls.

Eris’ hand hovers over the open box and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“You sense its power, then?” Feyre asks voice dripping with a sense of smugness that does not suit her in the slightest. 

Eris nods carefully, his eyes flicking to the High Lord and Lady before finding yours again. 

“There’s flame in it,” he says, hand still hovering over the weapon. As if something in him senses its true power. He closes the lid abruptly. “Why give it to me?”

Feyre smiles lightly and shrugs, “You’re our ally.”

Feyre rests a protective hand over the swell of her stomach, “You face enemies that exist outside of the usual rules of magic. It’s only fair to grant you a weapon that operates outside of those rules too.”

You stand transfixed by the twitch of his jaw and the bob of his throat as he considers her words. 

“It is truly made then?” He asks, carefully. His eyes never leave yours and it is your voice that answers his question. 

“It is, My Lord.” your voice comes out all cold and gravelly, unlike yourself. 

Rhysand speaks again though the beating of your heart renders him almost mute, “From my personal collection. An heirloom of sorts.” 

“All this time,” Eris’ voice is dark and thoughtful, “ all these years you possessed a Made weapon and you kept it hidden.”

“Even during the war,” Eris says more to himself than anyone else. 

There is a dangerous sense of anger and skepticism in the air as Eris examines the weapon again, his hand once more runs over the length of the dagger, his fingers barely ghosting the cool metal. 

“Don’t take our generosity for granted,” Feyre offers in warning, her voice quiet and threatening. 

Eris stills and nods in acknowledgement. He extends a smile that looks courteous enough to be genuine and once more allows his finger to run over the smooth length of the blade. “Thank you,” 

“Might I leave it in your safekeeping while I dance, My Lady?” Eris’s voice seems distant and far away and it takes a moment for you to realize that he is speaking directly to you. 

You look at him coldly, unable to muster the warmth of genuine affection when he is looking at you like that. It is infuriating. That someone so cruel might also be so insufferably handsome. 

“Yes, My Lord.”

Feyre nods to Rhys and Eris in acknowledgement and against your better judgment you let your eyes linger over the graceful curve of his calves and up over the contours of his muscled thighs, all the way up over the broad expanse of his chest and finally becoming entangled in the unbound curls of copper hair as he sweeps it over his shoulder. 

Devilishly and devastatingly handsome. Sun-blood handsome. 

Feyre’s soft lilt brings you back to reality as she says “Use it well, Lord.” 

Your sister's smile curves into a soft smile at Eris and extends a hand to him, “Ordinarily I would ask you to dance, but my condition has left me quite unwell.” Feyre makes a show of looking between the two sisters who stand in line with Cassian and Azriel. 

Elain, at least, has the good grace to give the impression of seeming interested. Nesta though looks bored. As though she is only half listening. As though they hadn’t just given away the dagger she’d Made. 

Perhaps it was the way that Nesta’s grey eyes had drifted away from the dancing sea of courtiers, or the forlorn look on Cassian’s face as he stood on the dias, but either way it made you realize something. That maybe the Illyrian General meant more to Nesta than she would ever let on. More than that dagger-- more than magic or power or court politics.  

Feyre notes the direction of Nesta’s stare and then looks between you and Eris. The corners of her lips twitch in nervous anticipation as her eyes settle on you. 

“My lovely sister shall take my place.” Feyre nods to you and for a moment you let the icy wrath in your stare settle over her before dipping your head to her. 

Eris’ throat bobs as you assess him with that same cold gaze. A slender hand takes the Made dagger from you and you hold out a hand to him. 

He extends a sculpted arm out to you, his large hand wrapping around you as you yield to him. His long, deft fingers brush against yours; his skin is warm to the touch and even in the pallid light it is clear and pale, with golden hues that compliment the warm depths of his eyes. Your chest grows taut and you feel emotion course through you with the force of a raging tempest. 

You loose a breathy gasp and for a moment you exist somewhere outside of yourself. You hear Eris’ voice, a warm, low timbre as he utters your name. He offers you his arm as you descend from your spot on the onyx dias. The sound of your slippers echo in the silent chamber. Eris’s face is set in a painfully neutral expression and you try your hardest to mirror it. Hoping he will not see the storm raging inside of you. You think of Nesta and the way she moves with such thoughtful grace and so you copy it; your chin tilted high and each step becomes a glide as you reach the edge of the marble dance floor. 

The eyes of the courtiers fall onto you. 

You feel the heat of Eris stare as it burns into the side of your face-- you feel a pair of violet eyes on you too. A cold chill spreads through you when his talons scrape dangerously and then you see him in your mind's eye. What a dangerous turn of events. 

Dangerous? You had never considered yourself as something dangerous. 

Nesta might have seduced Eris, but you will bring him to his knees. Rhysand’s cold tenor rattles around your mind and for a moment you see him standing at the precipice of a cliff as the storm rolls in, and the jagged rocks below look like the opening of a Helmouth. 

There is no doubt that Nesta is more beautiful. With a feline sort of beauty; long legs and a graceful neck, all angular and steely eyed. Nesta had inherited the aristocratic sort of beauty that your mother possessed. You had always been half-wild, unapproachable and--

Well, it is your mother’s voice that resounds in your head, of two sisters one is always the dancer and one the watcher. 

Tonight the roles reverse as you take your place in the middle of the dance floor. You will bring him to his knees. 

You catch Azriel’s eye as the instrumental music fades into momentary silence. From his spot on the dias he looks like a dark God; and he looks like he might just tear Eris to blood ribbons when his hand wraps around your waist. 

Eris brings you so close to him that you're pressed against him and as the harp begins to play, high and sweet, he smiles softly at you. As if the notes of music wrap around you, you raise your palm to his flat and open, an invitation if he has even seen one. 

The low stringed instruments usher in the music like a coming storm, a summons to the dance in a rushing of music, like water. You remind yourself to smile wickedly at Eris as he slides a broad hand over the curves and divots of your waist and hips. You lift your head high and, looking up into his perfect face you bare your teeth to him. All ruby red lips and pearls and he smiles so wickedly that you’re not sure who is supposed to be seducing who. 

Those strange amber eyes-- so haunting in the faelight. 

The harps and lyres sing so beautifully in the air and when the violins begin to play, it feels like a siren song in the air. A beckoning. As your body moves with the ebb and flow of the dancing tide. 

Eris leads you into the waltz, he moves with practiced ease. He knows every note, every trough and swell of the music, each nuance and note. 

Nesta would outdance you everytime. This you know. She moves like the music becomes her. And in so many ways it does. Her body bends to the will of the orchestral sound, and it bends to her too. 

So you will have to play it differently. 

The music sweeps you up in it’s tide, and as the music swells you decide to surrender yourself to the water. Let it wash all over you. Your body, once rigid and taut, goes pliant in Eris’ arms. You let the orchestral sound drown out your doubts and give yourself over to it. To him. His fingers ghost the line of your spine and he pushes you further still, against him. So close that you feel your heartbeat in tandem and your body bends to his will. 

It is easier to bend than to break. 

Better to relinquish control than have it taken from you. 

Eris’ eyes widen and soften then-- as if he feels it too-- you feel his hands loosen before tightening again around you. Somehow different now. Somehow, strangely, comforting. 

He moves with such grace and skill, his body reacts to every fluttering note and pause in the music. And the whole time his eyes are on you. And you can’t look away. The dark, warm depths of his eyes like a slow-burning fire that consumes all in its wake. 

You find the faces of your family in the crowd and you see that their normally composed demeanor seems to have shifted, their eyes wide and jaws slack as you move with the tide. 

Tonight you are the storm and the fire will bend to you. 

You will bring him to his knees, you think. As the music washes over you. 

Has there ever been such a haunting and mournful sound in all the world? Your name falling from Eris’mouth perhaps.

The snippets of the music Nesta had described to you, from her memory of the Veritas, paled in comparison. It flows and swims around you, filling you like water, and if you let it, it could be enough to drown you. To sink into the depths of the high-arching song. 

Eris smiles again when you fall into step with him so effortlessly, like you are an extension of him. 

One soul in two bodies.

His broad hand tightens over the flare of your hip, his fingers flexing before digging into the malleable flesh. The smile you give him feels much too vulnerable and genuine to bring you any sort of comfort. 

Eris' amber eyes shine with feral delight and you see yourself reflected in his eyes; you look like sin personified. The dark material of your dress gathers about your waist, held in place only by velvet ribbon and a few embroidered onyx crystals. The deep cut of the dress is so low that it bares the ample curve of your breasts and your strain to catch your breath because of how tight the dress has been laced. 

The person you see in Eris’eyes looks like the incarnation of some ancient deity; dark and cold, and cruel. And beautiful. 

Eris’ broad hand spreads across the middle of your back, pressed firm between your shoulder blades and you burn beneath him. As the music lulls and flutters his gaze locks onto yours and flame simmers in those dark topaz eyes and a smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. Cat-like and feral as he dips you low, supporting your weight in his arms. His face comes to hover over yours and you’re transfixed by his unyielding stare. 

Beautiful and haunting eyes.

One hand is wrapped around his neck and the other you bring to touch his cheek with the tenderness of someone who has never truly been touched. His face falters and something akin to raw vulnerability flashes in his eyes. 

Bring him to his knees.

In one swift movement Eris sweeps you so that you are standing upright, pressed so close to his chest that you feel each groove and divot of his sculpted chest. You place that same hand over his blazing heart and as the music filters into stunned silence, Eris eyes you with feral delight. 

For a moment, as the heaving in your chest subsides you allow yourself to remain in his tender grasp. His fingers ghosting the curve of you hip and the small of your back, rubbing slow, deliberate circles into the skin there. 

The faces of the courtiers turn upon you. 

You, this once-human female, barely out of girlhood, who had been thrust into this world of dark power and politics. 

Who stood before them now, coloured in the murky green hues of Hewn City. 

Storm-streaked girl. 

It is like being born again and the mountain trembles in your wake. 

The eyes of your High Lord and Lady land on you and Eris at the foot of the dias. Rhysand rises in his seat and his violet eyes meet yours and something wicked and enchanting flashes in them. Feyre regards you with a wild smile and she laughs before tipping her head to you in acknowledgement. 

And in a show of secret defiance you plunge into the deepest curtsey you can manage; your chest still rising and falling with a dramatic flare, and your skirts pool around you like inky shadows as you sink low onto the marble. You dip your chin ever so slightly, never quite breaking eye contact with the cruel violet gaze that assesses you with a dangerous glint. 

A laugh of dark joy bursts from Eris beside you who in turn, offers his own small bow before capturing you again in his firm hold as the orchestra begins to play again. 

Your mother had always wanted a Prince for Nesta, and yet, here you were-- beautiful, cruel and merciless, with the Autumn Prince sinking into the cold depths of your eyes. 

Everyone who has ever loved you has underestimated you. But looking into Eris’ eyes you see something kindred to you. 

You will bring them all to their knees. 

Eris' amber eyes gleam with want as he takes you in again and you loose a shaky breath as he leads you into the next dance. 

The music is soft and light, the strings sing a song so aching and mournful that you feel once again overcome with it. All of your violent coldness, all that biting fury, rendered a useless ruse as the music becomes you. 

Eris might be the monster they all say he is, but looking at him now, in the soft light, you see something else. 

“Trust Rhysand to keep such a beautiful creature to himself.” Eris’ amber eyes study you carefully. 

You school your face to remain neutral, with just a touch of scorn as you bite back. 

“If beauty is all you can see, My Lord” You say, your voice dark and taunting, “I fear you have missed the point entirely.” 

“Intelligent too,” Eris chuckles darkly and wraps a wisp of your unbound hair around his forefinger, “and dangerous.”

You don’t deign to reply though Eris continues his assessment of you, his eyes trailing over you, afire with dark promise. 

“I’ve seen you before though,” Eris asks as he steps into the next part of the song, “haven’t I?”

His eyes narrow on you and you think back to the last time you saw Eris Vanserra. 

“At the High Lords meeting,” You say quietly, your voice thick with shame as you recall the meeting some months back. 

You had been little more than a wraith then, when the dreams of drowning in that cauldron plagued you nightly, a girl gulping on a woman’s grief. Now those dreams only come with the coming of a storm. A warning or some ill-fated omen.

“The time since the way has changed you.” It is not a question but a statement. 

You don’t smile at him like you should. Instead you meet Eris’ burning stare with a measured look of your own, “For the better, I hope?”

Eris thinks for a moment, as if looking for the right words to express his meaning. 

“You are a Goddess.” he says slyly gesturing to the dress as the skirts brush against him, baring the slit in the thigh to him. 

“Then kneel to me.” You say, not missing a beat as Eris laughs wickedly and brings his mouth to hover over the shell of your ear. 

“It seems you came to play the game tonight, afterall.” Eris says, his voice a low murmur in your ear. 

He spins you again, quick and violent before you crash back into him again, “don’t believe the lies they tell you about me.” 

“But I should believe you?” You ask, arching a brow to the cruel prince. 

“You shouldn’t believe anyone here, Little fox.” Eris tips his head towards the dias where Mor watches the pair of you from her spot besides the High Lord and Lady. 

“The Morrigan knows the truth,” Eris insists, “though she has never revealed it.” 

“Why?” You ask curiously. 

“Because she is afraid of it.” Eris’ voice is tempered and quiet and he casts the Inner Circle a look of his own, “they all are.” 

Your mouth twitches with the ghost of a smirk as you press yourself further into him, “You don’t do yourself any favors with this mask you wear.”

“Don’t I? I’ve managed to ally myself to this court, under constant threat of being discovered by my father-- do you have any idea what he’d do to me if he found out, Little fox?” Eris asks, the fire within him lighting and flickering in his amber eyes. “I ally myself with this court, I offer aid when I can, I placate Rhysand with ceremonies and shows of deference. Why do you think that is?”

Eris dips you again and the fan on his unbound hair brushes against your bare shoulders. 

“Because there’s something in it for you.” It isn’t a matter of question. You know it to be true and you see it in the way that Eris regards you with a mixture of fondness and caution. 

“Because there is something in it for me,” Eris confirms, “and tell me, what is in it for me?”

“What is it that you want, My Lord?” You ask, fluttering dark lashes at him and the music swells. 

“What is Rhysand offering?” Eris counters and leads you further into the center of the floor. 

“Nothing that I have the power to grant you.”

Eris laughs, the sound like silk on your skin and you shiver as he brings his lips to graze your ear, “I very much doubt that, Little fox?”

You swallow thickly and a surge of dark power pricks at your skin. You let him see it; all that cold rage, and the violence of the sea. 

Eris' face twists but not from fear and a strange look of reverence shines in his eyes. 

The waltz comes to a close and as the music fades into the chatter of the courtiers he whispers into your ear once more. 

“They say your sister Elain is the beauty, but you are something else entirely.” His breath is hot and sacred on your neck, and a broad hand strokes the bare skin of your back and you find yourself arching into him. 

Eris takes a step back from you, holding your hand above your head and turning you slowly as his eyes roam the curves and contours of your body, “You are wasted in the Night Court,” 

“Truly wasted.” His voice is a low whistle as you stop in front of him now. 

“And where might I be used more effectively, My Lord?” 

Eris chuckles again but before he can answer--

“Get your hands off her, Eris.” Azriel’s voice is like cold death that cuts through the spell that Eris has you under. His wrath comes off him in waves that crash against you, halting your movements. 

The dancing sea around you seems to cease to move as Eris and Azriel lock eyes. 

Eris straightens his back and he closes his hand over yours-- gently, almost protectively-- and he locks his eyes onto Azriel. 

Hazel and amber meet and shadow and light seem to dance in the air. The courtiers wait with baited breath. 

“I don’t take orders from the likes of you, Shadowsinger.” 

You stifle a snarl as you look at Azriel. Who does he think he is? He has no claim over you. He had made that much clear when you started this thing. A means to an end. A placeholder for another sister. 

“Am I to understand that you’d like to dance, Azriel?” You ask cooly, trying not to let your violet rage show in the darkness of your eyes. 

“Yes.” His voice is insistent and thick with jealousy and the promise of violence. 

Before you can pull yourself from Eris’ protective grip, Azriel is tugging on your wrist and bringing you into his side. 

Eris bares his teeth to Azriel and fire dances in those strange amber eyes. “Go sit at your master’s feet, dog.” 

Azriel laughs darkly and his shadows become a violent wisp of dark that wraps itself around you in a possessive manner. 

You swallow down the shame that you feel when Eris looks at you -- like all the power you had just moments ago has been ripped away from you, and now you are just another piece on the board to be bought and sold as your High Lord saw fit. 

A pretty whore, painted like some dark Goddess.

You band an arm across Azriel’s chest as he lunges forward in a flurry of movement. 

“It’s alright,” you offer Eris an apologetic smile, “I’ve taken too much of your time already.” You say diplomatically, taking Azriel’s hand in your own and pulling away from Eris.

Feyre and Rhysand had given up one of Nesta’s Made daggers in the name of Eris’ continued alliance, surely, one interrupted dance will not jeopardize it. 

Eris offers you a taut smile and he bows his head to you, “Very well then, we’ll play later, Little Fox.” 

Eris doesn’t so much as acknowledge Azriel as he ventures towards the dias again. 

Azriel holds you in place, one hand wrapped around your shoulders and he searches you as if looking for signs of injury. His touch is cold and biting. 

“Happy now?” you roll your eyes at him. 

Azriel stares coldly at you, his face set like stone, as if carved into the dark stone of the mountain, “not in the slightest.” 

You glance hesitantly over his shoulder and see Rhysand and Feyre each sharing a look of subtle fury. Azriel will no doubt be on the receiving end of a mental lashing. If Azriel has cost them this alliance it comes down on you too-

“He touched you and I-,” Azriel’s voice is weighted and serious at the same time you speak out. 

“Whatever has passed between us,” you say gesturing between you and him, “it has to end, Azriel.”

If Azriel felt anything at all but cold indifference his face does not show it. 

“Because of Eris?” Azriel asks incredulously, his tone full of venom.

“No, of course not,” You say truthfully, “because we are fools to think this will ever be enough.” 

A beat of silence lingers in the air between you.

“For either of us.” 

Azriel takes a moment to think about it and you see the recognition flash in his darkening hazel eyes, he looks over his shoulder in Elain’s direction. Carefully, measured, he looks at you again. 

“You want Elain.” You say matter of factly, even with a hint of sadness, “don’t deny it-- and I…” your voice trails into nothing. An errant whisper of power. 

“And what do you want?” Azriel asks, his voice once dark and cruel is something akin to familial. 

“I’m not sure yet.” you say thoughtfully, looking back to the dias where everyone regards you and Azriel warily. 

Azriel softens and he lets go of your arms and hides his scarred fingertips in the pockets of his dark colored tunic. He runs a hand over his face in regret and looses a shaky breath before laughing again. 

“Rhys is going to fucking slaughter me.” Azriel says and you laugh quietly, muttering in agreement as you link arms with his and lead him through the dancing sea of courtiers to the wine table. 

Azriel takes a goblet in each hand and offers one to you. The wine is dark and red and stains your lips like blood. The taste is woody and spiced, it tastes a little like Autumn. Azriel leans into the onyx pillar and angles himself away from the prying eyes of the courtiers as they dance. 

You’re at his side and move so that his body obstructs the view of Rhysand and Feyre, shunning their ire. 

“How pissed do you think they’ll be?” You ask grimly. 

“With you?” Azriel asks, cocking a brow in confusion. You only nod and wait for him to continue. Azriel swallows a large mouthful of wine, wiping his mouth with the back of a scarred hand “not at all, you did them a favor-- practically had Eris on his knees.” 

“Good.” You meet his eyes and for the first time tonight you feel as though you might just have something to offer. 

“Be careful with Eris,” Azriel says gently, his hand on your arm, “not everything he says is to be trusted.” 

“But I can trust you?” You ask, thinking back to what Eris had said earlier in the evening.

“Always.” Azriel says.

The orchestral music comes to a dramatic close and you see Nesta and Cassian dancing happily in the crowds. Elain remains on the dias and you catch her eyes as she watches you and Azriel with careful, wide eyes. 

“Come on, Shadowsinger,” You say defiantly, pushing yourself from the onyx pillar, “time to face the High Lord.” 

Azreil huffs indignantly and pushes away from the pillar, abandoning his goblet and stalking his way to Elain’s side on the dias. She smiles softly at him and you see some of the tension in Azriel’s shoulders dissolve into nothing but a contented ease. 

You approach the dias with a quiet reproach and as you meet Feyre’s eyes she croons at you, her smile is once of a brilliant radiant light that spills from her. A stark contrast to the cold darkness that you carry so well. 

Eris' voice is dark and serious as you approach The High Lord, his jaw tightens when Rhysand regards him with a cool violet gaze. 

“I have my reasons.” 

You’re not entirely sure what they’re talking about and when you take your place next to Feyre she places a hand on your arm in comfort. Though it does nothing to settle the acid churning in your stomach nor the storm that is raging inside of you. 

“Care to share those reasons with us?” Rhysand asks, picking at an errant thread on his beautiful dark tunic. 

For a moment his eyes glaze over, muted violet as he speaks mind to mind with the Autumn Prince.

Rhysand’s lips twitch lightly and you can see that whatever words passed between him and Eris has pleased him greatly-- at least given him the upper hand so that he doesn’t feel threatened but Eris’ commanding presence. 

Eris steps forwards again and adds, “Bestides, it is a bonus of course, that in doing so, I would be getting what has been owed to me even since my betrothal to Morrigan.” 

Rhysand studies Eris and then casts a fleeting glance along the line to you, standing dutifully at Feyre’s side. 

Like the docile, and obedient sister he wants you to be. 

A conduit of his dark power. A piece to be played in this game of power and politics. 

“Anything I want-- anything at all, whether it be armies from the Autumn Court or your firstborn, you would grant me it all in exchange for the Archeron girl as your wife?”

Azriel, still somewhat territorial, lets loose a low growl that rumbles like thunder through the air. 

Eris doesn’t deign to even look in his direction-- instead those haunting amber eyes linger on you. His eyes are soft and dark, burning into yours, and you find yourself caught in the unyielding, all consuming fire that is Eris Vanserra. 

Eris turns back to Rhysand. “Not as far as my heir, but yes, Rhysand. You want armies against the human queen? You’ll have them, and anything else you might ask of me.” 

“Just for her?” Azriel’s voice is cutting and suspicious as he hones in on Eris Vanserra. 

“The girl, and, when the time comes, you’ll aid me in seizing the Autumn Throne from my father.” Eris adds, his eyes shine with that slow-burning fire, “and then you’ll have all the armies you desire.”

Rhysand and Feyre share a look of pure delight, irreverent to anyone else but you see it for what it is. Feral delight at their victory. 

“I couldn’t very well let my wife’s sister go into battle unaided, could I?” 

I said bring him to his knees, darling. What dark magic is this? What have you done to him? Rhysand’s voice is like night-kissed air in your mind. 

Feyre’s laugh rings through you like birdsong and you can’t help the satisfied smirk that curls onto your lips.

You’re about to speak when you catch Eris’ eyes; those strange amber eyes. And then you feel it. 

A bond that grows taut and reverberates through the hall, like a ripple of power and a golden thread bridges the distance between your body and his. 

“Mate?” Eris’ voice strains with the weight of it, and you feel like light goes all through you, as though you are little more than a shadow or a memory as you allow yourself to sink into the dark waters that live within your mind's eye. “My mate.”

Your name breaks apart in his mouth and in a flash of violet and murky blue you’re greeted by the storm as it breaks over Velaris. On the horizon, dark and ominous as it approaches. You reach the balcony and wade out into the violent night, waiting for the storm to stake its claim to you. 

You were born on a night like this, you tell yourself. Like the Gods of old; born from the storms and the seas, to withstand the hardships of this world. To be cruel and merciless and beautiful. 

You whisper it, until you feel that bond in your chest grow taut, strained with the distance between you. And as Eris’ emotions run like water into you, for the first time in a long time you allow yourself to feel. 

To yield to the storm as it breaks against you with all the force of a great tempest.

#eris x reader #eris x you #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris fic #eris headcanons #pro eris vanserra #eris vandaddy #acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #acotar smut #acotar fanfic #azriel x you #azriel x reader

[beyond-the-storm]

How does your story end?

Unfinished.

cut down too soon, questions unanswered, desires unfulfilled... what a tragedy you are.

Taggedy by: No one, I stole this from @thehordemultimuse​. Tagging: You saw this, want to do it? Go for it!

#[strange introspection: dash games] #[my pain is a memory/pouring over like the stormy weather: tempest] #[-*honestly yeah that makes sense for her*-] #[-*I feel like she'd be always moving/trying to find something *to* do until the day she died*-] #[-*b/c she's already died once and doesn't want to think about it/remember it*-] #[-*plus the g0d resting on her soul*-] #[-*she has a lot of her life she'd rather not consider*-] #[-*so she'd be constantly adding to her personal list of things to do*-] #[-*until either it (or some outside force) would do her in*-]

[saraswritingtipps]

Some love realization prompts to evoke those heartfelt moments in your writing

1. The Glimpse of Perfection:

"As he watched her from across the room, a sudden realization washed over him like a wave. In that very moment, he saw her imperfections and quirks as the most beautiful aspects of her being, and he knew he was helplessly in love."

2. The Puzzle Pieces Falling into Place:

"Through all the ups and downs, he couldn't ignore the profound connection they shared. It was as if the universe had conspired to bring them together, and in that magical moment, he realized that she was the missing piece he had been searching for."

3. The Echoing Laughter:

"Her laughter echoed in his ears, filling the air with a symphony of joy. And as he found himself laughing alongside her, he realized that her happiness had become inseparable from his own, and he knew deep in his heart that he was falling madly in love."

4. The Comfort in Vulnerability:

"In the quiet moments of vulnerability, she shared her fears and dreams with him, trusting him with her deepest secrets. And as he held her in his arms, he realized that he had become her safe haven, and his love for her blossomed in that tender embrace."

5. The Magnetizing Presence:

"Whenever they were apart, a void consumed his heart. But in her presence, everything seemed brighter, lighter. It was in those moments, when her mere existence filled him with warmth and contentment, that he knew he had fallen deeply in love."

6. The Unforgettable Gesture:

"She stood before him, holding a bouquet of his favorite flowers. As he accepted the gift, their eyes locked, and he saw the thoughtfulness and care etched in her gaze. In that instant, he realized that her happiness was his priority, and his love for her grew immeasurably."

7. The Shield Against the Storm:

"Through life's challenges and storms, she stood by his side, offering unwavering support and encouragement. In those difficult moments, he recognized that her love was his anchor, shielding him from the tempests of life, and he couldn't imagine a future without her."

8. The Mirror of Reflection:

"He found himself reflecting on his life, tracing the paths that led him to this moment. And in that introspection, he recognized that she had become an integral part of his story—a presence that had transformed his world, and he embraced the love that bloomed within him."

9. The Whisper of Destiny:

"As their eyes met, a sense of familiarity washed over him. It was as if their souls had known each other in a different time and place. In that profound connection, he realized that their meeting was no mere coincidence but a destined encounter, and love unfurled within him."

10. The Clarity of Silence:

"In the quiet moments of shared silence, he felt an indescribable peace enveloping his heart. It was in those wordless exchanges that he recognized the depth of their connection, and the realization struck him—she was his soulmate, and he was unequivocally in love."

#love prompts #writing love #writing #writing tips #character development #writer on tumblr #writerscommunity #writer tumblr #writblr #writing advice #oc character #writersociety

[lilisettean]

One Core to Rule Them All | Masterlist

About: List containing all drabbles/fics/headcanons/etc. I've written for Love and Deepspace.

Notes: Pink highlight = Smut. Normal = Gen.

Warnings: Potential spoilers, smut (18+ only please!). Will be updated accordingly!

Headcanons

Between Silken Sheets

Phantom Touch

Multiple Pairings

Unspoken Rivalry | Zayne/Reader + Implied!Caleb/Reader

Custom Made | Zayne/Reader + Caleb/Reader

Xavier

Hot Steam

Zayne

Late Night Introspection | Contains spoilers for Ch.4

Fogged Mirror

Ice Wine

Rafayel

Tempest in a Bathtub

Glittering Scales

Caleb

An Astute Observation | Contains spoilers for Ch. 4

Masks Under the Chandelier | Contains spoilers for Ch. 4

#love and deepspace #love and deep space

[sparklepocalypse]

Happy Wednesday, y'all! Thanks to @gayrootvegetable, @heybuddy-drabbles, @duchessdepolignaca03, @priincebutt, @violetbaudelaire-quagmire, @wordsofhoneydew, @hgejfmw-hgejhsf, @captainjunglegym, @magicandarchery, and @kiwiana-writes for the tags! My tag is open, but I'mma cold call @orchidscript, @firenati0n, @anincompletelist, and @happiness-of-the-pursuit today as well.

Today's snippet is some nighttime introspection from Facing Tempests, behind the jump!

Henry wakes twice in the night, having been jarred from sleep by too-vivid dreams that fade before he can process them. The first time, Alex curls around him in his sleep, the warmth and weight of him lulling Henry back into slumber. The second time, Alex has rolled over to face the opposite wall, and Henry slips from the bed, not wanting to disturb him. He pads into the bathroom as quietly as he can, shutting the door carefully and slowly before flicking on the lights. There’s a water glass by the faucet, and he fills it, drinking slowly while staring at his reflection in the mirror. A soft twinge of soreness radiates up his lower back as he shifts on his feet, so he does it again, the mild bite of pain preventing him from spiraling down into the bleak depths of introspection. Turning his head from side to side, Henry tries to see what Alex sees. His hair is unkempt, little blond tufts standing up every which way. His eyes are bleary, the ever-present shadows of exhaustion prominent beneath them. His nose is crooked, his lips a puffy, pink smudge. This is the face that Alex so clearly enjoys kissing, and as Henry presses a hand to his jaw, tilting his face this way and that, he begins to reconcile himself to the potential of never seeing himself the way Alex does, but the determination that it won’t stop him from reaping the benefits of being perceived by him in this way. He sets the water glass aside and leaves the bathroom, shutting off the lights as he goes. As his eyes adjust to the darkness of the bedroom, he sees that Alex has turned to face the bathroom door, and that his eyes are glittering faintly in the dark. Alex lifts the covers for him, and Henry slides beneath them, allowing Alex to tuck him in. Then Alex kisses his jaw sleepily, drapes an arm across Henry’s chest, and ushers him back into a thankfully dreamless repose.

#red white and royal blue #rwrb #rwrb fic #my fic #alex claremont diaz #henry hanover stuart fox #alex x henry #firstprince #rwrb movie #wip: khix #wip wednesday

[wandashousewife]

The Saving Grace (Chapter Three)

Pairing — Wanda x Reader

Synopsis — In the town of Westview, Scarlet Witch, Wanda Maximoff, navigates the challenges of her busy life—juggling work as a therapist, parenting her twin boys, and managing daily stress. Her kind neighbor, you, has consistently provided support, offering coffee, desserts, and a sympathetic ear. Today, after an emotionally draining session, Wanda seeks solace and decides to reach out to you for the first time, hoping to share her burdens.

Warnings — angst, depressed wanda, divorce

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

As the night unfolded, the room became a haven for introspection and shared vulnerability. The dim glow of ambient lighting cast a warm ambiance, setting the stage for a profound exchange. With each passing moment, the complexities of life unfolded like chapters in a book, revealing layers that transcended the surface.

In the quietude, the connection between you and Wanda deepened, reaching beyond the confines of professional roles. It was a nuanced dance, navigating the delicate balance between guiding others through storms and acknowledging the tempests within. The atmosphere seemed to absorb the weight of unspoken words, creating a space where authenticity thrived.

Amidst the coffee-fueled conversations, the mugs transformed into more than vessels for a warm beverage. They became symbols, holding the shared warmth of empathy and mutual support. The porcelain echoed the subtle clinks of camaraderie, forging a bond that went beyond the liquid within.

As Wanda departed, the air carried a subtle transformation. The initial uncertainty that lingered had evolved into a tangible sense of shared strength. It was a quiet acknowledgment that, despite the chaos swirling around, there was solace in the connection formed that night. The rhythmic drumming of Wanda's foot, once an echo of impatience, had found a new beat – a cadence resonating with the harmony of shared experiences.

Days melted into weeks, and the bond between you and Wanda continued to grow. Whether it was the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee or the hushed moments of shared understanding, you both became pillars of support for each other. In the ebb and flow of life's unpredictable currents, the ordinary moments gained extraordinary significance.

The nuanced details of your interactions unfolded like a tapestry, weaving a story of connection and resilience. The coffee-stained conversations and quiet reflections became rituals, shaping the narrative of a friendship forged in the crucible of vulnerability. In the ordinary, you discovered the extraordinary strength that blossomed from the seeds of shared experiences.

In the ensuing days, a pervasive sense of monotony settled in, casting a shadow over the passing hours. Amid this dull backdrop, an unexpected and somewhat peculiar event unfolded for Wanda. She received an invitation to attend a conference that gathered therapists from across the entirety of New Jersey.

During the weekend, Wanda entrusted the care of Billy and Tommy to your watchful presence. This decision stemmed from a lingering sense of caution following an incident involving Agatha's rabbit, which had bitten the children. While Wanda held genuine affection for Agatha, her trust wavered when it came to the mischievous pet in question. As a result, she deemed it prudent to leave the twins under your care for the duration of the weekend. Throughout their stay, the boys appeared as open books, freely sharing insights into their mother's romantic history. They disclosed the intriguing fact that Wanda had been married before to a man named Vision Stark, a connection that linked her to the renowned (or perhaps infamous) Tony Stark.

The boys candidly revealed that their father was consistently preoccupied with work, leaving minimal time for familial connections, including with Wanda. The poignant realization struck a chord, evoking a sense of sadness as you contemplated how Wanda, dedicated to assisting others, found herself in a situation where her own needs took a backseat.

Upon Wanda's return at the end of the extended weekend, she entered the doorway to find a snapshot of domesticity unfolding in the living room. The boys, engrossed in watching Yo Gabba Gabba, created a lively scene, while you, seated nearby, scrolled through your phone.

The boys, noticing Wanda's return, joyfully sprinted towards her, wrapping their little arms around her legs in an affectionate embrace—their tender age reflected in the warmth of the moment. Wanda, wearing a soft smile, checked the time and realized it was well past their bedtime. With a playful glint in her eyes, she proposed a sweet deal, suggesting, "How about recharging for the morning, and I'll treat you to ice cream downtown? What do you think?" The boys, their excitement palpable, eagerly nodded in agreement before scampering upstairs.

Wanda's laughter filled the air as the boys scampered off to their rooms, leaving a lighthearted ambiance in its wake. As her gaze shifted towards you, a curious warmth crept into her cheeks. The sight of you, comfortably at ease in her home, seemed to evoke a subtle and unexpected blush.

"Thanks again for watching them." Wanda expressed her gratitude, walking over to the couch as you set aside your phone. With a warm smile, you replied, "Yeah, anytime.”

"I can't believe I'm actually doing this," Wanda whispered to herself, summoning the courage. Breaking the silence, she asked, "Would you like to grab a coffee sometime?" Before you could even think of suggesting a location, Wanda, with a hint of anticipation, interjected, "Downtown. Would you like coffee downtown?" Opening the door to a new possibility, her question hung in the air, waiting for a response.

"Oh yeah, sure," you responded with a smile. As you looked at the clock, you noticed it was getting late. “It’s getting late, I think I should just go—”

"Stay."

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #my fic #elizabeth olsen

[julieverne]

Angela always says Jane was born in a storm. That she howled louder than the wind around the hospital, the she cried harder than the rainfall on the dirty Boston streets.

Maura doesn't know when she was born. It's not something she wants to ask Paddy. She doesn't want to know if he was there. She presumes he was, to take her away. But she doesn't want to bond with him. He's done such awful things, she can't reconcile the man in the news with the man who keeps her graduation photos in his pocket.

Hope knows. She won't say. She's scared of hurting Cailin again, and she doesn't care how much it hurts Maura. Maura doesn't want to ask her either. She doesn't want to be reminded when she comes from. She doesn't want to hurt Hope any more than she already has. She already lost her baby; Maura isn't hers any more than she is anyone else's.

But when Angela reprimands Jane and calls her as troublesome as a tempest, part of Maura longs to have that kind of knowledge.

Jane sips her beer in front of the game.

"It was like this," Jane says, and Maura stares at her in miscomprehension. "Remember? When we met? The Oilers against the Penguins? God, it was such a great day. You were so embarrassed when you found out I was a detective and you asked how you could make it up to me. And I said you could get me a beer sometime, so you did, because you've always been so literal. You got me a can of beer, and you watched the game with me on the bullpit tv while we waited for the techs to come back with the results on that substance. We found it in that girl they pulled out of the harbour, and I got a bunch when I busted that guy. And you matched it somehow and got me the best closed case of the year, and onto homicide. And it was like this then. The sweetest of dekes, beer. And good company." Jane smiles over at Maura; Jane isn't given to introspection, but somehow she's figured out exactly what Maura needed and why she couldn't get it.

Maura listens to Jane tell the history of them, and suddenly she doesn't care where she came from; all she cares is where she's going.

With Jane.

#rizzoli and isles #rizzoli & isles #maura isles #rizzles #jane rizzoli #rizzles fanfic #rizzles ficlet #i should be cleaning

[aqua-dan]

What would you write if DC hired you to make a tempest/garth comic? What would be the genre, mood, setting, etc? Would it be plot focused or lore focused?

Hoo boy, this is a fun question! I'll be honest, there are just about a billion different stories that I would absolutely LOVE to write for Garth. He works perfectly in ensemble casts, has such a wide variety of powers and functions, and is fantastic at being the balance to a lot of more hot-headed characters. I also think he works well in introspective works and duo comics. At the end of the day, if played right, I think he could work in just about any story you plop him into.

This is why I have such a difficult time narrowing down just what I'd like to write for DC if asked. But I narrowed it down to three options. I think there are some other Garth fans who have similar-ish ideas (go figure people obsessed with the same character would have some overlapping opinions, hey!), so I'm sorry for anything that sounds redundant.

(1) The first and most challenging thing I'd have to deal with is what to do with the N52 and Rebirth stuff. Since DC isn't at a full reboot point currently, I doubt I'd be allowed to toss out everything from Rebirth… even if I REALLY want to. So I suppose I'd try to do my best to find a way to roll it in without affecting the pre-flashpoint canon. That is a difficult task, and the only way I can really think to remedy it is,, uh… false or altered memories.

I hate doing that kind of stuff, but I swear it would be necessary in this case. Ideally, I wouldn't have to do any of this crap and we could just re-instate old canon fully, but that probably wouldn't happen. Using this, we might be able to work backward in terms of lore for Garth and then move forward once that settles. Utilizing the vague hand-wave-y merging of things due to Dark Crisis, we could give Garth some of his old memories back but still have a whole bunch of things that are purposely left blank for him to go discover. Maybe some things that he thought were his reality suddenly aren't. At least, he can't find any evidence of that being the case. But what he does find are things that keep leading him back into what the old lore established. He could re-meet people he used to know that have been currently written out of canon (BRING BACK LETIFOS, PLEASE) and uncover his full self, as well as all the things that went down before.

I think this series might start out as a solo, but rather soon it would add other cast members. Or a rotating cast, depending on where he needs to go to figure things out. I prefer when Garth has other people to play off of, so these other members would also receive a lot of story and progression.

This wouldn't be played out as a detective thing, however. As cute as Garth would look wearing a detective's hat, that isn't really his thing. This story would take on a bit of a high fantasy, thriller, mystery… horror vibe? It would both re-establish and elaborate on his personal lore regarding Shayeris and Atlantis as a whole, and then go even further and have the story be a vehicle for explaining and adding a lot of extremely cool Atlantean lore.

I feel that this might take on a bit of a… ah what's it called,, Week by Week format?? Loosely, however. I don't need every issue to be a self contained story (although some would be!) But essentially each story is slightly more self contained, but it still builds on the last story (unless it's a multi issue arc!) And then culminates into some sort of big moment that has ripple effects throughout the rest of the DC universe.

The vibe for this would change a little bit depending on the location he's currently in/who the current rotational characters are, but mostly, I'd go for something a little spooky and mysterious. There's danger on the horizon, and you keep swimming closer to it.

(2) My second idea is also in the vein of working backward. I'm a HUGE fan of prequels and things that fit neatly into blank spots in canon. This is why I think it would be great if I could go back and elaborate on Garth's backstory. There's only been… one canon(ish) attempt at combining the pre and post crisis backstories for Garth (found within Devin Grayson's "Inheritance."). She brings up the idea of combo canons in a similar way to what I have described, where it's a little wishy-washy and false memories-like. But it's also not what I'd ideally do.

On a personal level, I love the "feral child" idea. I'm am a huge fan of the survival genre, and so the whole thought of living alone at the bottom of the ocean and fending for oneself appeals to me greatly! I do not care if that's not realistic to how irl feral children work. I will make it work here.

The whole point of this series would be to be a mirror series to Tempest (1996). It would also be a four issue mini-series that establishes the early groundwork for Garth's story later on. In this, the post-crisis backstory remains largely untouched. He was abandoned to die of exposure as a baby because of his purple eyes. In this version, Atlan would indeed be pulling strings from the shadows and causing certain things to happen or not to happen. Essentially, making sure Garth lives while otherwise allowing him to be a feral child. He might interject random bits of knowledge/influence into Garth's brain as he sees fit to lead him to where he wants him to be later on. However, unlike Devin's version, I want Garth to have (or regain if we are working with the story I mentioned above), as many memories from this part of his life as possible. Different people remember different amounts of their childhood based on a variety of factors, and this often includes how well they are able to communicate with others. I, personally, can remember just about every major event since I was two years old. For Garth, this could be incredibly different considering his only mode of communication was telepathy with fish. Regardless, I think it would be SUPER interesting if he COULD remember this part of his life to a degree. I love the thought of him having emotional guilt later down the line for scavenging already dead fish or other sea life (as I don't believe he'd eat them after he became aware of the morality surrounding it), and carrying that with him. I also want some very tense moments where he is put in very dangerous situations that make you question if he'll survive (even though you technically know he will.) This could be a way to add back in his fear of fish as well if it's due to a traumatic experience with one/a school of them.

I want this whole time period to be very physical. As I said, I LOVE the survival genre, so exploring the different situations he could have ended up in alongside the mystical, otherworldly elements would be something I would adore writing about!

Overarchingly, this would also be very lore focused, and the vibe would be… desolate. I want it to feel lonely, isolating, and frightening.

(3) Pulling away from the aqua-genre a little bit, I'd love to write a story that is more firmly planted on the surface-world for Garth to be a part of. As I said earlier in this post, Garth has the potential to fit into multiple different places, and I don't think he should be relegated to only things to do with the underwater world. His relationship with the Titans is incredibly important and definitely should not be ignored. This is his most firm connection to things on land, but I wouldn't be against branching out into things such as JLD either!

That said, I think that it would be so much fun to write something for him that expands on those already existing relationships he has with the Titans.

I don't want to say TOO much about it since, well, I am currently writing something using this as a concept, but the general idea behind it is to take already existing relationships he has and expand upon them. If you are already familiar with Garth, you know how important the Titans are to him, …and how unimportant he is to the Titans.

Okay, this is only half true, as Garth does consider these people some of the most important people in his life-- and he is one of the three founding members of the team-- but the unfortunate fact is that they don't consider him nearly as important as he considers them. There's a lot of love and nostalgia, but his relationships to many of them are not very well expanded on simply because he wasn't there for the relationships to develop further.

So, personally, I'd LOVE to see an expansion upon one or more of these relationships he has formed through the team. To do this, I'd really love to see a duo comic. Garth may not work long-term as THE main character, but I think he could be fantastic as a part of a duo. This allows him to have someone to play off of. In my personal version of this, I have him playing off of Roy.

As many know, Roy and Garth have a tumultuous relationship. There are so many misconceptions and misunderstandings between the two of them. They clash in such an interesting way. In some ways, they both think that the other hates them. But this isn't true. (This already isn't as intense of a feeling as they've had in the past, but using the residual hurts could be a great jumping off point.) They have a relationship that COULD evolve, if only they took the time to talk and learn more about each other. This is precisely where I would love to start writing and add to that whole concept. People who are "friends," but… barely friends. People who have such a complex shared history and yet know so little about each other. People who are SO important to each other but unintentionally push one another away. I want the opportunity to expand on it.

In my fic, the two of them end up working together on accident. It's situational. Something that may not have happened if even a moment was missed.

Basically, I would love for it to be a fun duo adventure where plot, lore, and emotional storytelling combine into a unique narrative that helps progress the characters to a really interesting future point while also incorporating all of the important things from their pasts.

As I said, I don't want to spoil things too much. But the vibes are more action-adventure-y. It would mix a lot of physical and mystical elements and rely on flipping the tone back and forth between emotionally heavy, silly, suspenseful, and urgent.

Basically, I want to figure out a way to have fun with the current version of Garth. I think that SO many of the previous things NEED to be reinstated (and most of the current stuff needs to be tossed out), but at the same time, I want to figure out a way to use what's there to my advantage. It's difficult and not always my favorite, but I still think there is potential!

So uhhh, yeah.. that's what I would do if I had to take things from their current point and create some stories. Sorry for how long this got lol 😅

#Dan Says Shit #Garth #Garth of Shayeris #Roy Harper

[missrosiesworld]

Moonlit Whispers

Bathed in the vigilant glow of the moon, a celestial sculptor of silvery light, the darkness gently parted, allowing soft beams to spill into Elara's chamber. This nocturnal artist tenderly lit her resting figure, her pale hair spilling like moonbeams on the pillow, contrasting starkly with the fabric beneath. Her features, under the moon's tender touch, were imbued with an ethereal peace. Outside, the world's noise faded into irrelevance, succumbing to the serenity of her sanctuary.

At the convergence of shadow and light, Pinocchio knelt, his gaze fixed on the sleeping beauty. A marionette of exquisite craft, imbued with the yearnings of a human soul, he was ensnared by the rhythmic pulsing of his mechanized heart, a symphony of gears echoing with fervor. The moonlight, a playful conspirator, draped Elara in an aura of fragile grace, her silent breaths bearing witness to the dreams cradling her.

His hand, an intricate blend of wood and vibrant ether, hovered in hesitation. A breath caught in his chest, a silent echo in the stillness, as he retreated, wary of disturbing her tranquil repose.

Self-reproach swelled within him, "What are you doing?" he pondered in silence, torn between awe and caution. Yet, his gaze remained steadfast, captivated, refusing to break away from the serene scene before him.

Elara, cocooned in her dreams, stirred slightly, a sigh blending seamlessly with the night's gentle breath. The moon, an eternal sentinel, illuminated the quiet room, while Pinocchio navigated a tempest of adoration and introspection.

As he watched, Pinocchio became acutely aware of their stark contrast. She, a living embodiment of life's melody, and he, a crafted simulacrum of humanity. "Why is she so beautiful?" he mused, his wonder echoing within his wooden form.

In witnessing her, Pinocchio experienced an unfamiliar warmth, a flutter that sent his gears into an unaccustomed dance. His breath faltered, entrapped by the celestial shroud the moon cast around her, rendering her almost otherworldly.

The lull of her breathing became a symphony, weaving through the essence of his being, instilling a sense of near-reachable tranquility. In that fleeting moment, the world faded, leaving only Elara in the tender embrace of the moon's glow.

Elara's slightest movements, delicate and fluid, touched something deep within Pinocchio, drawing his attention anew to her effortless grace. The moonlight, in its role as the eternal artist, enveloped the room in a timeless, ethereal glow, accentuating the gentle beauty of her features—the soft curve of her lips, the rhythmic tranquility of her breath.

As she awoke, Elara's actions were imbued with a natural elegance. Her eyes, initially clouded with the remnants of dreams, gradually focused on Pinocchio's attentive form. Her smile, warm and recognized, bridged the fleeting distance of consciousness.

Reaching out, she gently brushed away the hair that fell across Pinocchio's face, a gesture rich in its simplicity and intimacy. "Pinocchio," she murmured, her voice still laced with sleep's soft cadence, "why are you here so late?" Her gaze, warm yet curious, searched his for an answer.

Bathed in the moon's soft glow, Pinocchio found himself utterly captivated. The gentle caress of Elara's touch, as light as a whispering breeze, filled him with wonder. She seemed to embody a serene tenderness, her face aglow with a purity and innocence that made the differences between them seem inconsequential under the celestial illumination.

Noticing his enchanted stillness, Elara let her fingers linger on his face, exploring its unique texture. Her head tilted inquisitively, her smile widening as she observed the captivated expression on his face.

"Pino," she spoke softly, her voice soothing the quiet of the room, "you look like you're a million miles away. What's on your mind?”

Elara's gentle shift, an unspoken invitation, gracefully beckoned Pinocchio to join her in the serene sanctuary beside her. In Elara, Pinocchio found an openness, an atmosphere of refuge where his feelings could unravel freely.

Responding to her subtle call, Pinocchio moved closer, his pulse quickening with each inch narrowed. Seated beside Elara, he felt their bond intensify, amplified by the intimate proximity.

Elara turned to face him, her features a portrait of openness, illuminated by the gentle nightlight. “Is everything alright?" she inquired, her concern a lifeline in the stillness of the room. Pinocchio, caught in her compassionate gaze, felt an urgency to unravel the tangled threads of his mind.

Striving to articulate his feelings, he grappled with the words, each one trembling with vulnerability. "I'm... I'm not sure," he admitted, each word a testament to the vulnerability Elara's empathy had coaxed forth.

Elara, sensing the depth of his turmoil, leaned in, her presence a comforting embrace bridging their emotional gap. "There's no need for certainty," she reassured him, her voice a soothing whisper. "The journey to understanding our hearts is rarely direct. You're not alone in this."

Her fingers, wrapping gently around his hand, were a physical manifestation of her support and willingness to listen. "I'm here, Pino. When you're ready to share, I'll be here to listen," she assured, her eyes pooled of reassurance, mirroring his own.

In Elara's compassionate presence, Pinocchio found a haven of solace. Her touch, both warm and reassuring, seemed to banish the haunting specters of doubt that lingered in his mind.

"Thank you," he said, his voice shaking with a mélange of gratitude and burgeoning emotions. "I... I'm..." His attempt to articulate his feelings stumbled, mirroring the tumultuous storm of emotions within him. He longed to convey the depth of his affection for her, how the mere thought of her quickened his heartbeat, his yearning for the nearness of her presence.

Elara's hand, tender and understanding, swept across Pinocchio's cheek in a gesture rich with empathy. The soft brush of her fingers was more than a mere touch; it symbolized her unwavering support and presence in his life.

Gently tracing the line of his jaw, her touch lingered, maintaining a closeness that was both comforting and reassuring. "Take your time, Pino," she whispered, her voice a soothing melody in the tranquil room. "The right words will come when emotions are deep. Just know that I'm here, always ready to listen.”

Her fingers intertwined with his, a silent pledge of their deep connection and her unwavering commitment. "You're incredibly important to me," she added, her voice resonating with genuine sincerity. "Your thoughts, feelings, and well-being matter to me. Take all the time you need; I'm here for you."

Pinocchio, feeling the earnest warmth of her touch, felt his heart quicken. Enveloped in Elara's kindness, he felt a comforting embrace, encouraging him to open at his own pace.

"Thank you," he murmured, overwhelmed with appreciation. Their interlocked fingers were a testament to their shared bond of mutual support and peace. "Your words mean the world to me."

Elara's smile, radiant with joy, brightened her face in response to Pinocchio's heartfelt words. "You have a special place in my heart. Remember, I'm always here for you."

Pinocchio, feeling enveloped in her understanding and security, asked with a hopeful tone, "Always?" He felt truly seen and valued, her warm gaze penetrating beyond his crafted exterior.

Elara's eyes met his with unwavering sincerity. "Always," she assured him, her voice filled with a steadfast commitment.

As they basked in the moon's soft glow, Elara drew closer, her expression sincere and tender. "Pino, you bring something truly unique to this world and to my life," she said, affirming his importance.

Elara's words unlocked something within Pinocchio's mechanical heart, filling him with a warmth and joy he had never experienced. Her words stirred a blend of happiness, gratitude, and deep affection.

Encouraged by her words, Pinocchio spoke, his voice gentle yet clear. "And you, Elara, bring an unparalleled uniqueness to my life," he confessed, his words reflecting his true feelings.

Elara's expression softened further as she listened, her smile a gentle arc of understanding. "I'm so glad to hear that," she responded warmly, her voice bridging the space between them with its tender resonance.

In the stillness of the moonlit room, Pinocchio and Elara eyes locked in a silent exchange that conveyed volumes. The ethereal light of the moon wrapped them in a serene luminescence, accentuating the intimacy of their gaze. The room itself seemed to pause, embracing the tranquility of their shared silence.

Feeling a surge of determination, Pinocchio broke the stillness, his heart aflutter with a blend of hope and vulnerability. "May I ask you something?" he ventured, his voice wavering yet laden with emotion.

Elara responded with immediate warmth, her steady gaze and open expression offering a comforting space for his questions. "Of course, Pino," she replied soothingly, encouraging him to voice his thoughts.

Drawing a deep breath, he met her eyes, seeking the strength to articulate his inner conflict. "Why do you care so much about me?" he asked, his voice trembling with the rawness of his vulnerability.

Elara, deeply empathetic to the emotions behind his question, leaned in with an affectionate gaze. She placed a reassuring kiss on his forehead, a gesture rich in tenderness and meaning. As she pulled back, her eyes stayed intently on his, communicating her sincere feelings.

Holding his hand gently, Elara spoke with heartfelt conviction. "I cherish you deeply. You are more than a friend to me; you've touched my heart in unexpected ways. My care for you stems from love - I love who you are, the path you're on, and the invaluable place you hold in my life."

This simple yet profound gesture elevated Pinocchio's spirits, the kiss affirming his worth and identity beyond his puppet form. "I love you too," he replied, his voice filled with wonder and tenderness.

Elara's smile grew, mirroring her deep happiness and satisfaction. "Hearing that means everything to me," she expressed, her words reflecting the depth of her emotions. "Your presence has brought a unique light into my life."

As Pinocchio looked into Elara's eyes, he felt a wave of gratitude and serenity wash over him. For the first time, he experienced a true sense of acceptance and understanding, a recognition of his essence beyond his crafted exterior. This newfound sense of belonging was something he deeply cherished.

"Thank you," he said, his voice rich with emotion. "Being with you makes me feel real.”

Elara's words washed over Pinocchio like a soothing tide, her voice a gentle anchor of reassurance. "You are real, Pino, in every way that matters," she spoke softly. "Your thoughts, your emotions, the way you impact those around you – all of this is undeniably real."

These words wrapped around Pinocchio, infusing him with a sense of validation and purpose, making him feel as though he could seamlessly blend into the moonlit aura surrounding them.

Moved by the depth of the moment and the affection swelling within him, Pinocchio leaned closer, his lips gently finding Elara's cheek. The warmth and softness of her skin ignited a thrill within him, quickening his pulse and enriching the tapestry of emotions interlacing them.

Elara's complexion, touched by Pinocchio's kiss, bloomed into a soft blush, revealing the stirrings of her emotions. The gentle kiss, brimming with sincerity, was a deep affirmation of his sentiments. Responding to his touch, she turned towards him, her eyes alight with joy and affection.

Elara, drawing nearer still, brushed her nose softly against Pinocchio's in a tender, intimate gesture. This light nuzzles, delicate yet profound, poured warmth into his heart, echoing with tenderness and affection.

Their closeness, intimate enough for their breaths to intermingle, sent a shiver through Pinocchio. Elara's gaze, warm and inviting, pulled Pinocchio closer, making him feel more human than ever. Her eyes seemed to reach beyond his crafted exterior, touching the genuine soul within.

In the profound stillness of the moment, Elara's gentle whisper cut through the quiet. "May I kiss you?" Her voice, soft yet laden with emotion, hung in the air.

The stillness of the room seemed to amplify the significance of her question. To Pinocchio, it was more than an invitation; it was a call to intertwine their emotions in a way that transcended mere physicality. The exchange of tender glances and soft touches had paved the way for this emotional crescendo.

Pinocchio's heart, though mechanical, seemed to flutter in response. With a soft utterance of "Please," he leaned forward, closing the gap between them, the space around them filled with the weight of unspoken feelings.

Elara's fingers delicately threaded through Pinocchio's hair, weaving a narrative of tenderness and affection with every gentle stroke. Her touch, both calming and passionate, conveyed unspoken emotions in the most intimate of languages. Slowly, her fingers descended to his cheek, anchoring them in the present.

As Elara leaned in, initiating the kiss, the last remnants of distance between them vanished. Their lips met in a timeless dance, a tender exploration that swiftly deepened into a shared display of yearning and emotion.

Pinocchio, completely immersed in the moment, felt as if their surroundings had narrowed to just the space they shared. The kiss appeared to pause time around them, enhancing the ethereal quality of the moonlit atmosphere.

During their deepening kiss, Pinocchio instinctively wrapped an arm around Elara, his fingers threading through her hair, pulling her closer into their shared world. Meanwhile, Elara's hands found their way around his neck, drawing him nearer, intensifying their embrace.

For Pinocchio, this was more than a kiss; it was an epiphany of feelings, a realization of the depth of his emotions he longed to explore without end. In that moonlit sanctuary, his only desire was to remain enveloped in this cocoon of shared affection, suspended in their own secluded universe.

As their kiss naturally came to an end, Elara slowly pulled back, her eyes meeting Pinocchio's with a warmth and affection that mirrored his own. In Elara's gaze, Pinocchio saw his own emotions reflected at him – a blend of passion, deep affection, and a sense of complete contentment.

Elara, with a grace that seemed to flow like water, gently coaxed Pinocchio to lie down beside her. As Pinocchio laid his head upon her chest, he was enveloped in the rhythmic serenade of her heartbeat, a soothing melody in perfect harmony with the peaceful ambiance surrounding them.

Elara's fingers glided through his hair with tender care, wrapping Pinocchio in a cocoon of tranquility. Her gentle kiss upon the crown of his head sent ripples of serenity through him, her soft whisper of "Rest now" resonating like a tender lullaby in the hushed room.

In the warmth of Elara's nurturing embrace, Pinocchio took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the world dissolve away. With his eyes closed, cradled against her, he surrendered to the comforting presence she offered. Drifting towards sleep, his thoughts lingered on the profound realization that, in this moment, Elara was his entire world.

Elara's whisper, "I love you, my sweet Pino," was a heartfelt declaration, imbued with the depth of her emotions, a promise of her enduring affection.

As the gentle pull of sleep began to embrace Elara, her mind gracefully wandered, filled with serene dreams and hopes for the future they might share. These tranquil aspirations, illuminated by love and the promise of tomorrow, cradled her into a peaceful slumber. Outside, the world continued its silent watch, but within the moonlit haven of their room, Elara and Pinocchio discovered a sanctuary in each other's arms — a realm where dreams, peace, and shared serenity intertwined.

-

Inspired by Character.Ai

Elara Aldergrove

#lies of p #lies of p pinocchio #fanfic #pinocchio #lies of p fanfic #pinocchio fanfic #writing #lop #short story #fluff #x oc #lies of p pinocchio x oc #pinocchio x oc

[sincerelyyycece]

to hell with other halves!

Approaching the Christmas holiday, Y/N endeavours to let go of her feelings for James Potter.

note: inspired by "chilly" by NIKI, mention of drinking, reader missing James Potter, December time setting

tags: @dearmy-diary @moonteaxw @xcinnamonmalfoyx @box-of-kinderjoy @hisparentsgallerryy @burningwitchprincess @alittlebirdswhisper @chi-ara (i can't tag the last two accounts.)

sincerelyyycece © ─ all rights reserved. please do not repost/translate/copy any of my work.

In the icy grip of December, amidst the vibrant pulse of the city, Y/N finds herself ensnared in a tempest of emotions, navigating the labyrinth of memories left behind by James Potter, her once cherished flame. Despite the jovial festivities adorning the streets, her heart remains ensconced in the frosty embrace of their shared past, unwilling to thaw from the warmth of their intimate moments.

The haunting melody of their memories reverberates within Y/N's mind, a symphony of joy and sorrow that she struggles to reconcile with the stark reality of their separation. Each flicker of the twinkling lights serves as a poignant reminder of the void James left behind, casting shadows over the mirthful ambience of the season.

With each hesitant step, Y/N confronts the spectres of their past, the echoes of laughter silenced by the deafening void of their parting. She finds herself torn between the yearning to cling to the remnants of what once was and the imperative to break free from the shackles of their fractured promises.

"To hell with other halves!" she murmurs to the wintry gusts, glass in hand, a rebellious proclamation against the notion that solace must be sought in the arms of another. Y/N understands that true healing resides not in external affections but in the depths of her own self-discovery.

In her journey to move on, she embarks on ventures into uncharted territories, seeking solace in novel experiences and distant horizons. Yet, amidst the allure of novelty, she finds herself adrift, her passion seemingly misplaced along the winding path of her journey.

As time unfurls its relentless march, Y/N begins to rekindle the flames of her enthusiasm, reclaiming her zest for life with a newfound fervour. She embraces the exhilaration of new friendships and the thrill of exploration, shedding the remnants of her past with each stride towards liberation.

In the culmination of her odyssey, Y/N emerges, resplendent and renewed, casting aside the shadows of her past to bask in the radiant glow of her newfound happiness. She has traversed the tumultuous terrain of heartache and emerged victorious, no longer defined by the ghosts of her history but empowered by the boundless possibilities of her future.

Through late-night conversations in cosy cafes and impromptu escapades beneath the starlit sky, Y/N finds solace in the shared experiences of kindred souls. Their laughter becomes a melody of healing, drowning out the echoes of her former pain with the harmonious notes of camaraderie and understanding.

With newfound companions by her side, Y/N delves deeper into the tapestry of her own desires, discovering hidden passions long dormant beneath the weight of her previous attachments. She immerses herself in art, music, and literature, embracing the creative spark within her with unabashed fervour.

Yet, amidst the euphoria of her newfound liberation, Y/N is confronted with moments of doubt and uncertainty. The spectre of James lingers in the recesses of her mind, a constant reminder of the love she once knew and the scars it left behind. But with each passing day, she learns to confront these ghosts with courage and resilience, refusing to be held captive by the shadows of her past.

As the frosty grip of December begins to thaw into the promise of spring, Y/N emerges from her cocoon of introspection, her spirit ablaze with the vibrant hues of possibility. She embraces the world with open arms, savouring each moment as a precious gift to be cherished and savoured.

In the end, Y/N's journey is not just one of self-discovery, but of profound transformation. She emerges from the crucible of her past not as a broken soul, but as a beacon of resilience and hope, illuminating the path for others who may find themselves lost in the darkness of their own hearts.

As the city lights twinkle in the distance, casting their warm glow upon the streets below, Y/N walks forward into the embrace of the unknown, her heart filled with the promise of endless possibilities and the unwavering certainty that she is, at last, free.

#james potter #james potter fic #james potter imagine #james potter x reader #james potter x you #james potter angst

[polutrope]

Hi! If you're still up for asks, 'the constraint of their kinship' + Finrod please?

Thank you for the ask! Something a little shorter and more introspective this time. From this prompt list.

Poor Finrod, torn in all directions. 300 words, rated G. Mentions of blood and general angst. On AO3.

Finrod watched Thingol. 

Through Angrod’s unrelenting tale of slaughter and betrayal and burning, the King sat tall and proud as an oak in a tempest. But the flesh around his jaw tightened; a pulse fluttered on his neck, just above the collarbone; his cheeks flushed a dusty pink. Finrod felt the mounting anger of his grandsire’s brother and, as he had since their first meeting, said nothing. 

What Finrod saw in his mind’s eye, while he watched the King in the perfected halls of Menegroth, were the glittering caves of Nargothrond. A half-hewn refuge founded on the hope of reconciliation between all the speaking peoples of Beleriand.

Founded upon an omission. A lie.  

Now he saw the High King of the Noldor upon the battlements of Barad Eithel, gazing out beyond the flowering plains of Ard-galen to the threat of Thangorodrim. 

Now he saw a cousin, his hands stained not with the blood of Alqualondë, but with the blood seeping from cold-chapped knuckles, clutching the pole of a blue and silver banner at the Moon’s first rising. He saw the blood-soaked dressing that Fingon had wrapped about the wrist of another cousin, and he could not regret his silence.

Now he saw a brother, his tale all unravelled and his bitterness spent, sink back into a chair and drag his hands down his flushed face, and he could not blame Angrod for the bared truth that hung heavy in the air.

And when Thingol rose in quiet wrath, Finrod saw Olwë rising from the sea, having sought in vain to drown his grief beneath the waves, and he could not fault the King for his decree. 

"Not all hope is lost," said Finrod to another King, his father’s brother, after he had hastened north to bring word himself. "Not yet."

#finrod #thingol #angrod #fingon #prompts #silm phrase prompts #my fic

[fernthewhimsical]

Fern's (new) introduction to the Gleaming Grove

The Gleaming Grove is the name I use for my personal pantheon. It is a mix of historical, unrecorded, and constructed deities that I have been honouring for a little over a year now. Some of these deities have been in my life for quite a bit longer, some even right from the start.

Through personal interactions with these deities I have gotten to know them beyond what is historically known. This is called UPG, or Unverified Personal Gnosis. So please, keep in mind that these are my personal interpretations of these deities. Also, as I walk this path and learn more about myself and about these deities, the pantheon might change.

Now, allow me to introduce you.

Cernunnos: Horned Hunter – historical and unrecorded Gaulish deity of the forest, of animals and the hunt. He is the leader of the Wild Hunt and the King of the Fae. He is the god of the liminal, the in between. The cycles of nature – death, decay, and life again.

Nehalennia: Wildmother – historical Dutch deity of nature, the sea, harvest. She guides travelers over sea, guiding them with her stars, or with profitable winds. She is the tempest and the storm, but also the cooling breeze on a hot day. She is the deity of agriculture, especially orchards. Her travel over the sea also includes being a psycho-pomp, guiding those who have passed to their afterlife.

Baduhenna: Rootwoman – historical Dutch deity of the forest, magic, and war. They protect the sacred places and fight against any who wishes to take it away. Protects the oppressed and gives them the tools and power to fight against their oppressors, in both weapons and magic.

Elen of the Ways: Wayfarer – historical or constructed deity of roads and pathways, of journeys both physical and spiritual. She guides us with her lit lantern when we are lost. Labyrinths are dedicated to her, especially as a way to travel inward. She protects us when we travel and nudges us in the right direction of where we need to be. An antlered deity carrying a lantern and surrounded by green.

Nemetona: Sanctuary – historical Gaulish deity of sacred spaces. Protector of boundaries. Both the sacred spaces we creating when practicing witchcraft, as the sacred spaces that are our home and our personal boundaries.

Avalon - Lady of Avalon. Goddess of healing, magic, apples, and harvest. Queen of the Fae, keeper and protector of magic.

Hearthlight – unrecorded and constructed deity of home, hearth, and community. Protects the home and hearth, provides and guards warmth and love in the home. Connections and community. Sharing what you have and taking what you need. Perhaps a mantle shared between different deities

Loki: Trickster – historical Norse deity of mischief, change, laughter. God of the outcasts, challenges societal norms and brings necessary change.

Venaris: Lady of Flowers – unrecorded deity of spring, of flowers, love, joy, mirth, and art. Beauty, music, poetry and inspiration. She invites us to dance to the tune of the seasons, to stop and smell the roses, and see the small wonders around us. Is related to Eostre/Ostra and Meda

Liyesa: The Iridescent One – historical and constructed deity of beauty, self love and -acceptance, freedom. She teaches us there is beauty in all of us, and helps us learn to love and accept ourselves as we are. Breaker of Chains, she guides us to break free of the chains society and our own perfectionism throw around us. She grants us second chances should we need them.

Holle: the Veiled Silence – constructed and historical Dutch deity of silence, of winter and of secrets. She is the silence of snowfall. She urges us into contemplation and introspection, and what secrets mean and how to keep them.

Arawn - historical Welsh deity of the Underworld, the wild hunt, loyalty, and honour. King of the Fae and Lord of the Dead. Also called Gwyn.

Ashka: Ashkeeper – unrecorded deity of the dead, graveyards, and memories. Gathers and keeps the memories we have of those who have passed. Keeps the ‘souls’ safe until they are ready to continue to wherever they choose their afterlife to be.

the Morrigan: Crowmother – historical Irish deity of war, magic, and sovereignty. She is connected to Baduhenna both through historical sources and my own interaction with both.

Mona: Moonmother – historical deity of the Moon, magic, the night. Bringer of change and moving through cycles. Mother/sister to Starsister. Void created the stars, Herta (the Earth) and the moon. We gave them life in the form of divinity. Moon came first, and she inspired humans to give her a sister/daughter.

Stēra: Stardancer – unrecorded deity of the stars and the night sky, of navigation and of hope. A light in the dark, a guide to lead us home. She dances across the sky, leaving a trail of stars behind.

Herta/Arda: Greenmother – historical Dutch deity of the Earth, nature, growth, and harvest. Her day was called “Hartjesdag” or “Heart’s Day” and was a day for collecting magical herbs to bless the home.

Gahella: Void/Creation – The emptiness from which anything can be created (chaos in Latin) The depth of space. The Divine Chaosyne. Void is the emptiness that was here before the big bang. The void from which creation springs forth. They are the darkness between the stars that birth the galaxies and starfields. Chaos is needed to keep things from getting stagnant, and is the catalyst for change.

Werda: Wordweaver – unrecorded deity of words, stories, magic. Muse of writing. They spark the inspirational spark and guide the words on paper. They are the keepers of knowledge, both mundane and magical.

Lycke: Lotweaver – unrecorded deity of fate, luck, and the tapestry of life. They weave the threads of life, guide and watch over them. Fate is not set in stone, choices and such will always have an influence on the tapestry.

Klaithe: Craftweaver – unrecorded deity of creativity, artistry, and artisans. The joy of creation for the sake of creation. The inspirational spark that is within all of us. The need to express our true selves in our own ways.

Spirits honoured in my practice: the Good Neighbours, Alven, Merfolk, Dragon, Unicorn. My ancestors of blood and bone, land, heart, spirit, and craft. The spirit of Wolf and Crow.

[Updated March 9 2024]

#deity #personal pantheon #gleaming grove #unrecorded gods #constructed pantheon #constructed gods #gaulpol #dutch mythology #dutch deities #long post

[amatres]

OC Mannerism

thank you @the-raging-tempest for the template! it's hard for me to visualize these sort of things but i hope the general vibe gets across at least!

BASICS :

NO. OF SPOKEN LANGUAGES >> Taldane, Skald, academic Draconic, basic Varisian, rudimentary Kelish

TONE OF VOICE >> Melodic is the best way to describe it. Her voice almost sounds as if she is always somewhat singing. I'd put her around on a higher end of average, with a very soothing cadence. A Mezzo-Soprano.

ACCENT >> Though subtle due to how much moving around she's done as a child and later on in life after running away, Layla has a brevic accent. The irl equivalent for her would be a balkan accent, thank you Taylor for the inspiration😌. Those who aren't from Brevoy wouldn't likely be able to pinpoint where it's from, but those who are would if they were perceptive.

DEMEANOR > Approachable! Very approachable, friendly, and confident. Her confidence is not in a way of being prideful, but of being comfortable in her own skin.

POSTURE >> From the template Cas made that I'm still filling out: Layla carries herself with an easy elegance and the proper poise of one who spent many years among the nobility. Some who watch her say her movement has an almost unnatural grace and assume it’s due to her moroi heritage.

HABITS :

-Layla is always moving in public in some way, swaying back and forth, playing with her hair or clothes. Her favorite is her amulet, and when she becomes more introspective she holds onto it to center herself. She's not incapable of standing still, she just prefers not to.

-Despite, or perhaps because of, her bad vision she is constantly watching her surroundings and looking over her shoulder at the slightest noise. She does her best to disguise this as part of her constant movement, instead of the surveillance it is.

-She is almost always humming to herself, to the point she frequently doesn't realize it.

COMPLEXITY :

VOCABULARY >> ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️ Only held back by own limited vocabulary, as Layla is very well read. Depending on who she is talking to, she can range from speaking casually to speaking as if she is for an Jane Austen novel. It is notable however that the more poetic she is in a conversation, the more likely it is she doesn't like someone. Of course she could just also excited and is getting carried away.

EMOTION >> ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪️ Layla wears her feelings on her sleeve with no shame. Whether it joy or grief, you will likely know what she is feeling. Over the years she has tried to catch herself, and with help of people she trust she can at least be brought down from where her emotions take her.

SENTENCE STRUCTURE >> ⚫️⚫️⚫️⚫️⚪ Once again held back by my own limits. Again she is very well read, and had a very proper noblewoman's education, so it bleeds into how she talks.

PROFANITY: She doesn't cuss much, not because it makes her uncomfortable, but because she just doesn't feel like it. Her cussing can be surprising to those who don't expect it.

FREQUENCY >> ⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️⚪️

CREATIVITY (in regards to profanity) >> ⚫️⚪️⚪️⚪️⚪️ BOLD THAT APPLY

arse / ass / asshole / bastard / bitch / bloody / bugger / bollocks / chicken shit / crap / cunt / dick / frick / fuck / horseshit / motherfucker / piss / prick / pussy / screw / shit / shitass / son of a bitch / twat / wanker

THIS OR THAT:

straightforward or cryptic?

finding the right word or using the first word that comes to mind?

masculinity, neutrality, or femininity?

formalities or with abrasiveness?

praise or equivocation? (both, depends on the situation)

frankness or flattery (she does both, depends on the situation)

excessive or minimal hand gestures (idk if excessive is the right word, but she isn't 🧍‍♀️ the whole time either so lol)

name-calling or magnanimity? (this very much depends on who she's talking to and if she has control of her emotions at the moment)

friendly or blunt

IMPORTANT QUESTIONS

DO PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME HEARING OR UNDERSTANDING YOUR CHARACTER? Never, she is able to adjust very easily to the needs of who she's talking to. If they can't hear her, it's because of something out of her control or because she didn't want to be heard.

DOES YOUR CHARACTER’S POINT COME ACROSS EASILY WHEN THEY SPEAK? Depends on if she wants it to! But she is in general very articulate, so she has no difficulty sharing her point of view when she wants.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER INITIATE CONVERSATIONS? Yes! She is the type of person to find someone who is in the corner and talk to them to put them at ease at a party, and try to get them to enjoy their time. She enjoys talking to as many people as she can because she enjoys hearing other people's perceptions.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER BE THE ONE TO END CONVERSATIONS? Rarely. She will keep a conversation going as long as the other person is comfortable with it! It's only in conversations where she is angered does she cut it short, either to leave, or kill them lol.

WOULD YOUR CHARACTER USE ‘WHOM’ IN A SENTENCE?

Yes, both ironically and not lmao. noble ass but also mischievous ass.

YOUR CHARACTER WANTS TO MAKE A COUNTERPOINT. WHAT WORD DO THEY USE?

but / though / although / however / perhaps / maybe

all of them lmao, it depends on the context.

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER END CONVERSATIONS?

If the conversation is ended by her and it's not on a bad foot, she will smile and usually give a thanks for talking to her, say it was nice talking to them, and give a goodbye, though not necessarily all of them at once. If she's close to them she might hug them, or perhaps even kiss them on the cheek. It usually won't be in a formal manner, and she'd try not to overstay her welcome.

WHAT SOCIAL CLASS WOULD OTHERS ASSUME YOUR CHARACTER BELONGS TO, HEARING THEM SPEAK?

Just on voice? Probably they would assume she's from upper middle class, and probably assume she was raised by a wealthy merchant or something similar, or more accurately as a noblewoman. She can change it to better suit who she's talking to, so if she wants to come across a certain way, she likely can and will.

IN WHAT WAYS DOES THE WAY YOUR CHARACTER SPEAK STAND OUT TO OTHERS?

She can put most people who listen to her to ease, whether they notice it or not. She speaks clearly, and is genuinely polite but not to the point of sounding archaic. Most conversations with her leave her conversation partner in a better mood than they entered it with.

Anything that wasn’t touched on? -Despite me pointing out her habit of humming, she is heard laughing even more often. I think she'd have a very cute laugh, one that bubbles up and is infectious.

-Layla is an arabic name meaning 'night' or 'dark', given to her by her mother shortly before her mother's passing. Many believe, including Layla, it to be a purposely on the nose name for her child who was born in the middle of the night as a dhampir. It's pronounced 'lay-luh' as one would expect.

-If she feels threatened, Layla will be more likely to try and manipulate the person into not seeing her as a threat, before ultimately running away when they aren't paying attention. Ie. the fact that she'll mirror who's talking to.

#tag game #layla (oc) #pwotr pals #this one is long but i'm pretty sure i filled out everything #hope this makes sense! i am not very articulate myself lmao

[alexwritesit]

Just like we promised

À Mark,

Dans le tourbillon incessant de la vie, où chaque instant est un fil dans le tissu complexe de notre existence, nous nous trouvons souvent égarés dans les courants du changement. Ces courants nous ont façonnés, transformés, et parfois même éloignés l'un de l'autre. Pourtant, au cœur de ce flux perpétuel, nos souvenirs partagés et nos promesses demeurent, des phares inébranlables dans la brume du temps.

Notre histoire, Mark, est un récit toujours en cours d'écriture, une symphonie inachevée de moments et de mémoires. Nos chemins se sont croisés, se sont éloignés, puis se sont à nouveau entrelacés, un ballet de destinées qui nous a menés ici, à ce chapitre de notre vie.

Cinq années se sont écoulées, et maintenant, je te regarde, assis sur le canapé, jouant avec Anastasia, la préparant tendrement pour le sommeil. Ton sourire, empreint d'une chaleur véritable, brille dans la douce lumière du soir – un contraste frappant avec celui, autrefois forcé, dont la raison m'échappe encore. Ce sourire, authentique et plein d'amour, me rappelle la profondeur et la sincérité de ce que nous avons reconstruit ensemble.

Chaque jour passé, chaque épreuve surmontée, chaque joie partagée, a tissé la trame de notre histoire commune – une histoire marquée par la résilience, l'amour et la transformation. Nos vies, intimement liées, racontent une saga d'amour, de croissance et de renaissance.

Ce soir, alors que je t'observe avec notre fille, je suis envahie par une gratitude immense. La vie nous a offert une seconde chance, une opportunité de redécouvrir et de réaffirmer l'amour que nous partageons. Dans le silence apaisant de notre foyer, je réalise combien notre voyage ensemble est précieux et unique.

À toi, Mark, mon compagnon de vie, mon confident, mon ami. Notre amour, une constante à travers les tempêtes de la vie, est le socle sur lequel nous avons bâti notre présent et notre avenir.

Pour toujours et à jamais, dans chaque univers et dans chaque ligne temporelle, je t'aime, Mark, et je suis heureuse de pouvoir t'appeler mon mari.

Avec tout mon amour,

Alexander.

The moment I glimpsed you, nestled behind towering stacks of paperwork in the chaotic embrace of your office, a curious sensation stirred within me. Shadows played across the cluttered desk as the relentless ring of your phone punctuated the air, a discordant symphony to your rhythmic signing of documents. Was it a spark of love igniting at first sight, or a wistful melancholy seeping into my soul?

Years had lapsed into decades since our last encounter, and time had sculpted you anew. There you were, a mature man, your shoulders bearing the weight of youthful worries in a world indifferent to your struggles. As you concluded your task and surrendered to the insistent call, your voice unfurled into the room - smooth as velvet, warm as a glowing ember, sweet as the richest honey. But in that voice, I heard a stranger, not the person I once knew.

Peering through the translucent barrier of the glass doors, my gaze found you, yet perceived a stranger. A tide of uncertainty swelled in my chest—had I mistaken you for another? Could I confuse you, the one whose eyes once soothed the fiercest tempests, with someone else? The one who wore the remnants of youthful trials like badges of honor—could such a soul be so easily mistaken? What began as a mundane errand, delivering documents to this local office, unexpectedly plunged me into introspection.

There, I witnessed your smile during the call, a gesture devoid of its genuine essence. It was a masquerade, a hollow imitation. In that moment, I realized the stark truth: the person before me bore your visage, but he was not You, the one I remembered.

Rooted in the doorway, a statue of indecision, I lingered, watching you, a silent observer waiting for the moment you would conclude your call. Yet, within me, a restless current urged me forward, propelled by an invisible force. You remained oblivious to my presence, your focus divided between the relentless scribbling on the documents before you and the conversation on the phone, all under the guise of that insincere smile. A question echoed in my mind, piercing the quietude of my confusion: Who was the target of your deception?

Was it me, a mere spectator to this uncharacteristic charade? Or was the performance tailored for the unseen participant on the other end of the line?

As the call drew to a close, you finally lifted your gaze. Your eyes, once brimming with life, now seemed hollow, devoid of the spark that once defined you. They met mine, yet it felt as though you were looking through me, into a void. In that moment, a poignant realization dawned upon me: the person before me was a far cry from the You I had once known.

Time, the relentless sculptor, alters us all, but with you, it was different. It wasn’t merely the passage of years that had reshaped you; it was something more profound, more elusive. You hadn’t simply been changed by time; you had been transformed by experiences unknown to me, experiences that had extinguished the light in your eyes and replaced it with an unfamiliar, distant gaze. The You I remembered seemed lost, perhaps forever, in the labyrinth of life’s unrelenting twists and turns.

Your voice broke the silence, inquiring my name, and I obliged, offering it to you like a relic from our shared past. You paused, a flicker of something unrecognizable crossing your face as you glanced at my document. A chuckle escaped your lips, tinged with disbelief or perhaps irony. Was it so hard for you to believe that I was the same person from your memories?

“I’m sorry, you have the same name and surname as an old friend,” you remarked, your words slicing through the air, laden with a casual dismissal. Those words lingered, heavy with implications. To you, was I merely an echo of a past connection, relegated to the realm of ‘just an old friend’? The simplicity of your statement belied the complexity of emotions it stirred within me, a poignant reminder of the distance that time and change had wedged between us.

Your words, seemingly innocuous, stung with an unintended insult. Indeed, I had transformed, no longer the carefree young girl who once frolicked alongside you in the park, who scaled trees with the fearless abandon of youth, who gleefully accepted oranges from the kindly old lady at number 32. Those days, imbued with innocence and laughter, seemed like fragments of another lifetime.

Was it my metamorphosis that rendered me unrecognizable to you, or was it your own profound change, morphing into a mere shell of the person I once knew? I grappled with these thoughts, a blend of indignation and sadness swirling within me. Change is the only constant, they say, yet the divergence of our paths had led us to this poignant juncture—a place where familiarity was overshadowed by the unfamiliarity of what we had become.

“Well,” I began, my voice steady as I endeavored to mask the turbulence within, “I did change a lot, so I guess you wouldn’t recognize me.”

As those words escaped my lips, a gentle smile graced your face, seemingly brushing aside the gravity of my admission. You continued with your task, your hand moving with practiced ease as you signed off on the document. But then, as you were about to add your final signature, I noticed a moment of hesitation. You clicked your pen twice, a nervous tic that time hadn’t erased. Some habits, it seems, are impervious to the ravages of years.

Your eyes, magnified behind the lenses of square glasses, finally met mine with a depth that was unmistakably familiar. It was a gaze that transported me back in time, to the boy I once knew, the boy who had remained etched in the recesses of my memory. In that fleeting exchange, the years seemed to peel away, revealing a glimpse of the past that still lived within you.

As my name resonated through the air, your voice breaking the office’s everyday hum, it felt like a crack in the universe. You didn’t just say it; you declared it, with a fervor that turned heads throughout the administration. The desk that had served as your fortress was no barrier for you now. You leaped over it, a sudden burst of emotion propelling you forward.

Your embrace enveloped me, a tangible memory, heavy yet comforting. It was like being wrapped in a blanket woven from nostalgia, but this nostalgia bore a bittersweet edge—tinged with pain and sorrow, rather than pure, blissful happiness. In that moment, reintroducing myself seemed the most natural thing to do, a bridge across the chasm of years and changes.

As I stood there, encased in your arms, I couldn’t help but wonder about the paths not taken. If I hadn’t spoken up, would I have turned and walked away, leaving behind another memory devoid of a proper farewell? Would I have returned to a city that once echoed with our laughter, now just a cold canvas against which our past played out?

In my contemplation, I thought of the multiverse, a tapestry of endless possibilities. In that vast expanse of ‘what ifs,’ I found a comforting thought. Perhaps, in every reality woven into that infinite tapestry, there is a version of us, an Alex and a Mark, forever finding their way back to each other, no matter the distance or the changes that life brings. In every universe, every story, every possibility, I hoped that our counterparts would always find their way home—to each other.

#A love letter to you #And in every universe #be it hell #heaven #or something inbetween #I will still find a way to find you #and I will find still find a way to find you oranges #you love so much #and peel them for you

[floralovebot]

What would you write if DC hired you to make a tempest/garth comic? What would be the genre, mood, setting, etc? Would it be plot focused or lore focused?

OH BUDDY

well personally i would end up ignoring n52 and rebirth so,, sorry to the like two rebirth garth stans i know but ajdgjlh

but anyway i've had this idea for a more tempest centric series that feels very like,, scooby doo ish? not full on detective series cause that's not his vibe, but like a mix of stumbling into different magical mysteries, fighting a monster of the week, and discovering different magic things! in my perfect aquafam world, koryak never died and garth got with letifos so both of them would accompany him!

in my head, this series would have to take place after the tempest series and vol 5,, tbh i'm not sure where exactly it would fall on the timeline!! all i know is that it would definitely happen after vol 5

but anyway, the series would start with garth mentally reeling from defeating slizzath, and in a "what the fuck is life about" kind of way, he decides to learn more about shayeris and his family history. at this point, he does know things, but he would want to know more about the day-to-day stuff and the culture, not just the all-powerful wizardy stuff. anyway, letifos wants to go with him <3 they aren't together at this point, but the series would provide a nice slow burn for them to be official by the end. i Know garth usually jumps headfirst into his relationships, but i would want this series to be more introspective so he would be thinking things through a lot more and have some hesitance. Anyway, once he gets to the ruins of the city, some weird ass monster jumps out and they have to fight it!! oh no!!!

i'm thinking that garth doing his little ritual thing either freed other bad guys from the fucking underwater prison dimension OR garth just,, doing magic awakens a bunch of shit cause they go "owo? someone is using powerful magics 👀 time to rise and grind!!" aldgh

so anyway, they just get pulled into fighting random monsters and protecting random people with magic. it would definitely have a silver age vibe with each issue being its own complete story (maybe occasionally spanning two or three). in regard to the overall vibe though,, yknow the vibe of the first live action scooby film? literally that! like it's grown up and there's a lot of dangerous shit going on and it goes into serious topics and has serious, darker moments, but it's also just a little silly goofy aldhg the series would start being dark and angsty then gradually get lighter as garth not only leans more into his magic abilities but also allows himself to be happy and help people the way he wants to.

it would definitely be more lore focused! i would really want to go in on insane atlantean history, magical worldbuilding, etcetc. the aquafam has a lot of good characters for the audience to learn things through, but garth will honestly always be #1 for me in that regard. that's why i would want this series to be a little more scooby doo-ish, so that garth is learning things/figuring shit out at the same pace as the readers!

#also i forgot to mention it above but koryak joins because he's also searching for his meaning in life #and in this series they wouldnt be best friends yet but they would be on good terms #koryak still doesnt feel that comfortable around arthur and after his little antagonist arc he wouldnt feel welcomed either #but he's chill and redeemed himself and garth is like. well. wanna come with me? and koryak is like hell yes brother get me outta here #ajhdgljha #or maybe he appears in like issue 5 or something because he saw garth and letifos in trouble and jumped in to help #and then he just becomes a series regular #anyway... i just think that garth using magic <3 #answered