#flame and ice of this hollow world

[thegnomelord]

PLEASEEEEE UR IDEA WITH MAGE M!READER AND MONSTER!COD MEN I'D LOVE THAT SO FICKING MUCH AND YES I AGREE THERE IS A LACK OF ALL THE VIOLENCE

Pov of how the world sees the reader Vs how TF141 reader :D. I'm in the middle of writing the first chapter of a fic with this idea, but guess who contracted TB like some coal miner 😞, me! So here's a sneak peak for the sort of vibe I'm going for while I'm trying to recover:

P.S: Ya'll are free to suggest/requests with this idea cause!

P.S.S: Check out bluegiragi who came up with this AU and give her some love!

Mages and Monsters

Mages are strange creatures.

In a world so full of monstrous hybrids and mythical creatures, mages sit on the proverbial line separating man from monster, stuck in both worlds without any hope of fitting in either one.

Because outwardly, they're average. No different from the billions of other humans. They're not born with the marks of monsterdom; they don't possess horns or leathery scales to shrug off small caliber bullets like dragons do, nor the claws and bone crushing jaws of werewolves, not feathered wings and razor sharp talons of harpies, nor the wraiths ghostly ability to become immaterial.

Outwardly, they're average. Ordinary. Mundane. Human...

Almost.

Because Price and Ghost are experienced enough to see the thing laying beneath the paper thin veneer of normality, are seasoned enough to quickly notice the one thing that puts an 'in' before a mage's 'human' description — Magic. Not the smoke and mirror kind magicians or charlatans use to swindle tourists out of money, but real magic.

The ancient kind, the capricious kind, slumbering like a beast inside the hollowed out cavern of a heart until it awakens with a terrible bloodlust. Each of them can attest to this; Price sports gnarled patched of scar tissue on the scaleless parts of his arm from ice burns, his draconic breath having saved him from frostbite that had devoured more than a few good men. Though Ghost doesn't show much skin, one can sometimes catch sight of branching fern patterns on his neck where lightning magic had shot through him. Gaz's back is peppered with hundreds of little cuts where a glass mage's summoned elegant ornaments had shattered into millions of shards, aiming to take out his wings.

And now Soap sports a mark of his own, his side tender red and blistered with a second degree burn. It could have been much worse, your flames were hot enough to melt steel, the only thing having kept him from an early cremation being the two solid concrete walls your magic had had to travel through to hit him and the enhanced regeneration of his thick hide.

But such power demands a cost — one paid in blood. For magic is as fickle and capricious as a rabid dog, just as eager to lunge for your throat as it will at the enemies, leaving lasting wounds for all to see; rough and calloused palms, skin blackened from blazing heat and freezing cold or marked with fern patterns of electricity, fingers stiff and marred with cuts from thorns and crystals and rock and glass, bone deep cuts where the liquid mana had burst out from the skin, leaving faintly glowing scars that never heal right.

All mages are born with this grievous gift, though one never knows whether it will present itself with a pitiful flicker of embers in a man's dying breath, or with a maelstrom of an infant's first hiccup. That's why most mages are sealed, by choice or force, a process which puts chains on the magic, making it and the mage docile.

But you are unsealed. And you flaunt that fact readily by melting the tail of their APC helicopter with one spell, not even waiting for them to crash before flooding the terrain with suffocating ash, the lenses of their gas masks already fogging up from the heat as they get out of the cloud of heavy sediment before it bursts to flames.

Sometimes the magic becomes unsatisfied with the weakness of the body, demanding more than just its pound of flesh and molding the body like clay to better suit it— Mage Marks, they're called — the subtle glow of magic in your eyes, the mana visibly pulsing inside your chest, the skin of your arms slipping away like wet paper before growing anew, this time mimicking the surface of magma, or the rocky barnacle encrusted reef, the gnarled bark of a tree, the crystalline inside of a geode, the ice spiked ground of tundra, or any other form that suits the magic in your veins.

The process is excruciating, the mana burrowing and gnawing on every nerve like a parasite that replaces what it eats with itself. But to you, that's an acceptable loss, because marked mages far surpass their unmarked fellows, your magic stronger and wilder, feral and viscous like the primordial force of nature.

So it becomes concerning when you're laying on the floor, captured, battered and bruised and calm.

Ghost had been waterboarding you for a while now, your body tied to a chair that had been tipped back so you were parallel with the ground. With water pooling around your head, your top half would have been soaked to the bone had your magic not been simmering in your veins, the magic suppression momentarily reducing the raging inferno in your chest to a meager flicker of flames.

They can't kill you, but limiting your magic for even a second is death in and of itself.

Your breathing is harsh as Ghost pulls away the cloth over your mouth, asking you a question as steam rises from your skin. Most would give in long before this point, but you just grin, eyes glowing with a burning glow, and make a comment about how good his arse looks from your viewpoint.

You manage only one small note of laughter, pitiful embers sparking at the corners of your lip, before Ghost drops the rag back over your face and begins anew.

Price watches all of this, sharp draconic eyes noting how the mana glows in your chest, pulsing like a second heart (assuming you had one to begin with), noticing how the water turns to steam a little faster when it splashes over your skin.

And Price knows.

You... You are going to be trouble.

#trinkets from the hoard #male reader #cod mw2 #modern warfare #john price #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #gaz mw2 #monster au #mage reader #violence #reader is not a good guy #reader is a feral gremlin #monster 141 au #captain john price #reader x cod mw #x reader #centerpieces of the hoard

[lovesickeros]

☆ you sow; & thus you shall reap what you are owed

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, violence {☆} word count 0.8k

You are dying.

Gold melts into the dirt, bleeds into the very earth that you'd molded by your own hands – a familiarity you do not understand the source of – you know it to be true, yet you do not remember it as Teyvat does. It weeps, in turn, for the way you bleed upon it, the way your lungs strain for breath.

It is fury and sorrow and fear and hatred so raw that your mind buckles.

You will die.

"A dying godling and its judge, it's jury – it's executioners," The voice is hollow and cold, sweeps across your broken body like the first chill of winter, "Archons who saw themselves Gods, now brought to heel by their own hubris."

A cold hand upon your cheek, the brush of a thumb across your lip, the gentle caress of cold across your skin. You know her – you don't remember, you shouldn't recognize her but you do – and she knows you. The cold beckons and you follow, let her kindness settle in the hollow space of your chest. You want to speak, to cry and scream and rage, let the world burn around you in a fit of flames so hot even she cannot contain it – but she silences you, quiets the anger seeping into your blood, quiets Teyvat itself.

"Do not speak, little godling. Guide my hand," She is cold; her hands are not gentle, yet it is bliss compared to the callous, cruel hands that have shattered you. She is cruel and cold and brutal but she is love in the way she kisses the crown of your head. She is love in the way she is the bulwark between you and the world that has scorned you – she is fury in the way she brings them to their knees. "And I shall enact judgement most divine."

They will pray for forgiveness, and they shall find themselves wanting.

"It wasn't our fault!" They cry, but you cannot recognize the voice – it breaks and cracks like glass. "They were too human. How were we meant to know? We– we thought they were.."

Silence.

You watch your judge – the executioner, the blade that shall carve their sins into the very marrow of Teyvat, stand above you like death. As cold as winter and just as brutal. Your temple has been painted in the gold of your divine blood, and she shall complete the masterpiece with their own. The Archons shall become the grandest art in the world – this temple the canvas, their blood the paint and their bodies the palette. The cold that cuts sinew cradles you – it sings to you, whispers sweetly in your ear and carves bone from body in the same breath. The cold presses it's lips to your wrist and it cradles a heart within it's palm – judges them and finds them guilty.

It is her spear that rests between their ribs, her sword that dissects and her dagger that carves – the cold devours.

In the breadth of this divine sanctuary, the Archons dwindle. They become the pieces of a divine work of art, they bleed and bend and break upon her hands. She shakes the heavens and carves mortality into the bones of the divine – your word is Law, and you weave their deaths into the roots of Teyvat itself.

They shall know of their grand folly in every moment henceforth and longer still and they shall weep.

And as the curtain falls, as the world crumbles beneath fist and blade, she cradles your face between hands too cold – as gentle as a shard of ice between your ribs, as brutal as the kiss of gentle snowfall. The world buckles at the loss of six, but she alone does not allow it to break – you will have to mend the wounds of the world when you are well, but today you weep and Teyvat weeps with you.

And alone, the cold remains.

Stone has eroded, the wind has ceased, the flames have been extinguished, the storm has been silenced, the forests have gone quiet and the seas go still.

But the cold remains, bathed in gold.

It wraps you in thick furs, cradles you against the winter storm that brews beneath a veneer of composure. It brings you home – lets the world settle into a stillness and silence that inspires only dread and still she presses a kiss to your brow.

It is cold, but there has never been something so warm.

Where hands have broken you, she drapes you in furs, wipes away the thick gold that clings to your skin. She pieces you back together where you have been shattered, reshapes you where you have been bent – makes of you something new. Not a god and not a mortal but something wedged between them.

But you are yourself.

And you are where you belong.

They shall put you back together and you shall know only the worship worthy of the divine. They shall carve this world into your image, tear out and burn away the rot that festers.

All you need to do is say the word and they shall be your tools to make this world your own.

One word and those who wronged you shall burn, too.

Just one word. That's all it takes, and they shall take away your pain.

#sagau #genshin sagau #self aware genshin #genshin impact sagau #self aware genshin impact #fic tag #genshin cult au #genshin impact cult au #tsaritsa #“eros you left for a month again” yeah................. #anyway. posts tsaritsa fic and leaves #i kept it kinda vague but the fatui are all on your side. whether or not your actually the creator or not though.. #now thats up for debate. #did they tamper w teyvat to kill the archons? to break the world to be remade in whatever image they see fit? #using you as the means of their end? #maybe you are the creator and they just saw an opportunity. maybe they are just devoted to you. #i just think lowkey villain au but specifically imposter au where the only ones who side w u r the fatui like OUGH #i love the fatui. them being the only ones 2 side w u is so tasty #prime material for angst bc the self doubt if the only ppl who believe u r the “villains” #a lot of this is just like. tsaritsa posting again though #the tsaritsa who loves so deeply yet cannot love #contradictions all the way down #she loves you but she cannot love you. #she loves you but she will put a dagger between your ribs. she loves you but she is incapable of love #tsaritsa the woman that u r ough #harbingers and their complex relations 2 love my beloved #smth smth tsaritsa seeing an opportunity to install a puppet “creator” which creates a separate imposter!au when the actual creator pops in #did i write this just 2 write tsaritsa being vague and Weird and horrifying and a horror and a lover and just a woman and #yeah :] #please talk 2 me abt the tsaritsa pleas epleas pleas eplease please please please p[lease please pleas

[kingmaker-a]

Winter without Fireflies | Yu Jimin

Non-Idol AU

Previous: Like a Moth to a Flame

Warnings/Tags: Angst, guilt and regret. Alcohol usage, cheating (?), longing for your friend's partner. Things aren't going well for Jimin.

Summer has since faded to winter, the night lost between the two of you seems all but a distant memory in the torrid affair that is adulthood. Still the scars linger in their own way, life never goes to plan does it?

Word count: 3k

Genre: Angst

Winter, the complete package. 

Snowflakes dance and twist with the grace of a ballerina, beautiful yet frighteningly impermanent. Frost creeps along every surface, marring windows into a frosty frigid embrace caked with ice. 

For some people it’s their favorite time of year, the holiday season, a time for family and friends, for merriment to be had and for-

Death and loss, as nature bleeds and fades against the coldest touch. 

But as her fingers grip tight against whatever soft hallowed warmth she can cling to, she also realizes it’s also the season of absence. 

A thought that smolders against the dying embers of a dream, a memory and her throat clamps up, dragged over the sharp edge of jagged ice. 

Pain rends true, as her teeth clench, tears claw at her eyes with an icy frost. It’s like trying to see through foggy, frozen glass as her hands reach desperately against the embers of memory. 

The embers of summer, of love and life, the taste of heated tarmac on concrete as the air scorches or the embrace of cold beer as the air finally chills.

Embers of you, tangled in her embrace. 

Her tears are icy trails, freezing against her skin with a frosty burn. 

It was months ago. 

So, why does it feel like yesterday? 

Her smile is sunlit in spite of the tangled mess of her blanket, iridescent in spite of her irritated dry skin and bedhead.

 She preens against the morning sunlight, clambering forward with a languid, cat-like yawn. 

Her eyes remain nestled against the edge of sleep, barely brimming against the warmth. She presses her cheek against the neck of pocketed heat. 

“I was thinking~” she churns with the idea of breakfast, arms snaking around with a soft gentle touch and-

You're gone. Her hands claw at sheets, desperation reeks into every motion staining her hands, as if the pain that sinks, poisons her heart can change fate or reality. A choked scream rings in her throat, hollow and pained as tears well at her eyes with a stabbing pain.

It unravels at her touch.

Her blood runs cold, even the sun is a candle that is snuffed out, replaced with the infinite cold void. 

Her eyes snap open, clambering to her feet in a smoldering rush. Her own words ring with a screech. 

“We can’t.”

Blood rushes to her head at the suddenness, the world spins, she stumbles, latching onto the door frame. There’s a nascent hope, primal and barely alive.

Maybe you were having a shower or making breakfast like so many lost nights before?

Silence bristles against her skin, it’s cruel in its touch, pitiless in your absence.

Her words ring through her head, dangerous like a caustic smoke. Her mind lingers on Minjeong; the reason.

A knock rings, her door lacks the warmth of summer, it’s gone, painted a pale blue; locked with cold. 

It thrums again with a familiar pattern, your knuckles crest her brain and her breath hitches. She claws for her phone as she unlatches the deadbolt. 

Her phone is dismissive, no response. 

Like everyday since. 

Her lips purse, curling into the slightest frown. 

It’s been months. 

Her fist clenches, fighting the urge to crumple against the floor like discarded paper. 

Perhaps that is all she was, all she'll be. 

A hand waves in front of her face, ringing with the clinking of keys. 

“Hello, earth to stupid cheese cat.”

She’s all smiles ramshackled in a trench coat that almost looks too big on her, too bad the ginger twinge of her hair makes her look flawless. 

Minjeong. 

She makes a show of plastic bags filled to the brim with takeout, her eyes linger against Jimin’s, wincing when she does. 

“Stupid, depressed cheese cat?” she offers a hopeful twitch of a smile. 

Jimin rolls her eyes, crosses her arms. It’s always her. 

Minjeong strides in without missing a beat; like she does every week. As if the sun hasn't shriveled up and the world hasn't gone dark and she's freezing in the cold. 

Because she isn't, even on twisted winter nights, she's warm. 

She hates the part of her that thinks about punching her in the face. 

How warm is blood? 

“Jeongie,” the nickname lingers like bile, corroding against her taste buds like acid. “Why are you here?”

Why do you keep coming? The words are unwritten on her tongue, too scared of the venom that would sink in. Her mouth hangs for a moment, but she can see the patient flicker in Minjeong’s eyes. 

A tentative candle. 

Fuck she hates I-she’s thankful a snarl never makes it’s way across her lips. 

Minjeong smiles, soothing like the soft touch of winter, a drizzle of rain in a drought. 

“Because,” she offers a container of takeout, chopsticks at the ready. 

“You’re my best friend.”

… 

Her brain coils, snapping around those words with a vice grip. 

Was she… a good friend? 

She snatches the container with a huff, dragging her feet to her table. Street lights slowly flicker to life outside her window, her eyes linger against foggy condensation. 

Minjeong’s container clatters to the table with a tossed smile, she practically sinks into your spot. 

“You know, you're not the type to get so hung up on some guy.” Her words prod and poke like her chopsticks. 

It strikes a nerve. 

“I never said it was a guy,” she can hear the echo of her own laughter, cast in the warmth of your company. The words trace across her lips with a ghostly touch. 

This time. 

“What was that?”

A frown freezes across her lips, tightening ever so slightly as she avoids Minjeong’s gaze. 

There's the slightest flicker of a smile, haunted by the taste of half cold takeout. She can still remember your disapproving look as it melted, caught in the flame of an honest confession. 

She grumbles, “I never said it was a guy.”

Minjeong’s hand traces the outline of Jimin’s, it’s tender and caring like fresh snowfall. 

“Right, that's my bad.” Her eyes linger for a second, head clocking to the side, twisting over a thought. “What was the nickname you settle-”

“Firefly.”

It’s sudden, gripping like spontaneous combustion, caught awash in waves of memories. She hates the way it saunters with warmth, trickling through the cold, cutting air. 

There's a flicker of acknowledgement, of recognition cast in the hum of phone light. 

“Have you tol-'' her words are diced by another notification, caught on the hook of a surprised arch of her brow. 

Your face burns into her mind. It weighs heavy against her shoulders, a lingering guilt and a hateful resentment. 

The worst part is she didn't know if it was meant for her or Minjeong. 

“No…” the word freezes solid in the air, choking at the rational explanation. 

Lies aren't her forte, aren't her thing. 

…Still, all this pretense, all this dancing around the whole thing is not technically a lie. 

But it feels like a sin all the same. 

To deny herself of her feelings, to pretend like she didn't fuck things up–It hurts the way, the edge of the knife cuts at her tongue, a double edged sword because what did she actually fuck up? 

Her friendship with Minjeong?

She may not notice the creak of wood, but the foundation of their friendship is built on rotten wood. 

… Or maybe it’s the fact, she screwed up her chance to be with you? 

Even if it was only for a moment. 

Her teeth clench, eyes faltering against Minjeong. She can trace the small smoky wisps of frost that puff past her lips, eyes unfocused, distracted thankfully. 

Minjeong’s phone grinds against the table with a call. 

She rolls her eyes, “jeez, I don't respond to a text straight away and she's already calling me.”

Her lips tighten, pursing into a fine edge. Though, Jimin can still pluck out the fragments of a smile. 

“Sorry,” Minjeong whispers, holding her phone between her fingers. 

She puts the receiver to her ear, a smile blooming across her lips. “Geez, Aeri give a girl a seco-”

Her eyebrows crimp together, a familiar confusion lingers in her eyes. 

“Where am I?” Her eyes trace a watch she doesn't own. “I’m at Jimin’s…”

Her words putter and fade, drowned against the waves of a pained wince, she wasn't supposed to say that. One of the few conditions Jimin had laid down, to avoid questions from the rest of her friends.

Her eyes clamp shut as she takes a sharp breath, even Jimin can pick out the excited chatter on the other end. 

“Did I say Jimin? I meant… Jaemin,” her gaze shifts tentatively, daring a look at Jimin. 

It’s in that small bitter moment that she realises… 

It’s impossible to hate Minjeong, each word is heartfelt, every lingering glance is sincere. 

Perhaps that's what truly twists the knife she buried herself. It coils, catches against her skin, yet it’s the way Minjeong offers a mouthed ‘I’m sorry’, that nicks an artery. 

It bleeds profusely with a tar-like hatred, it burns and seethes against the skin of her heart. It blisters and crawls with a primal disgust.

She is everything she hates.

A bad friend.

“It’s okay,” she offers, her smile tentative, small, but real.

Minjeong hushes her cell phone, cradling it in the crook of her neck. There's a plushyness to her smile, an almost cocky, yet daring coyness. An idea stands on the precipice of her tongue, yet her eyes remain, shaky and uncertain. 

Should she dare? 

“It’s been awhile since you've come to girl's night.”

Too caught with dates in the past, too caught up on icy bruises in the present. 

It’s a statement, not a question. 

A hallmark of Minjeong. 

Jimin rolls her eyes, lingering on her fridge. How was her stash holding up? 

Her eyes flit back to Jimin. 

“Who’s paying?”

Try as Minjeong might, even the Martians on Mars can see her barely restrained giddiness as if she’d burrow a hole through Jimin’s kitchen floor otherwise. 

Her smile peeks through tightened lips, as she holds the phone to her ear. 

“Jimin wants to know if you're paying.”

She can't already imagine Aeri’s Oscar worthy groan, as if she didn’t miss the company of her dear friend. 

Minjeong’s smile bursts through its chains, her hand grasping against Jimin’s with a vibrant eagerness. 

“This is gonna be so fun!”

…Your night is going well.

 Correction, it was going well is a more apt statement. 

The marr of sleep crusts your mind, calcified with echoes of brooklyn nine nine reruns. 

Your phone screen burns with the time.

3am and an ignored number, texts washed away by the seasons, frozen by the frigid cold. It wails incessantly, stoking your brain.

Looks like an early night wasn’t on the table.

You think about tossing it to the wayside, along with any of the texts that always dared the edge of your mind.

You know better… it has to be important, why else would she ring?

Still you’re hesitant even as you accept the call, an awkward silence hangs in the air, choking at any response that forms.

You wonder, if you’ve even answered it in time.

 Perhaps god had taken the wheel and deemed the interaction unnecessary.

But you catch the way her breath hitches, imagine the smile that must dot her lips. 

No matter how long it’s been you can still taste her lips against yours, an abandoned luxury.

There’s a familiar, soft, beautiful, snowflake-like giggle. It’s fleeting in its touch to your ear, but even though it’s been so long, you know she’s drunk. 

Still, you can pluck out the edge, the deep inhale, the focus. The cold bite that is simply business.

It kills the questions that dare the edge of your tongue, to ask her how she’s been, to apologize despite it all.

Even if it isn’t really your fault.

There’s a huff and you simply wish it’s something else, like she’d forgotten her phone was even on.

The silence aches.

“Your girl is drunk.”

Her fingers trace over cool sapphire hues, snow pirouettes in her somber presence. A scowl dots her lips. 

It snags, coils against fresh annoyance. It isn’t like Minjeong to drink too much. To get lost in the midst of it all. 

She isn’t one to talk, caught in the solace of loneliness. 

A rooftop, all to herself. 

Away from Aeri’s prying questions and how she was definitely better off.

If only she knew who she was talking about. 

Her brain trails over the spark that started it all, just a simple phone call. 

The world spins as she adjusts herself, it’s a whirlwind blur. 

How the fuck was she getting home? 

Did you ask the same question many months ago? 

… She wouldn't dare to ask Minjeong, your incidental company would be suffocating, like drowning in a coffin. 

A coffin she deserves.

“Jesus christ, you’re sloshed.”

A phone is hardly an olive branch, you know that much. But you're caught on the indulgence of it all, the way she smiles lost on the rim of a glass bottle. 

At first, she doesn't even spare you a glance, lost against the sweet succor of Ambrosia. 

Her eyes are hazy, drowning in the thick of it. She traces the sky like fluttering butterflies, her smile sinks, fading into the snow. 

She's drunk, you were told as much. 

You can't help the smile that burns across your lips as her head cocks to the side. 

She's lost on the details. Your blurry silhouette cast in the limelight of it all. 

She stumbles as she stands up, trudging with the uneven grace of someone who is well and truly sloshed. 

It’s not until her hand claws against your shoulder - as she nearly slips - that she can strain the details. She flutters so desperately close, you can taste each hop on her breath and you nearly lose yourself in her. 

But she stops you, eyebrows knotting together as she snaps away from you.

She nearly slips again, but you catch her, your arm looping around her waist. 

Confusion lingers on her features with the softest smile. 

Though you wouldn't exactly call it gentle, like a snowflake. 

“What are you doing here?” 

There’s something in the way that her voice saunters - plucked at the edges of angelic harp - that reminds you, she glows in her own way.

You smile, you try to at least. But a chuckle snags at the edges of practiced porcelain and she brims with warmth.

It’s hard to fight the way she just coils around you in the slightest ways. She preens under your gaze, dulcet and sweet.

You offer her phone.

This isn’t how you expected everything to go. There should be fire and anger, caught against the torrid slow slip of a secret. 

But Minjeong isn’t here.

Though you suppose she always knew.

“You called me,” you have to fight the bark of laughter that bites at your throat. Her hands pat her pockets, clambering through rifled pockets. 

“Technically, at least.”

Her eyebrow quirks as her lips quiver and twitch. The words are lost to her as her mouth hangs agape. You can hear the slightest curl of her voice as it claws across the snow dusted floor. 

You see it in her brow first. It cascades to the bridge of her nose as it scrunches and her lips tighten. 

There are no fireflies in winter, there is no warmth in the cold clutches of snow. 

But she glows nonetheless. She burns, a magma hot red as her hand tangles against your collar. 

She tugs violently, leveling a scorching glare at your soul. Her phone clatters and cracks against the concrete pavement. 

You would happily ignite yourself in her sunlight. 

“What about Minjeong?” 

You bite back a smirk, devilish and annoying. There is no point to unnecessary evil. 

Your touch is delicate, soft like fresh morning dew after frost. Your hands graze her cheeks, she's a moron. 

“God, you really are a stupid cheese cat.”

There's a flare of a nostril, an arch of a brow and a flash of annoyance that sears into her features. You can't help the smile that settles on your lips; as she melts, softening ever so slightly into your touch. 

Her eyes linger on you with a glassy softness and you swear you can see the hazy flicker of her thoughts. Her gaze catches against your lips for the briefest of moments. 

To give into temptation on her second chance. 

She takes a deep breath, refocusing. Even if it is like dragging an anchor through the desert. 

She rolls her eyes, as if the insult was just spoken. Her grip tightens, tangles deeper against your collar. 

She's picturesque cast in sapphire, the air that lingers between you, ripe with the taste of beer and other ill begottens. 

The seasons may be different and the roles may be reversed, but did she feel as you do now? 

Is that why she asked about Minjeong? 

It is such a her mistake to make. 

Words cut like the cold bite of the winter night air.

“We broke up nearly a year ago.”

It’s messy and torrid, you half expect the sting of pain against your cheek as her eyes flare. It crackles in her eyes like looming thunder on a humid summer night.

Her teeth clench tight, twisting into a scowl. The haze of alcohol curls through her thoughts like a murky smoke.

She explodes.

Lips spark against yours, sizzling with a frenetic, desperate edge. You’re caught in the storm of it all, her lips are messy and drunk.

She threatens to drown you as her fingers curl through your hair, to rub your lips raw with swelt. 

Snow clings to you both in that moment, fluttering and fleeting; they soak into every stray crevice. There’s the slightest bite of teeth against your lower lip, awkward and unintentional.

You can’t help the smile that blisters and burns.

But she’s hungry, ravenous, daring to eat you alive like an all consuming flame. Still, she pulls away, fights against her very nature to consume you, forehead pressed against yours. 

It’s cute the way she pouts, nose wrinkling ever so slightly. Though even the small flame of a candle is cute, compared to the emblazoned heat of a forest fire.

She smiles, snowflakes and stars, glisten and sparkle almost as if by her command, caught in the sea of sapphire blue light.

“We’re both stupid,” she offers.

You’d have it no other way.

#aespa x reader #karina x reader #yu jimin x reader #girl group scenarios #aespa imagines #aespa scenarios #karina imagines #karina scenarios #yu jimin imagines #yu jimin scenarios #aespa #aespa karina #kpop imagines #girl group imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop x reader

[separatist-apologist]

A Lost Princess of Sunlight

Summary: Lady Elain has spent her life in the idyllic countryside wanting for nothing, so when her adopted sister Vassa begs her to accompany her to court, how can Elain say no? The roguish prince is in need of a wife and Elain, certain she'd make a terrible princess, has no interest in such theatrics.

But something about the palace brings back memories lost to the sea ten years before. Memories Elain had been certain she'd never get back…memories that speak of a colder place, and sisters long forgotten. Amid the tumultuous politics and the looming war, Elain finds herself embroiled in a mystery to find out who she really is.

And where she really comes from.

Note: HAPPY HOLIDAYS @writtenonreceipts! I hope you like this- I tried so hard to give it TOG vibes AND to incorporate nessian and feysand because you said you love them (and I in turn love you).

@acotargiftexchange

Major thanks to @velidewrites and @wilde-knight for the moodboard + beta-ing this fic when I was laying face down in a puddle of my own tears.

--

Prologue: 

“Go,” Feyre whispered, hands pushing against Elain’s back. It was frigid outside, their boots cracking the ice crusted over the cobblestone streets. It should have smelled like pine and snow, should have been utterly silent as everyone waited for the coming Solstice and the gifts that so often accompanied it.

War had shattered the once idyllic peace, inching closer and closer to the capital of Ellesmere until Elain and her family were forced to flee in the night. Just ahead, her mother grasped Nesta’s hand, weaving through alleyways unfamiliar to the ransacking soldiers.

She knew where they were going. They had practiced this before. One more left, ducking beneath a half-ruined awning, and then a sprint to the docks where a ship was waiting. Her father was nowhere to be seen, though Elain supposed he had a head start on them.

“Go,” her mother urged, pushing Nesta, then Elain, and finally Feyre into the little vessel. A man was waiting, hoisting them beneath with hurried, impatient fingers. “Get down—”

A flaming arrow screamed through the night, missing Feyre by mere inches. It took Elain a minute to realize what had happened—the shield that had saved her youngest sister’s life. Their mother stared, blue eyes like glassy mirrors against her ashen face. Golden brown hair graying at the temples was set aflame. Nesta began screaming, the words ringing in Elain’s ears.

“Go,” their mother mouthed, hitting her knees before she pitched forward. Hands pulled the three of them roughly back into the boat as orders were given to pull up the anchor. Was she crying? It seemed as if she must be given how frozen her face felt. 

The world was moving too slow for Elain, making it impossible for her racing thoughts to process. Even as the ship pulled away, dragged by roaring wind, Elain was certain their mother was going to get up. 

She didn’t. 

“Princess,” the captain was yelling at Nesta, unsteady against the choppy northern sea. “Princess, we need—”

Elain never heard what they needed. The wind drowned out the command which Elain didn’t care much about, anyway. Was Nesta Queen, now? The few sailors moving about eyed her fourteen-year-old sister warily and though Elain couldn’t hear what Nesta said, she recognized the sharpness of her eyes. Nesta was used to giving out such commands. Feyre was gripping the railing of their ship, staring at the water below with a hollow gaze. Elain knew what she needed to do—put on a brave face and take Feyre into the interior of the ship where they could get some sleep, if only to forget what was happening to their home.

Everything was going to be okay. They’d get to the safehouse where relatives would be waiting to usher them to safety. Everyone was okay. A healer would attend to their mother who would be bedridden but otherwise safe. 

Deep, deep down Elain knew it was a lie. She needed those lies, at least for now. As the ship rocked, Elain made her way toward Feyre who was still looking outward. The once beautiful city she’d spent her life in was a mere haze of smoke and fire in the distance, half lost to the fog of sea. 

“Feyre,” Elain began, though that was all she was able to say before the ship violently lurched to one side. The gods were moody that night, unwilling to offer safe passage despite the circumstances. Elain lost Feyre, hitting her back against the wet wood so roughly it robbed her of breath. 

Please, she thought just as water rushed over her. It was shockingly cold, leaving her paralyzed like a rag doll, flung from one end to the other. She could hear nothing, could do nothing, utterly helpless to even draw breath though she desperately wanted to.

Get up get up get up! Her mind screamed with panic. Elain did try to grasp at something when the ship tilted sickeningly again, though her fingers were utterly stiff and unwilling to bend. The world was upside down, a swirl of dark hues of navy and gray.

And then it was silent and salt and made entirely of water. Elain’s body constricted, lungs demanding air though none arrived when she opened her mouth. More water, more fear. She could feel nothing, could see nothing. Just a blur of her own hazy fear and the terrible fear she was going to die. 

Elain did try, though it amounted to nothing. There was nothing to cling to, no light to tell her which way was up and which way was down. And as the cold seeped in, somehow driving out the horrible chill, she thought that maybe this wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was better to be without fear. 

Maybe this was a mercy.

In the end, it was nothing at all.

[ten years later]

Lucien Vanserra stretched out his legs, neck stiff. “Bastard,” he spat, tossing his sword to the muddy ground beneath him. Behind him, the boisterous laugh of his best friend and second-in-command Jurian followed him out of the training pits.

“You’re a sore loser,” Jurian crooned, likely catching the way Lucien’s fists curled and uncurled. “I have half a mind to tell your father you were bested in training again.”

“And I have half a mind to punch you in the face ahead of Lady Vassa’s visit,” Lucien retorted hotly, wiping the smile off Jurian’s face. “Oh. Did you not hear she was coming to court?”

It was Jurian’s turn to look as though he’d like to hit Lucien. Lucien had intended to tell Jurian though it had slipped his awareness given all the other things happening. Now was as good a time as any, besides. 

“Why?”

“Why do you suppose? Now that mother and father insist I marry, every lord with a daughter under the age of forty will descend upon us hoping to secure a match.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” Lucien snapped, wiping his sweaty brow against his bare forearm. “And Lady Vassa is hardly on mothers shortlist besides. This little ball of hers is not in good faith.”

“Ah, but it will be one last night of debauchery and fun,” Jurian teased, elbowing Lucien in the ribs. “This is every firstborn son’s duty, is it not? Get married, carry on the family line, etcetera and so forth?”

Lucien’s mood only darkened at the prospect. It wasn’t that he minded the thought of one day having a son, of becoming king and ruling the empire his father had so strategically built. It was the manner in which he was expected to do it. His own father had been allowed to choose his wife, however ill-advised it had been at the time. Lucien had no intention of stealing another man's wife as his father had done, sweeping her away and leaving six furious sons behind.

He merely wanted the ability to say who he wanted when he wanted.

And, perhaps, he was still a little burned by Jesminda’s rather abrupt dismissal of their courtship. She was gone, left to the countryside with her new husband she loved. Lucien told himself he ought to be happy for her. It had been nearly two years since she’d left, married and beaming—practically glowing, now that he thought about it. He’d been too bitter at the time to notice. He didn’t begrudge her that.

Lucien merely wished she had felt that way about him. He was convinced there was no one else in the world for him and perhaps he’d told his mother so drunkenly a few months earlier. If he’d only kept his big mouth shut, he’d have been allowed to carouse as he liked for at least another year.

Possibly two if he was careful about it.

Now he’d be married by solstice—just in time to parade his new wife around the summit in Velaris while making not-so-veiled threats to Archeron, the utter bastard. He was in the process of marrying off his eldest daughter so he, too, might have a successor to the throne, looking west toward Lucien’s half brother which was a threat in and of itself.

Everyone knew the Vanserras would love to see the southern empire laid to ruin. It was important Lucien married more than ever—ideally into a family with deep pockets to fight the war they all knew was coming. Peace was tentative, brokered when the northern royals lost their queen and a princess all in the same day. Ellesmere ceded territory laden with gold, enriching Lucien’s family and in exchange his father returned their remaining two daughters, rescued at sea. 

He still remembered Nesta Archeron. They’d been allowed to live in the palace rather than as prisoners and while Feyre had been mostly mute, glassy eyed and silent, Nesta had raged like a wild animal.

If she still harbored even a lick of resentment, Lucien knew she’d be the driving force behind Eris Vanserra’s throne and her father's bid for revenge. Eris was coming on a diplomatic mission, too, which was the polite way of saying Lucien’s mother was going to throw herself at his feet and hope she forgave her for leaving, while offering up all the same women she was pushing at Lucien, too.

As if Eris were the type for a love match. 

Shaking his head, Lucien pushed through the wooden gate to make his way back toward the city. It was unseasonably hot even for summer, the humidity drawing sweat even when he was sitting in the shade. It was miserable just then, boots hitting the sunstone streets with a loud thwack. Behind them, the sounds of clanging metal and groaning soldiers were half drowned by the cheerful white sands and foaming ocean, while ahead of them the bustling city created a chorus of voices. It was Lucien’s favorite sound. 

And his favorite sight. The looming palace on the hill made of ivory and gold and the multicolored buildings that circled around, built on a sloping mountainside. Purple flowers dotted along spiky grass while towering palm trees occasionally dropped coconuts to the streets. As a child, Lucien had collected them, begging his father to puncture them so he could drink the milk inside as he strutted about, a pretend sword strapped to his hip. 

Now when he stepped onto the main road people lowered their eyes and bowed their heads. He wasn’t a boy anymore, but a man they might one day call king. Lucien missed being the former, though—missed the way they’d reach for a strand of his auburn hair or how they’d sneak him little treats when they thought his parents weren’t looking. 

Jurian straightened, his expression shifting from Lucien’s friend to Captain of the Guard. One day Jurian would be his General, but for now, this was enough. Jurian was one of them—just another man from Rhodes who had risen through the ranks while making Lucien feel less isolated when he, too, had been shoved into the army. Everyone else treated Lucien with respect.

Jurian had shoved his face into the dirt.

“There’s a way out of immediate marriage,” Jurian began, reminding Lucien once again why he was both Lucien’s best friend and closest advisor. 

“Go on,” Lucien murmured, inhaling the smell of grilled meat. 

“Velaris is filled with beautiful women. Tell your mother you’re interested in a more political marriage.”

“And when she realizes I’m not interested in a more political marriage?” Lucien asked dryly, trying to think of the last time he’d been inside Velaris. Had he ever? Maybe once when he’d been a boy, the memory eluding him.

“It’ll be winter and half the ladies who visited will be married to other lords. It’s not forever, but maybe another year or two. Nothing will save you from the marriage bed forever.”

“It’s better than anything I considered,” Lucien agreed, dodging a donkey hauling a cart filled with sunmelons. 

“And who knows. Maybe the love of your life is up in the mountains,” Jurian added, elbowing Lucien once again.

“I doubt that,” Lucien grumbled, his thoughts once again turning toward Jesminda. How long before she was pregnant, he wondered? How long before she brought her firstborn to court for his father’s blessing, forcing Lucien to see the man and family she’d wanted over him? 

Why not me?

Knowing full well Jesminda had never wanted to be a princess and had never wanted to be queen. 

He couldn’t shake the thought from his mind even as he entered the opulent palace to a loud argument between two of the philosophers his father insisted be allowed to live at court. Sidestepping them and mumbling a goodbye to Jurian, Lucien took the steps two at a time toward his bedroom. He needed just a little silence and a chance to clear his head. 

Flopping onto his bed, still sticky from heat and sweat, Lucien closed his eyes, intending to find a way through the tangled mess that was his mind.

All he found was sleep.

“Come with me,” Vassa urged, reaching for Elain’s hands. “Please. Please. Pleasepleaseplease—”

“I don’t belong at court,” Elain interrupted, looking up from her book. Vassa plopped beside her, spreading her hands over the cerulean blue of her skirts. “And you’ll have more fun without me.”

“I won’t. I never do,” Vassa protested, pretty face twisted into a scowl. “The prince is a bore and his court is far too self-satisfied to be of any amusement.”

“Stop, you’re making it sound too fun—”

“Come with me anyway. Rhodes is a wonderful city filled with libraries and museums and amusements beyond your wildest imagination. Plus there will be parties and dancing and you love parties and dancing.”

“Yes, and there will be all these well-bred ladies–”

“You’re a well-bred lady, and my sister to boot.”

Elain offered Vassa a look of exasperation. They were sisters in name only, but not by blood. Elain’s family was yet another casualty in the brutality the north inflicted upon them, razing her village to the ground and tossing her body into the western sea. Had she not been found by Lord Koshington, Elain might have succumbed to exposure. Her life before Vassa was lost to her and in some ways, she knew she was quite fortunate. She’d been given the education of a lady and one day a marriage would be arranged on her behalf.

It was far better than whatever she’d been expecting before the raid, she supposed. But just because Lord Koshington had taken her in didn’t make her an actual lady. Elain had never been brave enough to go to court either, choosing to remain behind rather than be reminded of her inadequacies.

She wanted to see it all, if only once. 

“I should stay–”

“I won’t take no for an answer. Please. I’ll do your latin homework for a week if you agree. Or…I’ll give you my gold dress—”

“You wouldn’t,” Elain replied, facing the book in her lap to fully look at Vassa. “You love that gown.”

“I love you more. Is that an agreement, then? You’ll spend a month in Rhodes with me in exchange for my gold dress?”

“And my latin homework. And you’ll work harder on the piano when we return as well. I’m tired of being the only one asked to play when guests come over.”

“Done,” Vassa agreed, blue eyes as bright as the sun itself. “Lucky you agreed because I may have told father this morning you’d agreed to accompany me. We’ll serve as each other's chaperones so he can waste his time droning on and on with the king about politics.”

“Chaperones? Who are you hoping to see?”

Vassa’s bronzed cheeks darkened, her freckles lost beneath the wash of color. Elain forgot her book entirely, surging forward until their faces were mere inches apart. “Tell me his name at once!”

“Swear to keep it between us. I would die if he ever learned the depth of my affection. He thinks I loathe him and I would prefer to keep it that way.”

“You’re cruel, Vassa.”

“Men prefer to work for our affection and this man is no different. Worse, I suspect, which is why I like him. The prince’s mother is hoping to match someone with her son but I am far more interested in the Captain of the Guard.”

“Is he handsome?” Elain asked, resting the back of her head against the rough bark of the tree behind her. 

“Terribly handsome. And horribly stupid, but in an endearing sort of way. I’m certain he’s good at many things…just not winning an argument.”

“Well, no one can win an argument against the likes of you,” Elain said with a laugh. “What will the lord say about it?”

Vassa’s smile dipped a bit. “No, I’m sure. He has no title, no money and will always serve the prince. Still. It’s fun to imagine a world in which we could select our own husbands, don’t you think?”

“I’ve never really thought about it,” Elain admitted. “It seems risky.”

“That’s just what men want you to think. But we’re perfectly capable of knowing our own minds and deciding for ourselves. We’re not as helpless and brainless as they imagine.”

“What are you planning?”

“Me? Oh, I wouldn’t dream of planning or plotting.”

Elain rolled her eyes, wondering for the first time just how much Vassa actually liked this man and how far she might be willing to go. Elain pondered it all evening, wondering if she shouldn’t tell someone that sending the two of them mostly alone to Rhodes was a bad idea.

But Vassa’s words lingered in her mind. 

We’re not as helpless and brainless as they imagine.

Because Vassa was right. She’d been educated within an inch of her life just for men to waltz around her acting as if she were as new as a freshly born baby. Treated as though it were cute she had opinions when she was supposed to be nothing more than ornamentation while Elain brushed it off because what else could she do?

But Vassa was right, just like she always was. They weren’t stupid—men wanted it both ways. They wanted a wife smart enough to one day oversee the education of their sons, but stupid enough they were always the unchallenged authority. It didn’t mean Elain wouldn’t acquiesce when her time came—she had no other option and no other skills but to be married—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t help Vassa escape the expectations.

That was what Elain told herself, anyway. And it helped her sleep at night for the following week as preparations were made to leave the idyllic countryside estate they resided on and make their way further south toward the coast. Lord Koschington was still accompanying them and would be the one to introduce Elain to court—as his niece rather than his daughter. That was the more believable lie without besmirching Elain’s reputation right from the start. 

With the gold gown packed in a trunk and the promise of being allowed to coast in her lessons when she returned—assuming Vassa returned with her at all. Elain was dreading the carriage ride not because the journey was long and it was already oppressively hot, even at dawn, but because Lord Koshington loved to hear himself talk.

And in the carriage he had a captive audience. 

For five miserable hours, Vassa and Elain sat straight backed and silent while Lord Koschington droned on and on about King Helion’s feud with the King of the North, Archeron. Elain loathed the name like any good southerner, having learned to fear those silver armored warriors that often ducked across the border to raze whole villages to the ground. 

He had two daughters and Koschington was fascinated with the oldest, said to be unparalleled in her beauty and destined for the prince to the west, Eris Vanserra. For five hours, all he talked about was the disaster it would be if those two territories united and how Lucien would be the last Spell-Cleaver to ever sit on the sunlit throne. It was the sort of conundrum that kept men like Lord Koshington awake at night but to Elain, who couldn’t remember the war and had been living in nothing but peace for the last decade, it felt more like unwarranted anxiety. 

Who cared about a princess’ marriage? Why wouldn’t she marry a prince, besides? Elain had heard rumors that Eris Vanserra was the most handsome prince in the realm, still unmarried as his ancient father crept toward the grave. She imagined there was a line from his bedroom door to the edge of his coast hoping to secure him as a husband.

As for herself, well. She was glad to not be in such a position. Elain didn’t think she cared for that kind of responsibility. 

Eventually, even Lord Koschington was silenced by the heat, sweat sliding down the temples of his face. His once onyx hair was threaded with silver and his face lined with age though he was easily a good-looking man. Elain sometimes wondered why he’d never remarried after the passing of his wife though she’d never had the guts to ask him. That was private—personal. 

He wasn’t her father, either. He’d cared for her, taken her in when that had never been his obligation and treated her as well as his own daughter.

Elain knew better than to upset him. Though he’d never given her a reason to believe otherwise, some part of her suspected that if she acted outside of his will, he might withdraw his support. Better to be above reproach in all things so he felt his investment was worth it. 

Elain had never been more grateful in her life to stumble out of a carriage. At first glance, she saw the women in the capitol wore far fewer layers than they had been out in the country. No laces, no petticoats, no sleeves. Gods above, but Elain was desperate to update her wardrobe with the breezy fabrics and shorter sleeves, even if some part of her felt slightly scandalized by the scooping backs and the clingy bodices. 

She noticed the palace itself next. Set atop a rather steep hill and half-carved into a mountain overlooking the southern sea, the sprawling structure was made of ivory and gold, lined with swaying green palms, while purple flowers dotted against the lawn.

Rows of carriages circled to the front of the drive spilling ladies in all manner of garb toward the towering pillars where they were greeted by an elderly man draped in white. Elain and Vassa both dipped into curtseys when it was their turn as Lord Koshington announced, “My daughters, Vassa and Elain.” Elain’s pulse hammered.

My daughter.

He’d told her she would be introduced as a cousin. Daughter? Blinking rapidly lest she burst into tears, Elain grasped Vassa’s hand so hard she was certain there was no blood flow. Putting aside his kind words and his willingness to pretend she was wholly his, Elain and Vassa stepped into the palace. She’d expected more of the miserable, oppressive heat but somehow it was cool. Not cold, but chilly enough a shiver raced up her spine the moment the air hit her skin. 

They were hardly the most anticipated guests—no royals to greet them, no decadent rooms. Lord Koshington had his own while the girls were given a suite of interconnected bedrooms that were larger than anything Elain had ever seen. Draped in cream and gold, her bedroom had the good fortune of overlooking the sea and the gardens just below. 

Elain was living in a dream.

She didn’t want to wake up.

Nesta Archeron took the spiraling, stone steps two at a time, navy skirts gathered in one hand to keep her from plummeting right back down. Chilly hair nipped at her cheeks, drawing color that wouldn’t otherwise exist. The air itself stung her eyes, making them seem glassy like she’d been crying.

Nesta Archeron never cried. 

Hiding at the top of the tower stood her younger sister Feyre, fingers bright red from the cold. “Have they arrived?” Nesta asked, shouldering beside Feyre to peer out of the little arched window overlooking the whole of the city. 

“There,” Feyre said, nodding toward the black and silver banners marching toward the palace gates. Nesta’s eyes were drawn to the man sitting atop a black steed, his matching cape fluttering in the wind. She couldn’t see him well, but every ounce him screamed warrior king. 

King Rhysand of the East.They called him the King of Nightmares for his reputation for being ruthless—he didn’t kill those who slipped over his border looking to destabilize his regime. Rhysand had them tortured, broke their minds, and sent them back home. 

He was flanked on either side by two men who might have been brothers. The distance obscured their features, though Nesta could make out the broad shoulders and lethal sword hilt of the one on the left and the slimmer build of the one on the right. She supposed the one on the left was the terrifying Lord of Bloodshed, Rhysand’s general, and the other was the torture master himself, Azriel. 

For the first time in living memory, the North was welcoming the East into their borders. Nesta wasn’t foolish enough to think it was mere diplomacy, though she’d already promised the prince of the west her home, her throne, and her body, too, if he returned with a way into the south.

But should he fail, she’d do what her father was hoping and she’d marry Rhysand if he could offer her the revenge she was so desperate for.

Nesta’s nightmares were still plagued of Elain, wide-eyed and shivering as she made her way toward Feyre in the dark. She still dreamt of the ricocheting canon that slammed into their ship and how she and Feyre were whisked into a lifeboat. How they’d been kept political prisoners by Helion himself, their lives used to forge the treaty that now bound both nations.

While Elain had never been found, her body still haunting the sea bed. 

And Nesta might have been able to forgive the death of her mother. But she’d sworn her life to protecting Elain the very night she’d failed. It was the only way to convince Elain to leave.

I’ll protect you. Please. Come with me.

How she’d failed. 

Nesta was old enough to inherit her father’s throne though law dictated she needed a husband and so Nesta had begun a campaign of finding the right man. She didn’t need love—didn’t want love. She wanted vengeance and none of the men at court were equipped to give her that.

Eris Vanserra wanted it nearly as badly as she did, and was just as practical. He’d told her he wasn’t looking for a love match and would look the other way if she chose to take a lover so long as she was discreet about it—and he had no question regarding any future offspring.

Fine.

He would be there now, poking through Helion’s secrets. Looking for weaknesses, mapping out their borders, the walls of Rhodes, and anything else he could glean. Nesta would give him everything, ruining her father’s careful legacy in favor of turning her family into Vanserras, giving her husband total control her territory, her wealth, her armies.

And she’d be the one to drive the blade straight through Helion’s blackened heart.

Rhysand was her backup plan and her father’s first choice. Eris Vanserra was a snake in the grass, untrustworthy and perhaps more damning, a Vanserra. Their family had ruled longer than any other on the continent, with a legacy that predated the oldest written record. 

But for all Eris’ faults, Nesta knew vengeance was personal for him. Helion had stolen his mother away in the night, forced her into marriage, and made her his wife. Those kinds of scars lingered, lasted. Rhysand wasn’t that sort of man from what she’d gathered.

He was a shadowed mystery, his motivations unclear. She didn’t know if he even wanted conquest, or if he was merely interested in seeing her home. She’d sent several letters which he’d returned with short, polite answers. Nothing helpful, no hidden message she could read between the lines. Only a gentleman’s words that were utterly banal and uninteresting to her.

Gentleman be damned.

She needed someone bloodthirsty and cruel.

Beside her, Feyre turned her head, chestnut hair whipping against her face. She knew, even if Nesta had never once explicitly said what she planned. Feyre knew, watchful as she was. Whether she approved or not didn’t matter, though Nesta had never known Feyre to be terribly soft-hearted. And she suspected she carried the same weighty guilt over Elain’s death, held the same deep-seated need to see someone pay for it. 

“We should be ready to greet them,” Nesta said, well aware Feyre would slip up into the rafters to listen without anyone watching.

“You go, then. I have no interest in any more princes or kings,” she replied, blue eyes flashing with defiance. “Nor do I wish to assist father in selling us off like livestock.”

“Not us. Me. You are safe—and once I’m married, you can pick whatever lovely northern gentleman is hounding your steps. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I don’t want a husband. We don’t need any of these horrible men to get what we want, Nesta. Take the throne, rewrite the laws—”

“The nobility would revolt. They’d throw me in prison or worse, force a marriage on me, wait until I gave them a son, and then stage some timely yet tragic accident. It’s better to have a say in it. To decide for myself and direct it as best I can.”

“None of them are trustworthy and I fear this king—Rhysand— is the worst of them.”

“Worse than Vanserra?” Nesta replied, genuinely curious which Feyre would prefer ruling their home. 

Feyre glanced back out the window, eyes narrowing. “He looks like a liar.”

“That’s because he’s a man.”

Feyre blew out a breath, crossing her arms over the rosy pink dress she wore. Neither of them would acknowledge what they were both thinking—Lord Tamlin Rosewood, who’d asked for Feyre’s hand in marriage and then struck her in a fit of frustration over some problem with the dowry. It had been, he claimed, an accident. 

He had been expelled from court, banished to the countryside and Feyre locked in her room until the bruising on her face faded. Everyone wanted to pretend it had never happened but to Nesta, it merely highlighted that she needed to be the one to secure their family so Feyre could have a small sliver of peace. 

Love was for the lower classes, besides. Perhaps Ferye understood that, now. 

“Come on,” Nesta said, hoping she wouldn’t have to go alone. She would, but she would feel less anxiety if she weren’t by herself. 

For once, Feyre didn’t put up a fight. Perhaps she recognized Nesta’s own vulnerability. Or maybe she wanted to stare the foreign king down with that lethal gaze of hers that made men wither to dust. Nesta thought it would be something to see them cower before her petite sister rethinking whatever strategy she was certain they must have.

The halls were utterly emptied, leaving only the watchful sentries posted by windows and doors, none of whom were allowed to meet their gaze. She still remembered Elain trying so hard to get the ones at the throne room door to smile and how she’d nearly always succeeded.

Feyre and Nesta didn’t bother. 

Their father was waiting, sitting on his icy, iron throne crowned in the blue diamonds that could be found only in the ancient mountains of the Spine, the natural border between their home and Rhysand’s. Nesta wondered if Rhysand would come wearing them, too. Nesta was wearing them around her neck, so heavy it made her spine ache. She’d carefully braided her hair off her face and put on a rather sumptuous, though conservative, gown. 

She was beautiful and she knew it. Nesta also knew that men liked a woman who presented herself well—Eris Vanserra had certainly been taken with her presentation, and she assumed Rhysand would be, too. There was no harm in letting him see what he wanted. A wellbred, obedient wife was the expectation. It wasn’t the reality, but that was a problem for another day. 

Nesta and Feyre took their place on either side of their father, staring across the room lined with nobility as the sounds of heavy footsteps began echoing louder and louder. For one moment, something in Nesta quaked with fear, blood icy as though death itself was making its way for her.

It was only a man—a man she didn’t want, didn’t like, and would never love. Rhysand and his right hands were the only ones who came in, strangely unadorned.

He was, objectively, attractive enough. High cheekbones set in a symmetrical face, with eyes so blue they were nearly violet and dark hair styled to look as though the wind had merely tousled it. A silver circlet of stars adorned his brow and one heavy ring was perched on his middle finger while the rest of him was rather bare in comparison to her father.

He looked like a warrior king in his dark black leathers and the heavy cape hanging from his shoulders. He lacked all the pomp and circumstance Eris had brought with him along with the warmth, too. His whole presence exuded ice and instinctively, Nesta took a step back.

His eyes were on her, and then her father as he swept into a bow. Nesta watched, as he came back up, how his gaze slid to Feyre.

And remained there.

“Rhysand,” her father began, his voice sharp and clear. “I hope the journey didn’t give you too much trouble.”

A cat’s smile slid across his features, eyes flicking back to their father. “None at all.”

Nesta didn’t hear her father’s response, buzzing filling her ears as she took a moment to survey the other men who’d come to join their king. The tallest one had removed the heavy helmet he wore, tucking it beneath one muscular arm and oh, Nesta wished he hadn’t. His face, scarred just at the eyebrow and again across full lips, was perhaps the most beautiful face she’d ever laid eyes on. Not classically, of course—for one, he was far too large. The sconce on the wall across the room was, perhaps, as tall as this man was and the muscle packed on his body spoke to an active life, never mind the twin, curved swords looming over his shoulders.

A light layer of dark stubble graced a perfect jaw while strange, whirling black inked tattoos peeked from beneath the neckline of his armor. She wondered what they meant, what their purpose was. Nesta drank in his slightly crooked nose, likely broken in some battle he’d won and the curved scar across his throat that must have been brutal when he’d first received it. He had his large hands clasped in front of him and when she looked up to take in the color of his eyes—hazel, more green than brown—she found he was grinning at her.

He’d caught her looking at him and wanted her to know it. Nesta immediately looked away, unable to hide the damning flush creeping up her own neck. 

Nesta swore he’d never catch her looking at him again.

Hands in his pockets, Rhys allowed Archeron to show him around the palace. These visits never failed to bore him. Look at this painting, survey my wealth. Did you see my daughters? Aren’t they lovely? 

Usually the answer was covert eyerolls and shared smirks with Cassian and Azriel. Today, though, Rhys felt moody. Unsettled. Disturbed, even, by the younger daughter he hadn’t known existed and hadn’t expected to see. 

Rumors swirled about Nesta Archeron and the possible marriage her father was considering with heir apparent Eris Vanserra. His father was on death’s door and a marriage between North and West almost certainly promised a brutal and bloody war. 

When Helion had learned, he’d sent word to Rhysand. What is going on in the Spine?

Nothing smart. Rhysand intended to do what he did best—lie. Pretend he had interest in Nesta, jerk her around for a year while he drew up marriage contracts that had to be written and rewritten and written again, wasting her time while Eris inevitably moved on to some nice noble in his own court.

And then Rhys could withdraw, free to continue philandering until his advisors put their foot down. His presence was purely nefarious—two months freezing his balls off in the frigid north while Cassian inspected the army and Azriel devoured secrets. 

And yet…and yet. 

Rhysand’s mind slipped toward the younger daughter and those eyes. They looked like the same stars that hung over the Illyrian Mountains, silvery and bright and so very alive. Rhys had spent his entire life gazing up at them—he would have recognized them anywhere. Even in the face of that woman, who spared only a passing glance before she fixed her stare on the wall behind him, clearly underwhelmed by their presence. 

He wanted to talk to her. He’d seen beautiful women before, though perhaps this was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and that beauty was often exhausted the moment they opened their mouth to speak to him. 

Easier said than done. Rhys tried, but Nesta Archeron became the ambassador for the Archerons, silently watching him without ever speaking a word. He found that unnerving all through dinner and wasn’t the only one. The moment he, Azriel, and Cassian were locked away in the suite of rooms, Azriel was the first to speak.

“This place feels like a tomb,” he said, looking around the dark interior.

“Why don’t the princesses speak?” Cassian added, pulling open the heavy velvet curtains blocking out the dim light. “Are they allowed?”

“We should have brought Morrigan,” Azriel grumbled, flopping gracelessly onto a floral sofa. 

“She doesn’t deserve the archaic practices of Archeron,” Rhys replied, running a finger over the marble mantle of the fireplace. A thin layer of dust came with it, proving the North rarely hosted guests.

They were far too untrusting.

He supposed he didn’t blame Archeron given the horror of that final invasion. Rhysand couldn’t imagine losing both a wife and a daughter, no matter how, frankly, deserved Rhysand still found the entire thing. After all—Archeron had marched into a neutral city, the third largest in the West, blocked all routes in and out, and burned it entirely to the ground in the matter of a week. 

War was hell and there were no heroes. Helion’s father had retaliated, breaking into the capital city and sacking it over the course of a night. In the aftermath, he’d taken the two surviving daughters hostage and only agreed to return them when a peace treaty had been brokered, redefining old borders and returning both stolen land and land long contested. 

Oh, but it was all such a mess even a decade later. Those wounds had been left to fester and no matter how Rhysand looked at it, he could see no path forward that didn’t explode into utter disaster. Maybe if Lucien Spell-Cleaver married an Archeron they could avoid war, but he’d heard the prince was far too spoiled and sheltered to be offered up like a political pawn.

And having seen Nesta, he doubted she was willing to subject herself to another hurt at the hands of the West. 

“What did you think of Nesta?” Cassian asked, his words carrying a strange ribbon of curiosity. Rhys opened his mouth before closing it again, trying to find words that were both honest without being cruel.

“I doubt a marriage is in our collective futures. Still—maybe she’ll surprise me.”

“With a dagger to your throat,” Azriel commented lightly, causing Cassian to grin at the thought. 

“We don’t need to worry about them other than distracting them. Any one of us can accomplish that,” Rhys declared, wondering why the image of Azriel and Feyre annoyed him so much.

“Let's get what we came for and let’s get out of this miserable city.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Azriel murmured, stretching out his legs. 

“I can already tell you their military is weak in compared to our own,” Cassian half whispered, his gaze sharp. “I’m going to ask to train with them tomorrow—”

“Trotting out the dumb brute act?” Azriel questioned, a gleam in his eyes.

“My favorite,” Cassian agreed. “I just love swinging a sword and no one ever taught me to read.”

“There must be more of them. Up in the mountains?” Azriel suggested, glancing toward the windows. “Archeron wouldn’t be so stupid to leave his entire kingdom undefended just to protect one city.”

“Helion decimated them a decade ago. Men don’t grow up so quickly,” Rhys reminded them both. “The north has gold, and diamonds from the Spine. Vanserra has manpower and a navy none of us could fend off should he bring it to our shores. It makes sense that Nesta would go to Eris first if she lacked manpower.”

“Then why are we here?” Cassian asked, drumming his fingers against his knee. 

“Perhaps Vanserra isn’t sold on the idea?” Rhys suggested, uncertain himself. “Or her father wants to explore all his options? We’re here to prevent another war that would almost certainly drag us into it,” he added, looking at his general and spymaster.

“We’re just waiting out the summer, then?” Azriel questioned.

Rhys nodded. “We can give them all a little taste of what war might mean for them this time.”

Knowing his objective didn’t do much for Rhys’s restless mind, though. While his brothers got ready for the evening, making jokes and generally amused by the entire situation, Rhys slipped from the suite of rooms they shared to walk the halls. It unnerved him how many people were watching under the guise of not watching at all. The sentries and guards never looked at him and he knew his steps would be reported to the king before breakfast.

Getting around undetected was Azriel’s domain. Rhys had never tried, commanded too much attention. He was always the distraction, besides. No one gave Azriel and Cassian much thought, certain he must be the knife in the dark. Slick smiles and double entendre made everyone assume he was far more clever than he was.

Cassian was the dumb brute, Azriel obsessed with cruelty which left Rhys as the one worth watching. He just seemed like a two-faced bastard. And to be fair…he was. But he had help, had chosen his inner circle carefully. 

His feet took him to a set of stone steps that spiraled upward into a tower. It was a decent vantage point over the dreary city. Fog hung like a curtain, floating from the mountains that kept the warmer air Velaris received from reaching them. Rhys heard there were years where Ellesmere experienced nothing but rain every single day.

No wonder they liked war so much. What else was there for them?

At the top of this tower, rather than more oppressive fog, sat the younger princess. Rhys hesitated, drinking in the sight of her propped up in that window, one leg dangling precariously over the edge. Her hair was braided over one shoulder and propped on the wall beside her, a bow with a quiver of arrows. 

Another sentry, far prettier than any of the others he’d seen. Rhys couldn’t help himself, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest.

“Keeping watch?”

She turned her head to look, those starry blue eyes narrowing. “You shouldn’t be up here.”

“Says who?”

“Says me,” she replied, causing Rhys to take a step into the candle lit, chilly room.

“Oh, but you seem like such fine company,” he crooned, holding her gaze. “Maybe you could give me a tour—”

“I’ll leave that to Nesta,” Feyre snapped. It was a dismissal given she turned back to looking out at the city and any rational man would have turned around and left.

But Rhys was famously stupid, if his cousin Mor was to be believed so he came closer, desperate for anything to say to her. He was a fool to have any interest in this woman at all, to want a moment of her time when he’d come here to betray her. 

“Why are you here?” she asked when Rhys couldn’t think of anything eloquent to say.

“I’m looking for a wife, darling,” he heard himself say. Heart thudding, Rhys recalled telling his advisors not a week earlier he had no interest in a wife and to stop pushing him on it. What absurdity to say it while looking at her, knowing damn well she wasn’t for the likes of him.

He barely knew her at all.

“It's strange how many men suddenly find themselves desperate to be married,” Feyre commented, swinging her legs over the edge of the window before righting herself. “We came of age years ago. Surely you’re not interested in women as old as we are.”

“You think me so shallow? I like a conversation partner—”

“You don’t worry we’ve been ruined?”

Oh, what man touched her he wondered? What man would Rhys have to murder? The urge washed over him stronger than any other emotion he’d felt in recent months. It wasn’t that she had potentially been with another man but the defiant way she asked him if that somehow diminished her worth. 

“A lot of things keep me awake at night, Feyre darling,” Rhys purred, taking a measured step toward the princess. “Your activities in the bedroom are not one of them.”

“That’s good, given you’re here to court my sister.”

“I’m here for the princess of the North. You are a princess, are you not?” 

“I am a princess, I live in the North,” she agreed, those eyes of hers flashing. And Rhys knew whatever words came out of her mouth next were about to wreck him. His whole body went tight at the prospect.

“And I will never be your wife,” she added with that same, light tone. “I am not interested in a husband, especially one who looks like he lies as easily as he breathes.”

Rhys flashed a smile. He wanted her. What a revelation. “We’ll see,” he replied as she sauntered past him, shouldering her bow with ease. 

Feyre only shook her head, eyes rolling upward in her skull. “That wasn’t a challenge. You repulse me.”

Rhys only laughed.

They’d see about that, too.

#im gonna upload on a tues/thurs schedule until its done (i only have 5 chapters written) #elucien #feysand #nessian #DID YOU KNOW IT WAS ME OR WAS I SUBTLE?

[the-one-who-lambs]

"live again" (Hannah writes narilamb for @xmajordumps because their AU absolutely fucks)

A rock is eroded over millions of years. The most minuscule raindrops whittle away at it because they persist. Its razor-sharp edges become soft and rounded, battered by incessant efforts to smooth it.

Retaliatory claws sink into them. They cannot remember how many times his obsidian revenge has anointed their skin. Eternity will meld into forgiveness; neither remembers who spoke it first. Time and time again the Lamb chooses kindness to answer him. Every antipromise he has unearthed about how they should treat him is honeyed, discordant. Mercy does not define the existence he would choose, until it does. Vanishingly small is the line dividing sinners and saints. It blurs: an eclipse of the blood they once drew.

The Lamb spent their entire life running. First from the Bishops as flames guide their footsteps, then charging towards them with ice in their veins. They finally settle and the world moves too slowly beneath their feet.

What stands in his place is now You. No self they have constructed has ever been more true, dormant in that restless grave. Their breath would not have been their own if he hadn’t been so selfish. The biting cold fills their lungs, a hollow defeat. They go back to him. His arms are warm again. They do not ask who inflicted the scars upon them, lest their reflection shows someone else’s face, or worse, their own. A shadow loves the sun for creating it, a monochrome facsimile of its forbearer. Inseparable but never meant to touch. They defied the story yet unwritten for them.

They trace the constellations and map their youth, stellar temples of the versions of each other they will never know.

They don’t fear death. Dying for each other could scarcely be called martyrdom. Living, however, is a vow of sacrifice, a splendor so unmeasurable it perhaps does not exist at all. They don’t need to sleep, anymore. Nightly, they hold each other and close their eyes, and grieve not the eternity they share. It’s a soft peace, a long-fought, raindrop-born glory.

They are sworn to the darkness bright within them and uphold their shared devotion, unrepentant.

#hannah's rambles #Hannah writes #link goes to ao3 because i'm gonna put all the shit i've written for friend art all in one place #poem i wrote for paya is up there too #cult of the lamb #narilamb #cotl

[transforming]

When I was younger, I would always feel jealous of the male models in the fashion industry. They were tall, always had such good hair, handsome... and how they also have muscles while remaining so slender intrigued me. I swear, it was as if God had cursed me to be forever skinny, acne-scarred, short and with unshapeable flat hair. It was as if I was destined to be the ugly office nerd for the rest of my life, and I thought that I would be able to 'glow up' like my classmates did, but that never fucking materialized.

One day, I was trudging home from my economics class in the middle of winter, when I saw a lilac cowboy hat on a lonely stone bench. It seemed so out of place in the dull, drab world around me, and I nearly mistook it for a block of ice, so I went over to see what it was.

"Must belong to someone," I thought as I stared at it.

Once I picked it up, I turned it all over, and the chin strap fell from underneath. There was something about the hat, an aura, that... enticed me. Begged me, in some way. To just plop it onto my head. I knew I should have gone to the lost-and-found nearby, but I couldn't help myself.

The moment it sat firm on my greasy head, a moan escaped my lips. I felt something wake up inside me, a candle-like heat. It only grew hotter and hotter, and my body felt like it was up in flames. I closed my eyes and ran my hands up my sweater, and I gasped when i felt my slight belly fat melt into a perfectly-chiseled six pack.

The heat spread all over, and I could feel my skin getting more supple and youthful, while my bony, flat chest blossomed into lean, slender pecs. I swirled my finger around my now sensitive nipple, while my shoulders and back broadened and stretched, increasing my height. Even though that happened, I was still skinny... like...

My arms and legs were next. Wiry sinews started to throb and shake, and I fell to my knees, but where I was expecting to hit my ankles hard was now a round, perky butt. I chuckled, nearly giggled as I noticed my arms bulk up, filling my biceps.

I looked down at my hands, which shook me, because they were obviously masculine, but had a touch of softness and beauty to them. The changes didn't stop there, as my aching feet exploded out of my shoes.

Suddenly, the chinstrap came to life and tightened around my jaw, reshaping it and scratching my face as it hollowed out my cheeks and squared my jaw, it was more chiseled and defined, with a light five-o-clock shadow coming on. My face was on fire as the changes melted my features. My nose sharpened. My eyebrows became thinner, more pretty. My lips plumped, and my eyes began to brighten.

It all felt so good, so enchanting. The hat tightened around my scalp, and I could feel all of what made me - my fears, my intelligence, and my dreams - get sucked away, leaving my mind a blank slate. As it did, the roots of my hair began to curl and wave, blowing in some invisible wind as it changed into a flowing, sleek middle part style.

The heat shot down straight to my dick. I rubbed my delicate hand on my bulge, and I could sense the pleasure of doing so hit an all-time high. Here I was, moaning and biting my lip in the middle of snow, as my tiny, shriveled cock grew hard, but also stretched into a long, juicy sausage, while my balls churned and absorbed all of the old me, growing into a pair of oranges.

I couldn't take it anymore. My dick twitched, I closed my eyes, and let out a deep seductive moan. Cum spurted out, taking everything I was with it. The heat left with it too, but it was as if it now surrounded me.

A flash interrupted that beautiful moment of ecstasy. Opening my eyes, I realized why. I was on a yacht, in the middle of Saint-Tropez, with a photographer in front of me as I posed on the doorway. My clothes felt light, and when I looked down, I was surprised to see I was dressed for the beach.

"Yes, that's good man, you look sexy," the photographer said. The hat fell off my head, the chinstrap keeping it on my slender shoulders as I posed. The mirror inside showed what I had now become, who I had been jealous of before.

I stood there, posing for my next Instagram post. my lips curling into a smolder. Looks like someone finally answered my prayers. I didn't need much smarts anymore, nor did I need to study economics. I was pretty, and that's all I needed to live my new, sexy male model life.

#male tf #male model

[necatormundi]

No one has come this far, not for a very long while.

Young Hollow, do you wish to shed this curse?

Then accept the fate of your ilk, and face the trials that await you.

Unless, you have already joined the crestfallen.

Young Hollow, there are but two paths. Inherit the order of this world, or destroy it.

But only a true monarch can make such a choice.

Very few, indeed, have come even this far.

And yet, your journey is far from over.

Half-grown Hollow, have you what it takes, truly?

Young Hollow, seek after Vendrick.

He who almost became a true monarch.

Vendrick is certain to guide your way.

Fledgeling Hollow, may we meet again.

Heheh, I believe we've been acquainted.

Young Hollow, conqueror of fear.

What drives you so, to overcome this supposed curse?

Life is brilliant. Beautiful. It enchants us, to the point of obsession.

Some are true to their purpose, though they are but shells, flesh and mind.

One man lost his own body, but lingered on, as a head.

Others chase the charms of love, however elusive.

What is it that drives you?

Once, the Lord of Light banished Dark, and all that stemmed from humanity.

And men assumed a fleeting form.

These are the roots of our world.

Men are props on the stage of life, and no matter how tender, how exquisite…

A lie will remain a lie.

Young Hollow, knowing this, do you still desire peace?

Vendrick, the near-true monarch, is here, and not far off.

But what is a king?

You, neither born with greatness, nor granted it by the fates.

What is it that you seek?

You cannot even say yourself.

We shall meet again, young Hollow.

Young Hollow.

How you grapple, without falter, with this dreadfully twisted world.

Peace grants men the illusion of life.

Shackled by falsehoods, they yearn for love, unaware of its grand illusion.

Until, the curse touches their flesh.

We are bound by this yoke.

As true as the Dark that churns within men.

All men trust fully the illusion of life.

But is this so wrong?

A construction, a facade, and yet…

A world full of warmth and resplendence.

Young Hollow, are you intent on shattering the yoke, spoiling this wonderful falsehood?

I am Aldia.

I sought to shed the yoke of fate, but failed.

Now, I only await an answer.

Seek the throne.

Seek light, Dark and what lies beyond…

Many monarchs have come and gone.

One drowned in poison, another succumbed to flame.

Still another slumbers in a realm of ice.

Not one of them stood here, as you do now.

You, conqueror of adversities.

Give us your answer.

I lost everything, but remained here, patiently.

The throne will certainly receive you.

But the question remains…

What do you want, truly?

Light? Dark? Or something else entirely…

There is no path.

Beyond the scope of light, beyond the reach of Dark…

…what could possibly await us?

And yet, we seek it, insatiably…

Such is our fate.

[thepenultimateword]

Good day, madame/sir/your royal majesty! May I request a:

Hero has a evil superpower that was forced upon them by Villain and they try to hide it the struggle they’re having with it, but they accidentally lose control infront of Villain and now Villain has to mentor them.

Depending on people, it’s not a very open ended request so absolutely no pressure if you don’t want to do it! 🤎

"You did this to me," Hero hissed, smoke trailing off their tongue. “Now you want to help? Are you so sick that you have to micromanage my misery too?"

As always when their powers misfired, everything felt hot and tender. From their skin to the roots of their hair, to the nerve endings in every inch of their body. It was like an electric charge had surged through their insides and left them fried. What was worse was that they felt it building back up again. A threat beneath the surface of their skin that would grow and push until it found a way to do harm all over again.

Villain dared close those few steps between them, gently trapping their wrists in both hands. The destructive swelling in their chest and head immediately went flat. A breath of fresh air after drowning. A rush of ice over an open flame. It was relief and exhaustion wrapped in one.

Hero probably should have jerked away immediately, but it was all they could do to stay standing and glare. Besides, active resistance would drain them of what little fight they had left in case things went really bad.

"Come, Hero," Villain said, thumbs rubbing the insides of their wrists. "It's not as if it's all bad."

"Actually it is."

"Because you killed a bunch of people in front of a bunch of other people you're obsessed with pleasing?"

Hero glared down into Villain's vacant eyes, pretending to not be chilled, even now in their anger, by the cold, dark hollows. "Shut up."

"You've killed people before. In secret. A kidnapper here, a serial murderer there, people you know the world is better off without. You just didn't want your fan club to know that about you. Their shoddy opinion is the only thing keeping you together."

"Shut up!"

Screw conserving energy. They yanked back against Villain's grip, but the criminal's fists tightened like shackles. They aimed every unstable emotion in their smug direction, but for the first time, the ravenous beast inside them did not surface.

"Let me finish."

"You don't know anything about me!" Hero shouted. "You're trying to make me seem like you! But the deaths I've chosen and the deaths you've forced upon me are completely different!"

The villain raised their eyebrows.

Hero hated that look. The skepticism in it. Hero was not like Villain. They couldn't be. They'd been perfectly fine before Villain trapped them with this horrific ability.

They tried not to imagine the criminals from earlier, the fear in their eyes, bodies edged with smokeless black flame--if it could really be called flame without heat--disappearing bit by bit into thin air.

This was all their fault!

"What do you even want?" Hero said. "You give me this power, and what? You want to destroy me? Humiliate me? Or do you just want the company?"

Villain scoffed.

It was Hero's turn to raise their brow. "Really?"

Villain's fingers pressed harder into Hero's skin, enough to make them wince and maybe leave behind some light bruises. "Believe it or not, but not everything I do is about you."

"Forcing destruction powers on me seems a lot about me."

"Consider it a basis for negotiation."

Hero tipped their head inquiringly.

"I help you get that nasty power under control, and you do me favor."

Hero had to stop themselves from gaping. That was the reason? That was why Villain had ruined their life? To have proper leverage to lure them into a deal? They couldn't have just asked them? If what they wanted was so bad they needed to go to such lengths as these, Hero wanted nothing to do with it.

"I'll give you a better one take it away and I don't burn your face into oblivion."

Villain quirked a smiled. "Not possible. Your ability has been carefully embedded into each neuron in your brain. It's a part of you now. I can't undo it. Not without inflicting permanent damage on your psyche."

"I don't believe you."

"Ask anyone. Ask your precious agency doctors. But then...you might have to admit you've become a liability.

Hero gritted their teeth, voice dropping into a bitter hiss, "I hate you."

"Sticks and stones, dear. So, do we have a deal?"

This was dangerous. Getting involved with villains? Especially a crafty rogue like Villain? Hero shouldn't even be considering it. But...they couldn't keep living like this. Hiding away in their house, using every ounce of willpower to keep from destroying everything around them, dreading every call to action, and praying the agency didn't find out just how helpless and weak they really were.

"What guarantee do I have that you can really help me control this thing?"

"None. Except for the promise that you don't have to help me until I've helped you."

Hero clenched and unclenched their fists, working up the willpower to say what they already knew they would.

"Fine."

"Fine?" Villain repeated.

"I'll do it." Hero's words were tinged with a growl. "What even is this favor anyway? Or am I not allowed to know?"

Villain shrugged, as if the thought of Hero messing up their plans was so impossible it wasn't even worth thinking about. "You're going to bring me some things from inside the agency. And you're not going to get caught."

Master Taglist:

@moss-tombstone @crazytwentythrees @just-1-lonely-person @the-vagabond-nun @willow-trees-are-beautiful @cocoasprite @insanedreamer7905 @valiantlytransparentwhispers @whovian378 @watercolorfreckles @thebluepolarbear @yulanlavender @kitsunesakii @deflated-bouncingball @lem-hhn @office-plant-in-a-trenchcoat @ghostfacepepper @pigeonwhumps @demonictumble @inkbirdie @vuvulia @bouncyartist @lunatic-moss-studio @breilobrealdi @freefallingup13 @i-am-a-story-goblin @ryunniez @rainy-knights-of-villany @distractedlydistracted @saspas-corner @echoednonny @perilous-dreamer r @blood-enthusiast @randomfixation @alexkolax @pksnowie @blessupblessup @wolfeyedwitch @thedeepvoidinmyheart t @cornflower-cowboy @bestblob @a-chaotic-gremlin @espresso-depresso-system @prompt-fills-and-writing-spills @paleassprince

#hero x villain #heroes and villains #heroes and villains community #hero x villain community #writing snippet #creative writing #hero #villain #dark power #this may not be exactly what you wanted #but I hope it’s still a good repsonse

[saphirered]

Frozen lake, Eris x reader, Eris warms them up, Spicyyyy pls

I had a concept for this one the moment I saw the request. Hope it turned out like you wanted! We got some fluffy spice. 😘

Eris finds himself alone in bed. Blankets on the other side of the bed leave an empty abandoned cocoon. The clothes previously discarded on the floor have been neatly draped over the chair by the window and the wardrobe is creaked open just a little. The crackling wood in the fireplace signs someone placed a new log on to keep the fire going. When he reaches for that empty side of the bed it still feels somewhat warm. You’ve not been gone for too long. Eris sits up and rubs his eyes. All signs point to you not being here. At first he thinks you might be bathing but when he listens closely you’re not in the cottage out here just beyond the Winter Court’s border. He’s not worried in the slightest. He’s simply curious. Only so many places one can go in the middle of nowhere far removed from civilisation. But most of all he simply misses your presence. He might be the bearer of flames but without your presence or the knowledge of your estimated return, he feels eerily cold, and no fire can fill that hollow left within him. He passes the window and there he sees you, sweeping away the freshly fallen snow from the ice covered lake with a large broom and maybe a hint of magic. What in the world are you doing? 

Dressed appropriately in knits and wool Eris finds his way downstairs and outside on the front porch. Instantly hit with a wave of cold he summons a flame in his palm if only to keep his fingers from going numb. It’s a stark contrast to the temperatures inside. Not unpleasant necessarily. Just different. Hard at work, currently you’re impervious to that cold, having discarded your coat near the banks of the lake, along with your boots? What? No you’re wearing your boots. Why would you need a second pair of shoes? Confused he approaches. You’ve cleared quite some snow by this point. You work fast but why in the world you’d want to reveal the ice under the snow, is beyond him. You smile widely when you notice him and he feels that bit of warmth within spike when you draw closer. 

“I didn’t think you’d be up this early.” You say when his hands settle on your hips and you wrap your arms around him, pecking his lips but you pull away from him all too soon, sit down on your abandoned coat and begin unlacing your winter boots in favour of the other pair. That’s when he notices the metal blades attached to them, particularly shaped, and held in such a way he’s only really ever seen when diplomatic visits to the High Lord of winter were made and his attendance was mandatory. He’s seen dancers at one such event as part of a performance glide across the ice with such grace. These shoes are similar to theirs though a bit more practical and maybe not as intentionally stylish? Made for comfort and support rather before anything else. They are decently worn. 

“Neither did I. You were gone.” He answers as you move on to the other boot and quickly lace it. 

“You looked peaceful. I didn’t want to wake you.” He offers you a hand before you can even move to get up. Clasping your gloved hand in his bare one, still you feel the heat radiate through the knit, warming the wool unintentionally with a single touch. Once you stand you are a good two inches taller than usual. Eris is not complaining, especially not when you once more peck his lips, then his cheek and the tip of his nose. You giggle but step away from his comforts until you’re on the ice. 

You don’t walk. Instead you slide, pushing off the ice, Eris can’t quite explain the movement other than graceful and light, like you’re floating. You stay near the snow covered bank, near him, as you familiarise yourself with the change in movement and take it up little by little. He’s perfectly content watching you as you practice. He lets you know, offering words of encouragement, and they do encourage you because whenever he says something completely outlandish leaving you glad no one else is around to hear, you take it up a notch. A slide stop turns into a spin, into a pirouette, to a full jump and more. You’re dancing, bordering acrobatics. Eris would be lying if he said he didn’t feel his heart in his throat when you did particularly daring tricks and given your expression for a brief second before you land, or fully stabilise, he feels safe to assume you expected yourself to sprawl across the ice a couple of times too. Every time you would land it though, not once did you crash into the cold frozen lake and once your routine is complete you return to his side for a moment, breathing a bit more laboured from the exercise but nothing too bad. 

“So how do you do it?” Eris asks, curiosity getting the better of him. 

“Would you like to try? I think we’ll be able to find some skates your size.” By habit in this cold environment Your hands lace together but this time you pull off the wool mitts and relish in the skin to skin contact. Eris does too, signalled by the warmth he allows to radiate over to you, to preserve your own warmth. He knows you need the layers more than him when it comes down to it. That doesn’t mean he never gets cold. He just has a way to get rid of the worst of it. Never had he been more grateful for the fire in his veins when the snow fell with the sun beyond the mountains, and darkness set an ever present shiver in his bones. Never had you been more grateful either. Last night’s activities provided plenty of heat and preserved it too. That was until you left the bed this morning. 

“While I don’t doubt your ability as a teacher, I fear I might be not but a fawn perpetually one mistake away from cracking my skull on the ice.” You pout but Eris knows it’s all for show. Though he feels his self control dwindle. He can’t say no to you. If his family could see him now, they would gut him instantly for this weakness but he couldn’t care less. You’re happy. He’ll allow himself to be happy too, to be himself too. Maybe that does make him a bit soft. Thank the Mother this Winter Court getaway avoids any prying eyes and unwanted guests. No one in their right mind would venture here. No one but you and by default him, that is. Perhaps ha has gone mental but it is worth your smile. 

“How about we try without skates first then.” You compromise and Eris just can’t say no. Not when you step backwards and lead him onto the ice. Eris is about ready for you to turn around but you don’t. You skate backwards. Backwards. He cannot even begin to comprehend how you do not drop, not when he takes a step and stumbles and you’re the one to help him recover his balance before he can turn into the aforementioned fawn. 

Slowly, little by little you show him the correct movements and he’s sliding across the ice with his boots, mimicking you, with more ease and confidence. Then you find the skates and show Eris how to put them on, even though he assures you he is perfectly capable of lacing his own boots, with a wink of course. You help him to his feet and whatever grace and elegance he carries himself with normally certainly saves him from immediately losing his balance but his grip around your arms does tighten. You move back to the ice and whatever practice he had with you just before, has left his mind and became irrelevant. He thought he knew but he certainly does not. While he does not show it, Eris does not feel as confident as he appears to be. His heart is racing and while it’s not actual fear, not like a sword at one’s throat, the inkling of fear of falling is still present, and makes him doubt every move he makes. Even when you tell him he’s doing good, when you guide him through the movements again and again, when you offer your arms only for him to catch himself on. But then you skate a few yards away, and leave him alone, relying only on his own balance. No more safety net in your arms. 

“If you can get over here I’ll give you a reward.” You tease and while encouraged that pressure within him begins to build and boil. Normally when he feels as if he’s in danger he feels the flames under his skin spark to life, to protect him, to comfort him and keep him safe but he doesn’t need them now. He’s not in danger he’s just… a little unsure of his ability to not mess ups royally and make a fool of himself in the process. But he’ll try, for you. He shuffles across the ice and once he’s but a few feet away, you skate backwards with a giggle. A disapproving shake of his head and narrowing of his eyes has you hide that grin beneath your hands. He allows himself to slide more and the distance is covered a little faster but again you skate away. 

“I love you, but I swear if you move away once more you’ll come to regret it.” You get the implication and hold up your hands in surrender. 

“Fine, fine. I’ll stay this time. I promise.” You roll your eyes and grin and Eris, in a brief and fleeting moment of confidence tries to mimic your previous movements when you went for speed in your solo performance. He tries. And he fails miserably. Just a few feet in he pushes too far. The point of his skate catches on the ice and he goes down, sprawling across the ice with an oomph, air knocked from his lungs. Though, the fall didn’t scare him. Nor was it entirely surprising. What does get to him is the echoing cracking sound. It’s not really an echo he realises… 

“Eris, do not move.” The faint tremble in your voice is not exactly giving the confidence and encouragement you offered before. The way your eyes widen in panic and look between him and the bank, calculating his distance to it, he knows he might have fucked up. He doesn't so much as twitch but the cracking continues. You get on your knees and lower yourself on your elbows, crawling over, not once lifting your limbs off the ice. His breath increases and that familiar protective fire within sparks to life. He wills it to calm but the flames disagree and next he knows, there’s not but dark riddled with spots of light and cold, freezing cold. His body goes tense and he swims up before his limbs can lock up, only to find ice above him. He wills the flames to reach out to melt the ice and it grows thinner. He sees it cracking above him, feels the pulse and echo reverberate through the water. The ice cracks and breaks where it had grown weakest and he feels something, or rather someone grasp onto him. 

Quickly he breathes air again, and breaths laboured only through the shock. You begin pulling him along as more cracks sound but the Mother is kind and spares him another dive. He pushes along with you, until you reach the bank. You hold onto him, your hands wandering remind him he’s still capable of sensory response, rubbing at his skin, pulling away his jacket and shirt beneath it. Only when they’re pulled away from him does he realise how heavy and cold those garments had gotten. You quickly drape your dry coat over his shoulders. You clasp his face and brush away the wet hair. 

“I’m fine.” He reassures and repeats when you stutter apology after apology, like you could have done anything about this, or this was somehow your fault. It’s not. When you are sure he’s truly alright only then do you calm down and he notices your shiver. He sees your soaked sleeves, the ice crystals beginning to form on them and he gets it now, looking at his previously soaked garments, seeing how they have frozen over. He notices how there’s a slight tremble to your own limbs that is not stress induced. He rises to his feet, pulls you with and holds you close, brushes over your sleeves and begins to evaporate any liquid from them, frozen or not. You teeth chatter and you feel freezing cold. He nods to the cottage and you have no objections. Suddenly much more stable on skates, very much out of necessity, leaning on each other you make it through the door. There you’re quick to discard your skates, and throw off your sweater. Your skin’s still cold but you’re warming up and when he runs his fingers over your bare skin, feels the warmth return to it he feels confident you too will be fine. 

“I think I was promised a reward when I got you.” Eris jokes like you didn’t just save him from possibly drowning, when finally you’re not all shivers and chattering teeth and instead are curled up in the comforts of that bed with not but some thin layers separating you now. He loves the feeling of you tucked in the crook of his arm, head against his chest. You’ve taken a habit to drawing patterns on his chest and abdomen. When you’re feeling cheeky you’ll wander a bit lower and you’ve set on that path already he knows. He welcomes it. 

“That was before you decided to be dramatic and take a swim instead.” You tease only to receive a pinch to the thigh lifted over his hips. You gasp. The audacity of this male.

“I don’t recall there to be any rules to this challenge. You moved away. It was only fair to get you to move closer. I don’t play games I can’t win.” You snort.

“Oh so it was all intentional. I suppose it was part of some master plan to get me back into bed then too, oh almighty lord of the blazes and cunning.” You flick his nose. It’s exactly these kind of moments where the walls come down and Eris very much feels mundane that will never reach the ears of anyone but you. It makes you value them all the more that he feels safe to be his authentic self with you but that doesn’t mean you don’t want to kiss that cockiness off his face sometimes. You doubt this is an effective way of getting rid of it as all attempts seem to have the opposite effect.

“It worked, didn’t it? Though, I won’t take the credit from your precious lake. That ice cracked right on time. But perhaps you would like to take credit? Perhaps it was you trying to lure me back to bed with your winter woes?” Eris pulls you closer, and you decide to humour this all, allow yourself to just your position and worm away from his hold only to sit on his abdomen. When his hands come to rest on your hips you instead lace your fingers with his, and move them up until they’re on either side of his head. He gives you a look that dares you to keep pushing your luck and see where it gets you. Innocently you squeeze his hands and pout briefly. 

“Unlike you, I’m not impervious to this frigid cold.” You lean in close, lips almost touching but not quite. And then his skin warms up significantly, leaves your own tingling where you touch him. 

“On the contrary. I’ll just freeze a little slower than you, but if you’re cold, I have no objections to helping you warm up a little.” He eases free one hand from yours, a flame lighting in his palm. You feel the heat of it when he lets his knuckles brush along the side of your face, feel sparks ignite under your own skin and your breath staggers. That satisfied grin has you sit back up, pull away from him and Eris groans when you get off him, off the bed entirely to make your way to the fireplace. His eyes follow you when you bend down to add more logs to the fire, and watch the flames grow. His gaze is especially present when you begin to remove the remainder of your clothes and neatly place them near the fire, wether it is to warm them or dry further, he doesn’t even need to know. 

You feel him behind you, not even bothering to listen to the rustle of the blankets nor the footsteps across the dreadfully cold flooring. You play ignorant but you know he’s there. It comes as no surprise to you that when you’re on your feet, watching the flames you feel a presence behind you. You feel arms wrap around you, pulling you infinitely closer. You feel lips dancing along your neck placing mindful kisses along your shoulder until they leave you breathless, lean into that embrace. But then those lovely touches go to another level. Each kiss is but a spark to the flame, each caress lights a fire, and each moan and whimper of pleasure extracted only adds fuel to this blaze. 

“Does this help?” Eris dares dip his gentle touch between your legs leaving you short of breath. His touch is so light, torturously there but not quite enough. You need more. He knows that. That’s why you feel like you have to wipe that undoubted smirk off his face. You pull away his hand, turn in his grasp until you face him. Defiantly you stare up to him and signal you will not dignify his stupid question with a response. At least, not a verbal one. Instead you run your fingers along the waistband of his trousers daring to hook into it. You undo the first button, releasing some tension on the fabric. Never once do you break eye contact with him. Eris’ lips come to part and you can’t help but cup his cheek, place your lips on his as you undo the next button, and the next, and the next until they’re all done. In contrast to his body your hands are a bit cooler to the touch. You use this to your advantage when you trail back up, and ever so lightly trail your fingers along his abdomen, causing him to shiver, even if he tries to repress the effect. To your surprise, a hand wraps around your wrist and the kiss is broken. Confused you look at him but that confusion is quick to fade at his next words. 

“This was about getting you warm.” In a swift movement you’re lifted from the ground. You wrap your legs around his waist, arms coming to rest on his shoulders and linking at the nape of his neck. 

“You say that like it’s a chore.” You tease when he carries you back to the bed, lays you down gently as he settles over top of you, brushing away some stray strands of hair and pecking your lips quick before he begins to trail them down, over your cheek and neck, along your chest, paying some extra attention there and then moves over your abdomen where he breaks to speak words that leave you longing.

“Oh darling, this is as much for you as it is for me.” And with that he settles between your legs, making use of that silver tongue of his until his name is the one you utter and words have forgone your mind in bliss. He did say he’d warm you up and certainly succeeds having you come undone on his tongue like so and he relishes in it, in the sounds you make, how you moan his name, how you beg for more and he happily gives it you, even if it may take a little begging before he gives in sometimes. He makes true on his words, he is enjoying this just as much as you are. He enjoys bringing you to these highs, carrying you through them. It might have taken a quick little swim on his end and the day not going as planned at all but this is not a bad way to end it? It’s still only morning ? All previous plans have been scratched. Neither of you will be leaving this room anytime soon.

Eris both enthusiastically awaits and fears what you might have in store for him to return the favour but he’ll embrace you either way. 

#eris x reader #eris vanserra x reader #acotar x reader #acotar #eris vanserra #acotar eris #acotar fanfiction #acotar fic #eris x you #eris vanserra x you #acotar x you

[madamemachikonew]

The Selfish Moth - Baizhu x gn!Reader (2k - angst angst angst)

Having fallen in love with the famed physician of Liyue Harbour, he finally comes clean about his contract, which you find hard to accept.

Crossposted to AO3 here.

Sequel: Tumblr, AO3

++CONTAINS BAIZHU STORY QUEST SPOILERS BENEATH THE BREAK++

'For a selfish moth like me, who's afraid of the flame, yet yearns for the light, the only path forward is up towards the moon.'

A high-pitched ringing filled your ears as though a bomb had gone off. There were some who would romanticise his secret as a poetic act of selflessness. But for you, the words that had completely devastated your world had fallen from his lips so casually, each one a missile of destruction that brutally smashed the edifices of the life you had built with the man you loved. The more you tried to process it logically, the more your mind wanted to capsize. You felt your temperature drop with the shock and started to shiver. At the sight, Baizhu removed the coat from his shoulders and carefully draped and tucked it around your own, enveloping you in the scent of the plants so beloved of his cursed companion. His brow furrowed anxiously as he awaited your reaction to his tale with trepidation. Would you not say a single word?

Your body began to shake as you fought to hold back the anguished howl of grief that threatened to break forth from your lungs. He looked at you with a pained expression, and the sight of his wide amber eyes sent a chill through you. Hugging your arms to yourself, you turned your head away, unable to look at them. The eyes you had so adored, which had gazed into yours with so much love during so many intimate moments, were not his. They seemed cold and alien to you now. His mortal gaze – now dead and vacant – was being worn by the snake around his shoulders, a constant reminder of the diabolical arrangement he had made. It occurred to you that you would never see his true face; from his days of innocence, before this parasite had claimed him for herself. You wondered if you would ever be able to look him in the eyes again. It all felt…so tainted now. It was like a betrayal - he had already pledged his life to another. Long before he had ever met you. Your heart felt like it was going to break.

Baizhu’s soft voice broke your train of thought.

“Darling…look at me.”

“I can’t.” you whispered, your trembling voice choking with tears, which now coursed down your cheeks. “Your eyes…”

Baizhu’s mouth fell open at your words, his face momentarily falling into an expression of deep pain. He bit his lip and looked away as tears started to fill his eyes.

“Why?” you asked desperately, your voice quivering. “Why did you fall for it? A cheap trick from a self-interested viper on her deathbed.”

“There was no trickery. No cheating. I knew what I was getting into. I accepted it freely of my own volition.”

“Then why does it hurt so much? Why do I feel like I’ve had you stolen from me?”

Baizhu cast his long green lashes downwards, almost in shame. He had no answer for you. He felt helpless.

“Our lives could be so different.” you continued, “You could be healthy and free. You would have still been able to heal people.”

“Not in the same way. The fact that I can take on their illnesses and toxins is exactly what enables me to research them and develop effective remedies that nobody else can.”

It was a devil’s deal. Your blood turned to ice as it became painfully obvious that no matter how much Baizhu professed to love you, his work would always take precedence in his priorities. This was why he was so illustrious as a physician – because an insidious power was enabling the fulfilment of his life ambitions. Enabling his self-destruction.

Your shoulders slumped with despair as the realisation hit you.

“What a fool I’ve been.” you uttered, your voice hollow and distant as your eyes started to glaze in resignation.

“What do you mean? Of course you’re not a fool.”

“Yes! I am! I was stupid enough to think that you’d love me above all else. But this will always come first, won’t it?”

“The contract and my love for you are not mutually exclusive. They can co-exist-”

“No! They can’t! If you loved me, you would stop this madness!”

“And yet, you respect me and my work enough that you would never ask me to, which is one of the reasons I love you. I don’t expect you to understand or accept it. But this is something I must do. I can help more people this way.”

“By throwing yourself into an early grave?! By bearing all of their poisons and illnesses?! If it wasn’t for that snake being the only thing keeping you alive right now, I’d skin her alive!!”

Changsheng shrank back at your words. While she knew there was no risk you’d actually take action on account of Baizhu’s life force being enmeshed with hers, she knew that your words were every ounce sincere. You wanted her dead.

His eyes deliberately cast downwards, Baizhu sighed softly before reaching out and gently grasping your hand.

“But Changsheng has always protected me in my folly. Don’t you see? If anything happened to me, it would be the end for her too.”

He paused, his gaze softening.

“It’s alright to feel selfish and resentful.” he continued, “I know it’s just because you care about me.”

“But you don’t care about yourself!! Can’t you see how much it hurts to see you rushing to destroy yourself?!”

“That’s not quite right, my love.” he gently corrected. “I do consider my life precious, and I have many things I wish to do. I don’t intend to die young like my predecessors. For what purpose would it serve for a healer to die before realising his full potential? If I were to die, then where would that leave my patients in the long run? All the discoveries that would forever go unmade. No, my love. I am in no hurry to meet my end. I promise you, I won’t push myself too far. The doctor deserves to live too.”

“Then why have all your predecessors died young?! Because none of them could resist pushing themselves to their limit to save just one more life, when the life they needed to concentrate on saving was their own!”

“But that’s where I differ from them, my love. I won’t let that happen. You have my word.”

“But you already have.” you whined in defeat, your voice cracking with tears. “Look at you…my beautiful broken love. Every cell in your body is being eaten way by some toxin or disease. Some days you can barely move. You have no idea what it’s like to see you suffer like this and be unable to do a thing to help you. It was hard enough when I thought you were just sick, but now, knowing you’re doing it to yourself willingly…I…I don’t know if I can go through that, dreading every case that will come through our doors.”

Baizhu’s lower lip began to tremble at your words and the idea that you might leave him to preserve your own heart. He pressed his mouth shut in an attempt to suppress the tears that were starting to blur his vision. In his many years as a physician, he had seen countless patients and tending to them not only meant managing their own distress and holding their hand through troubling times, but also their loved ones. People whose hearts were breaking to see them suffer. People who themselves would have traded their life force and every penny they owned to save the person they loved. His heart lurched at the sight of you mourning his own fate in the same way.

What had he done? He should never have allowed this relationship or anyone to form an attachment to him. How could he possibly have expected anyone who loved him to understand and accept his decision without some protest, even if they ultimately respected – or rather, tolerated – his choice? And yet, it was too late. His selfishness had caused you a type of pain that went beyond his remit as a healer; the one type of agony for which he had no remedy. Ironically, like his many other patients with strange and unusual illnesses, the only way he could make you feel better would be to give you part of himself; his very heart. He couldn’t bear the idea of letting you go. Even though he had known from the outset that it would only lead to heartache, he had nevertheless been drawn to the irresistible pull of the comfort of your love like a moth to a flame. Except instead of combusting, you had made him feel safe and warm and had given him an even stronger motivation to succeed in his pursuit of immortality. If anything, you had made the flame of determination burn all the more brightly in his heart. He wasn't prepared to let either you or his ambitions go.

He held you tightly and pressed his cheek against your head as he stroked your head soothingly.

As the revelation started to overwhelm you, you felt your body start to constrict. Your heart was racing in your chest and your breath was quick and shallow. A sudden feeling of claustrophobia gripped you and you felt disoriented, which then gave way to a tide of panic that surged inside you. Surely this wasn’t reality? Surely this was so outlandish that it couldn’t be real? You squirmed in his embrace, frantically pushing at his chest as you clamoured for him to give you space lest you suffocate. Your balance wobbled as you made to leave the room and get some fresh air.

“My love!” Baizhu said, reaching out for you.

“Don’t touch me!” you cried, slapping his hand away. “I need to be alone for a while. I…I can’t breathe.”

With faltering steps you staggered outside the Pharmacy as a helpless Baizhu could do nothing but look on and leave you to try and process things. How on earth could he have expected you to understand it in one go? A situation with which he had reconciled himself for the best part of his life.

You gripped the railing behind the Pharmacy tightly for support as the world spun around you and tried to breathe deeply and calm your heart. As your heart began to slow and you felt less light-headed, you were finally able to take in your surroundings a little.

The pale orb above cast its ghostly white-blue light down over the Harbour. It caught on the ripples of the waves. It seemed the perfect metaphor for your relationship; the reflection was close, within your grasp, and yet intangible and incorporeal. The real moon was distant and moved in its own orbit, which you could never hope to reach, still less alter.

Baizhu quietly approached your side and slipped a cautious arm around your waist. His shoulders were unadorned by the sinful reptile.

“The moon is beautiful tonight, don’t you think?”

You silently nodded.

“Only because I get to see it with you.” you murmured.

At your words, he squeezed your waist before laying a gentle hand on your cheek to turn your face to his. You shut your eyes as tightly as you could, a pained expression on your face, and tried to avoid his gaze.

“Darling…please.” he pleaded. “This is who I am. Who I chose to be.”

You reluctantly opened your eyes and looked at him sorrowfully. His dejected, yet loving, golden snake eyes, illuminated in the glow of the moon, became a blur as your own eyes filled with tears. He pulled you into a gentle embrace while you sobbed on his shoulder, finally letting the visceral howl of grief leave your body. It muffled against him as he rocked you gently. It was a sound he knew well. He never once expected to hear it on his account.

“She was prepared to die. Why did you save her at your own expense?” you pleaded as you wept bitterly.

He smiled softly and stroked your back.

“Would you really love me if I was the kind of man who would turn his back and watch someone die when it was in my power to save them? A coward who would desert a dying man?”

It was true. The love you felt for Baizhu was seated in the fact that he was such a good-natured and kind person. But it nevertheless pained you that he would make the same sacrifices for anyone else that he would make for you – you were not special in any way. Conversely, Baizhu did not see it that way; rather, he viewed every life as being equally precious and worthy of intervention. If you wanted to be with him, you would have to get used to this outlook pretty quickly.

He sighed gently as he held you.

"Will you leave me? I would rather you didn't, but I understand if you need to."

"I...I don't know." you whispered, your chest heaving from the tears. And yet, you gripped him all the more tightly. The thought of never feeling his warmth in your arms and feeling his heart beat against your ear was unfathomable.

“My poor love. I am…a most troublesome person. A selfish moth indeed.”

#baizhu #genshin baizhu #genshin impact baizhu #baizhu x you #baizhu x y/n #baizhu x reader #baizhu x gn reader #baizhu x gender neutral reader #ANGST #NO COMFORT #Reader hates Changsheng because of the contract #BAIZHU STORY QUEST SPOILERS #genshin ao3 #genshin fanfic #baizhu fanfic #genshin one shot

[ultimate-sword-showdown]

Sword Showdown Rematch: Round 1 Bracket

Round 1 will end on Monday, December 18th at 2:00pm PST.

Dragonslayer (Berserk) vs. Flamberge's Sword (Kirby)

Finn Sword (Adventure Time) vs. Crownsblade (Final Fantasy XIV)

Falchion (Fire Emblem) vs. Wavebreaker (Worlds Beyond Number)

Splatana Stamper (Splatoon 3) vs. Butterfly (Dota)

Monado (Xenoblade Chronicles) vs. Boreal (Sword Dancer)

Kendal (Aurora) vs. Audrey's Sword (Wandersong)

Wado Ichimonji (One Piece) vs. Unbreakable Faith (Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint)

Hand of Malenia (Elden Ring) vs. Goblin Slayer (Goblin Slayer)

Excalibur (Soul Eater) vs. Lilarcor (Baldur's Gate)

Oathkeeper and Oblivion (Kingdom Hearts) vs. Soulsword (X-men)

Magolor's Ultra Sword (Kirby's Return to Dreamland: Deluxe) vs. Azakana Blade (League of Legends)

Rivers of Blood (Elden Ring) vs. Ashbringer (World of Warcraft)

Flaming Poisoning Raging Sword of Doom (The Adventure Zone) vs. Katana of Kant (Dungeons and Daddies)

Life Ender (Hollow Knight) vs. Need (Valdemar by Mercedes Lackey)

Roukanken and Hakurouken (Touhou Project) vs. Jolt Sabre (Super Lesbian Animal RPG)

Masamune (Chrono Trigger) vs. Gram (Fate/Grand Order)

Sword of the Creator (Fire Emblem: Three Houses) vs. Sword of Heroes (Kung Fu Panda)

Thunder Edge (Ōkami) vs. Kusabimaru (Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice)

Strom'kar (World of Warcraft) vs. Buster Sword (Final Fantasy VII)

Biggoron Sword (The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time) vs. Cortana (The Shadowhunter Chronicles)

Thousand Demon Daggers (Scissor Seven) vs. Narsil (Lord of the Rings)

Leo's Katanas/Ōdachi (Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles) vs. Jashin Blade (Ultraman Orb)

Sokka's Sword (Avatar: The Last Airbender) vs. Greenhilt Sword (Order of the Stick)

Myrtenaster (RWBY) vs. Wirikidor (The Misenchanted Sword)

Nightblood (Cosmere/Warbreaker) vs. The Blade in the Dark (Friends at the Table: Seasons of Hieron)

Red Scissor Blade (Kill la Kill) vs. Serenade (Dead Cells)

Mayalaran (The Stormlight Archive) vs. Gloom Sword (The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom)

All-Black (Venom) vs. Musou Isshin (Genshin Impact)

Masamune (Final Fantasy VII) vs. Dark Sister (A Song of Ice and Fire)

Chainsword (Warhammer 40k) vs. Blade (Cave Story)

sord.... (Homestuck) vs. Sohothin (Guild Wars 2)

The Four Sword (The Legend of Zelda) vs. Rapier (Dota)

#sword showdown #sword showdown updates #im not doing the brackets in ms paint this time!!!! instead im doing them in canva which is basically exactly the same except that i can ac #actually go in and edit the textboxes after i click out of them which is a lot easier than using digital white-out on them every time i #need to fix something #sword showdown rematch

[goodwhump-temp]

Ichigo; Bleach Whump Zanpakto to Arrancar Finale Arcs

Arrancar Arc (S6-S8) Bount Arc (S4-S5) Shinigami Arc & Soul Society Arc (S1-S3)

The New Captain Shūsuke Amagai Arc

9x02 / Ep 169 New Development, the Dangerous Transfer Student Appears! - Pancaked 9x03 / Ep 170 Desperate Struggle Under the Moonlit Night, the Mysterious Assassin and Zanpakuto - Blinded/lost consciousness multiple times 9x06 / Ep 173 The Appearance of the Great Evil! The Darkness in the House of Kasumioji - Elbow to the head multiple times, piled on 9x07 / Ep 174 Break the Mirrors Boundary! Ichigos Captivity - Blinded unconscious, paralyzed 9x10 / Ep 177 The Reversal of Rukia! The Rampaging Blade - Blinded unconscious 9x11 / Ep 178 The Nightmare Which is Shown, Ichigos Inside the Mirror - Trauma, emotional pain, choked, hollowfied, knocked back 9x13 / Ep 180 The Princess's Decision, the Sorrowful Bride - Kicked off the roof, panik 9x14 / Ep 181 The 2nd Division Sorties! Ichigo is Surrounded - Stabbed, bleeding, punched multiple times, wanted 9x15 / Ep 182 Amagis True Strength, the Released Zanpakto - Soloing the new captain 9x21 / Ep 188 Duel! Amagai VS Ichigo - Thrown, fireballed to the ground twice, hollowfied/Rukia reaction, trapped by fire rods, pain, fall, mask sliced 9x22 / Ep 189 The Fallen Shinigamis Pride - Knocked back, hit with fireball, briefly unconscious, exhausted, collapse

Arrancar vs. Shinigami Arc

10x01 / Ep 190 Hueco Mundo Chapter, Restart! - Hollowfied, exhausted, shot, bloody, stabbed, dies (recap episode), stabbed, leg punched, knocked down 10x02 / Ep 191 The Frightening Banquet, Szayelaporro Theater - Exhausted, headbutted, knocked down 10x03 / Ep 192 Nels Secret, A Busty Beauty Joins the Battle!? - Kicked, knocked back multiple times, weak, punched multiple times, arm slowly broken, extreme pain, carried, squeezed unconscious 10x06 / Ep 195 The Ultimate Union! Pesche's Seriousness - Knocked down, unconscious, back stomped on, limp, knocked down multiple times, painfully squeezed, passes out, thrown against a wall, head squeezed, arm snapped 10x07 / Ep 196 Joining the Battle! The Strongest Soul Reaper Army Appears - Weak, kicked in the gut, kicked in the face multiple times, almost passes out 10x10 / Ep 199 Holy Birth, The Resurrected Szayel Aporro - Weak 10x12 / Ep 201 Nnoitra Released! Multiplying Arms - Hand electrocuted 10x14 / Ep 203 Karakura Town Gathers! Aizen VS the Shinigami - Thrown

Arrancar: Decisive Battle of Karakura Arc 12x14 / Ep 226 Fierce Fighting Concludes? Towards a New Battle - Knocked down, sliced

Zanpakutō Unknown Tales Arc 13x03 / Ep 232 Sode no Shirayuki VS Rukia! Confused Heart - Knocked down, half frozen, pain, bleeding forehead 13x04 / Ep 233 Zangetsu Becomes an Enemy - Thrown around, pinned, soul taken out of body, pain, knocked against a wall, blasted, weak, hollowfied, sliced multiple times, convulsing, tearing himself from the inside, exhausted, passes out 13x05 / Ep 234 Renji Surprised?! The Two Zabimarus - Unconscious, paralyzed, arms pulled outside of him, extreme pain, collapses unconscious 13x06 / Ep 235 Clash! Hisagi VS Kazeshini - Hollow form restrained/pain 13x09 / Ep 238 Friendship? Hatred? Haineko & Tobiume - Knocked down, briefly restrained 13x10 / Ep 239 The Awakening Hyorinmaru! Hitsugaya's Fierce Fight - Trapped 13x11 / Ep 240 Byakuya's Betrayal - Restrained, betrayed 13x16 / Ep 245 Pursue Byakuya! The Confused Gotei Divisions - Inhales toxin, collapses unconscious, panic of treatment, still sick, restrained 13x17 / Ep 246 Special Mission! Rescue Captain Commander Yamamoto! - Chained/restrained, burned hand 13x18 / Ep 247 Decieved Shinigami! The World Collapse Crisis - Plot to trap Ichigo/In danger, exhausted, trapped by fire 13x19 / Ep 248 Dragon of Ice and Dragon of Flame! The Strongest Showdown - Trapped by fire, attacked by the fire multiple times, caught on fire, pain, trapped in fireball 13x24 / Ep 253 Muramasa's True Identity Revealed - Entrapped 13x25 / Ep 254 Byakuya and Renji, the 6th Division Returns - Trapped 13x26 / Ep 255 Final Chapter: Zanpakuto The Alternate Tale - Trapped, unconscious, restrained, knocked down multiple times, bloody forehead

Arrancar: Downfall Arc 14x02 / Ep 267 Connected Hearts! The Left Fist of Certain Death - Hit by powerful blast 14x03 / Ep 268 Hatred and Jealousy, Orihime's Dilemma - Hit by powerful blast 14x04 / Ep 269 Ichigo and Uryū, Bonded Back to Back - Knocked down, sliced, collapse, bleeding 14x05 / Ep 270 Beginning of Despair… Ichigo, the Unreachable Blade - Huge explosion, mask shatters, weak, absolutely beaten up, thrown/kicked/punched multiple times, choked unconscious, shot through the chest 14x06 / Ep 271 Ichigo Dies! Orihime, the Cry of Sorrow - Shot through the chest, dies, true hollow form, Orihime + Uryu reactions, badass oh my GOD 14x07 / Ep 272 Ichigo vs. Ulquiorra, Conclusion - Rukia/Chad/Renji reactions, horn sliced, mask breaks, collapse 14x21 / Ep 286 Ichigo's Return! Protect Karakura Town - Mask evaporates, squeezed, falls, Kenpachi panic, scared of Kurotsuchi 14x27 / Ep 292 All Out War! Aizen vs. Shinigami - Getting absolutely disrespected by Aizen 14x31 / Ep 296 The Shocking Truth…The Mysterious Power Within Ichigo! - Hollow shocked right out of him, headbutted, kicked off the roof, smothered 14x32 / Ep 297 The Extending Blade?! Ichigo vs. Gin! - Knocked back, sliced 14x36 / Ep 301 Ichigo Loses His Fighting Spirit!? Gin's Expectation! - Face sliced, mask knocked off, weak, bullied x3, headbutted, depressed 14x37 / Ep 302 The Final Getsuga Tenshō!? Ichigo's Training! - Drowning, thrown, sliced, knocked down, stabbed, hollow ripped out of him, pain, blood 14x41 / Ep 306 For the Sake of Protecting! Ichigo vs. Tensa Zangetsu! - Knocked down, bleeding in real life 14x43 / Ep 308 Goodbye…Rangiku - Holy badass im freaking 0ut 14x44 / Ep 309 Fierce Fighting Conclusion! Release, the Final Getsuga Tenshō! - Caught in nuclear-explosion, burned arm, choked, sword broken, knocked back, bleeding, thrown, weak, stabbed in the chest, makes Zangetsu cry, sacrifices his powers, collapse 14x45 / Ep 310 Ichigo's Resolution! The Price of the Fierce Battle - Sad, collapses unconscious, extreme pain, wakes from 10-day coma

#bleach #bleach whump #bleach anime #anime whump #whump #whump list #whumplist #emotional whump #ichigo whump list #ichigo whump

[tricornonthecob]

------

"Who is that tall man, Sarah? Is that your papa come home? Is that papa? I think so! Oh, yes! All the way from the colonies! Isn't he fine in his coat? Say 'how d'ye do' to your handsome papa, Sarah."

As his wife murmurs sweetly to the bundle of white silk and pink flesh and red hair in her arms, Major Phillips clears past the lump in his throat.

"Well, then. How dy'e do, little one?" he asks, voice tight, uncertain

At once, the little creature's eyes lock to his, gnawing absently on a pudgy hand as wide orbs of viridian memorize the face before her.

His heart stops. Something nameless and shapeless, sad and exuberant and frothing with rage, ices every vein, fills his chest like lead. From a face shaped like her mother's, with the same little mark over her brow, but with dimpled chin, freckles, and flaming red curls much like her father's - from out of that face stares eyes he never thought he would see again.

She makes a little noise and, all at once, everything within him melts, unfurls, hollows out, overflows.

Little hands reach out for his gorget, dazzled by reflection and shine, and he leans close enough to indulge his daughter's naked fascination as she paws sticky hands all over the metal.

He brushes a palm along the small of his wife's back. Lady Phillips sighs, and as she leans into the embrace he smells rosewater and bayberry. Warmth pours all over him, in a way he had been so long without he'd forgotten how it savored, and when he sees the shimmer of tears in his wife's eyes he is unable to stop the heat pricking at his. She looks up at him, then, an entire world of emotion etched in her smile.

"She has your eyes, you know," Lady Phillips says, voice quavering.

He feels it like a shot to the chest. He takes a moment to find his breath once more.

"Her grandmother's," he corrects, drawing a hand up to run a single finger along his daughter's cheek. "She has her grandmother's eyes."

---------------------------

Sometimes you wake up, have a wonderful day, snuggle some animals, and gotta write and draw sentimental fluff, y'know? Anyway I'm gonna go cry about my grandparents now.

#liberty's kids #my art #my writing #headcanons #sarah phillips #lady phillips #sir phillips #major phillips #tricorns are such a fucking bitch to draw like wtf

[dujour13]

Hi :D it's a me, Mario Min!

5 & 7 for Siavash from the Sensorial Prompts!

Hello Min! I’m sorry it took this long. These are a little… melodramatic… but they’re bits I’ve been wanting to add to my fic for a long time, so I used the prompts as the occasion to do them. Thank you 🥰

5. Trying to walk on ice

He had to be somewhere else. Anywhere. As long as he kept moving, it was like the pain couldn’t catch up. The moment the sad music started it was a reflex—his legs just got going, like in the old days. Fear went straight to the feet. He’d slipped behind the tower and headed for the road.

Though it was spring it was still bitter cold and the ground frozen, the road to Threshold a pale ribbon in the blackness. Not that he could see much through the tears.

His boot slipped on an icy patch and he had to catch himself, his tail shooting out for balance. Better to slow down, also because it hurt his chest to breathe. A ruined guard post, no more than a jumble of stones a small way off the road, offered some shelter from the wind and prying eyes but not from the terrible, cold pit in his gut.

The night of the gargoyles he’d done the same thing. He’d stumbled a couple of times on the frosty ground and hurt his knee but kept going until he got down to the river, and then hid in the rocks for a long time until he got too cold to stay put. When he finally emerged the Fifth Crusade was a hellish inferno, winged monsters circling over the flames, so he’d hugged his arms over his chest for warmth and headed downriver and didn’t look back.

Now he curled up with his tail around his knees and his head in his arms and let go, hoping he could somehow empty it all out so it would stop hurting so much. He hadn’t cried like this since he was a little kid: Gran cured him of that habit early enough. Now he muffled his choking sobs in the crook of his elbow. Why’d the chief have to go and play such a sad song? Wasn’t this the time to rally the troops with a courageous march or some valorous Iomedean rot? This was the last thing he needed.

He wasn’t going back. He couldn’t. If he returned to the Crusade camp they would have to say things to each other.

Things like goodbye.

More than once he’d been wounded, stabbed, bitten, gored, had his hand shattered, but this was a new kind of pain deep in his heart no healer could ever do a thing for. He couldn’t run from it. It would never leave him.

There was no way he could go on, go back to how things had been, now that he knew what he’d been missing all his miserable life. Knowing he’d never see Siavash smile again.

Hear his voice saying his name. Feel his warm arms wrap around him.

The shadow had been right. He’d been softened up and ruined.

He was as much a wreck as this hollowed-out guard tower at the heart of the Worldwound; the view of Threshold, darker yet against black, boiling storms, the place where the world was destroyed, would forever be his only horizon.

He wiped his face on his sleeve and slipped his fingers under the fur collar of his cloak, drawing out the Moon of the Abyss with its clear, sky-blue gem, and clutched it in his hand like someone was trying to steal it and everything it meant from him.

Woljif had never prayed once in his life. No gods listened to the tieflings of Mendev, just like no gods listened to rats or cockroaches.

But now the image of the emerald eyes of the statue of Shelyn in Kenabres hovered in his mind’s eye. What if Sosiel was right? What if it had been the Goddess of Love who helped him out of a tight spot that one time he was trying to make up for something low he’d done?

That was stupid. He knew it. Even if Shelyn would dream of listening to him She wouldn’t fix it for him. Nothing would be left but a bright but distant star, the memory of warmth, music and laughter.

And loneliness.

Eventually he managed to staunch the flood from his eyes, but the ache hollowing out his chest just wouldn’t go away for more than a second or two. It felt like he’d been punched in the throat. Every time he thought he had it together, a strain of that song would come back to him and he would crumple in on himself again. He was shivering now, sitting on the cold stone for so long all the warmth had bled out of his body. Still he couldn’t drag himself to his feet and head back and face the music.

Overhead the buzzing of wings approached. He closed his burning eyes tight. When the buzzing stopped there were the sounds of scuffling about in the rocks and quiet swearing.

He couldn’t help a tired smile.

“Ow. Woljif?”

“Here chief.” No disguising how hoarse his voice was.

Siavash stumbled into the ruins of the guard tower, his own glow lighting his way. He wasn’t even wearing a cloak despite the cold, because he couldn’t fly with one in the way of his wings and besides, with him came a warm spring breeze swirling with leaves and motes of pollen.

He sat down next to him, trying to tuck his wings to one side so they didn’t bunch up between them. One wound up sticking straight up over his head like a butterfly-patterned canopy.

They sat in silence for a while. The ache subsided a little. Woljif’s teeth stopped chattering and he felt the swelling in his nose had gone down, but he still didn’t want to look over and let the chief see how red-rimmed his eyes were, and then Siavash draped his hand over Woljif’s knee and tipped to the side so his head rested on his shoulder, and suddenly the floodgates were open again.

Pretty soon he knew by the dampness on his neck that Siavash wasn’t keeping it together either.

“Woljif—”

“Don’t you dare tell me it’ll be fine.”

By his silence, he guessed that was exactly what he’d been about to say.

“It might,” Siavash finally said.

“It better be.”

“Let’s not talk about it.”

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard outta you.”

“Come on back to camp.” Siavash helped him up. It felt really good to get off the cold stone and unfold his cramped limbs. Staying close for warmth, he followed him back to camp, holding hands as they went. He kept his head down as soon as they came within the light of the bonfire because he could see Seelah and Arueshalae standing among the tents craning their necks to look at them and he knew right where they could stick their pity.

Siavash just raised a hand to say goodnight as they ducked into their tent.

It was hard to see each other like this—pale, red-eyed, fear clouding their gaze. In silence they helped each other undress, unable to laugh about pulling each other’s boots off and trying to unwrap and unbutton clothes made for horns, tails and wings in the small, enclosed space without elbowing each other in the face. At last Siavash conjured his warm Elysian cocoon so they could lie down comfortably.

The chief hadn’t said a word. Woljif was so grateful he almost choked up again. He pulled his head in to rest on the hollow of his skinny chest and passed his hand through his silky honey-colored hair. Not for the last time. Don’t let this be the last time.

Just as he was drifting off, in Siavash’s quiet, muffled voice against his chest, he heard the one thing he had wanted him to say: “I love you.”

“Me too,” he murmured.

7. Raindrops on eyelashes

As they faced down the demon army that had cornered them on the steps of the temple and he’d called upon his power, raising his voice in the Song of Elysium so that it carried across the city and drowned the taunts of the Abyssal generals, making the marilith throw one pair of hands over her ears and the nalfeshnee grind its teeth, a gentle spring rain had begun to fall, even in late Worldwound autumn, and through it shone a sudden, miraculous rainbow.

Then the Free Crusaders, echoing his song, charged in out of nowhere and slew the demon army and chased its last remnants from Drezen.

And now—Woljif’s knees felt weak as he rose from them, turning his head away from the blinding light of Heaven and blinking drops of Elysian rain from his eyelashes.

“Woljif, help.” Siavash held both his hands in his. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You gave me my freedom.” Woljif kept his voice down, in case the trio of immortals were listening in and would strike him with a bolt of lightning if he messed up. “With Ygefeles you let me figure it out for myself. So I’m not gonna tell you what’s right or wrong, chief, but remember what you said about deals with demons. I guess that also goes for half-demons.” His gaze flicked uneasily up the steps of the temple but did not dare linger.

“You told her you wouldn’t eat outta her hand, so don’t! Don’t count on gifts from nobody. I mean, maybe you won’t have powers anymore but then you’ll be you again and you’ll be free. That’s what it’s all about.” His expression was pleading; he’d watched the transformations, each one as disconcerting as it was transcendent, Siavash’s anxiety that he was losing himself growing along with his power. The answer seemed obvious. Iomedae was offering him a way out. Why would he even hesitate?

And then his heart sank.

He’d already lost. Siavash’s eyes turned to the ranks of Crusaders kneeling in the temple square, who had cast the heavy chains of their hope over his shoulders. There was resolve in the set of his jaw and sadness in his eyes. He looked so tired, strands of wet hair clinging to his forehead, bloodstains on his neck. They’d escaped the Abyss but it dogged him. It would never leave him alone. He would have to fight it with every drop of strength—his own, and that Areelu offered him if need be—if there was any hope of someday being free of it.

“I wish…” he sighed.

“Don’t do it.”

“I wish I could follow your advice. I’m sorry.” Siavash turned away.

Siavash reached out as if to steady himself, a hand on Aivu’s flank. She tilted her head toward him, her eyes alight.

You’re supposed to calm him down, Woljif thought angrily at her, but she wasn’t the one to blame. Now he did dare look at the unholy trinity caught in an immense, cosmic contest of will at the top of the temple stairs. Here they were, fighting over who gets to yank the chief’s leash. If he’d been a braver person, Woljif would have given all three of them an earful. He could almost hear what Gran would have said. Would have made even Nocticula’s ears burn.

If it weren’t for the faintest echo of his own anger he glimpsed in Siavash’s face at that moment he might have dragged him away and talked some sense into him.

The chief was looking straight at Iomedae Herself and he was not on his knees.

He was going to do this his way.

Even if it was all wrong, even if it was crazy, even if it turned him into something he didn’t recognize anymore—he was going to stand up to the Inheritor.

Despite all his misgivings, Woljif couldn’t help it. His eyes lit up just like Aivu’s. Take that, you stuffed-up prig.

“I won’t abandon my people,” Siavash declared. “And my dragon.”

Your pride will destroy you, and perhaps all of Golarion with you. The fury of the goddess blazed and vanished. So be it.

#thanks for the ask!! #three-of-crows #woljif jefto #siavash #my writing

[unhealthyfanobsession]

Could u do a prompt where instead of nesta going upstairs and locking herself away at the end of acowar she actually stays and confronts the IC about the fact that their celebrating- i never got how everyone (especially Cassian) just let her go- like she was basically the reason they won

As usual, I took a few creative liberties here.

There was a pit where Nesta’s stomach used to be. There was a pit where a lot of things used to be.

Maybe she hadn’t been made immortal at all. Maybe Nesta Archeron had simply been hollowed out and puppeted by this strange magic she never understood and now that she had used it all up on a burning white battlefield there was nothing left except a hollow husk of flesh and defeat.

Defeat when everyone around her cried tears of joy and victory.

There was a version of Nesta that screamed at them all, she knew. A not so distant version. A woman (not female or witch or death goddess or lizard monster or whatever the fuck she was now) who planted her feet in the centre of that room and stared at each one of them in turn with burning silver eyes. Hurled thoughtless insults and accused them of not caring. Wailed with righteous indignation about how they could possibly clink glasses and knock back amber spirits while the country still bled.

But, honestly? Who was she to tell anyone about right and wrong or decency or proper coping mechanisms.

They could have their party.

She would have her wake.

Except that of course the second Nesta turned to go upstairs, he followed.

He.

A simple pronoun was enough even in a room full of males. Her body knew which one it was. Everyone knew who would go after her, if anyone bothered at all.

A strong, tan hand curled around her wrist and pressed gently. He did not tug, did not actually try to pull her back to the merriment. He just … held on, as if … as if asking what she wanted. As if offering to tuck her under his wing (literally) and cradle her there through the entire party if she wanted. As if offering to wrap her in his arms and fly the two of them all the way to the Illyrian mountains if she wanted. As if … as if the war had ended and suddenly nothing else mattered expect for the two of them.

And for a moment, Nesta wanted to live inside of that feeling. She wanted to breathe in the relief they all seemed to feel and let it cloud her head like some new experimentational drug from the Dawn Court. Nesta wanted, maybe more than she had ever wanted anything in her life, to be the girl who smiles and grips a male’s hand … this male’s hand and whirls with a single flip of prettily laid out skirts into a perfect life of magic and happiness.

She wanted to sluff this empty feeling off like a winter coat as summer’s rays warmed her skin. She wanted to smile. She wanted to fold herself, body and soul, into Cassian’s arms and stay there until the end of time.

But she couldn’t do that. Nesta couldn’t curl into those arms, so strong and steady and always outstretched, without remembering how they felt weak and limp and grasping her waist with the last bit of strength left in a nearly dead body.

Nesta couldn’t toast their victory without seeing every failure pressed into the underside of her eyelids. Every child that would now grow up without a father or a mother. Every life she should have been strong enough to save but wasn’t.

Nesta shook her head slowly, only once but Cassian dipped his chin respectfully as she slid her skin away from his.

It was wrong.

Deep down, somewhere ancient and vital, in the flames under her skin that created the world around them, Nesta knew that it was wrong for their skin to part.

But a lot of things were wrong this day.

A lot of unnatural things happened this day.

The world did not deserve balance this day.

No matter how some may celebrate.

He didn’t try to find her again. Nesta tried not to let that disappointment pile onto the mountain of painful thoughts pushing down on her brain like a tension wire about to snap.

It was weeks before she spoke to anyone again.

But it was him, of course. It was always him.

“We didn’t win the war,” she blurted. It was the only honest thing she could think to say and he always seemed to know when she was lying.

“Wars are fought,” Cassian set his jaw, “not won.”

“So you agree with me?” She hadn’t meant the breathy statement to sound so … relieved. Truthfully, she hadn’t realized until he spoke just how important it was that he understood.

“I agree with you about a great deal of things, Nesta. Those are just never the things you want to talk about.”

Nesta swallowed, “where would the fun be in that?”

Cassian grinned, a bit too wide for their casual conversation. Nesta swayed backwards without realizing she had - subconsciously terrified of such easy intimacy.

“It isn’t wrong to be happy, you know.” Nesta stared at him as he spoke. “The … celebration made you uncomfortable.”

Nesta bristled. “It didn’t feel like a time for fireworks and fine whiskey.”

“It is ok to take a moment to appreciate the air in your lungs,” Cassian took a step forward, bold considering Nesta already looked one second away from bolting like a dear into the forest. “A moment to remember everyone you love who is still alive,” his head bowed, “as well as those who fell.”

“You’re right,” Nesta nodded, “happiness is not wrong.” Head inclined to the side, she looked at Cassian for far too many moments. Studied the slightly furrowed brow, marked the pale pink scar on his left cheek which had been a bone deep gash only days ago, and reminded herself why it was such a bad idea to care. “It is just impossible.”

#nessian #nessian fanfiction #nesta archeron #acosf #cassian #a court of thorns and roses #sarah j maas #nesta and cassian #a court of silver flames

[witchcraftingboop]

Ad Infinitum

In the East, the hero was born. It was said that he burns like the sun, blessed by the Gods, and apart from mortality and the ways of man. I was never really one for worship or idolatry, so I admit the words meant little to me then and even less now.

The boy breaking into my domain is said to be that hero, the golden child of the eastern territories, a herald of good triumphing over evil. Kneeling beside the corpse of my knight, it is difficult for me to see him as anything but that which he currently is: an intruder. The order comes easily to my lips, as cold on my tongue as my pledged one’s eyelids beneath my fingertips.

“Kill the hero."

My lips twist sardonically on the last word.

The whelp before me is no hero, and if I must end him to demonstrate as much, then so be it. He will learn his place by my hands, and then we will see whether his Gods’ blessings extend to death’s door.

Their hero is yet underdeveloped from what I can tell, his limbs gangly and ill-fitted to the title thrust upon him. His armor fits well enough, the polished gold burning bright under the sun’s relentless rays. The shine on a more impressive figure would likely inspire admiration, fear, but on this thin child, it makes him look small, insignificant. He is like a babe trying on an adult’s suit, unwilling or unable to admit that the fit isn’t quite right, that it will take yet more time before they are evenly matched.

My gaze falls to the comrade he stole from me.

The woman beside me looks to be around my age, well passed her second naming, and without so much as a braid upon her helmet. She was untried in battle, her sword not yet bled. A low hum crawls up my throat, my mind drifting to others like her, like myself. I had lain on this desert floor before, felt the sand grit against the back of my skull, my ears ringing with the reverberations of the sword hilt that’d hit my temple and my brothers’ noxious laughter.

They had thought themselves heroes too, and back then, I was fool enough to believe them. My elder brothers were invincible in my eyes, true shards of divinity given flesh. Even with a mouth full of blood and a headache ripe to split my skull, I was so fond of them, so full of yearning to be older, closer to them and their level of command over the world.

The hero, sword glaring in the sun’s rays, draws my attention once more.

It is said that this boy killed them.

A cold, wisp of fury rises in my chest. At one point, it had been hot like the flames of Oblivion, raging and untamable, and I had raised my armies and scorched the soil with it, turned villages to scarred lands and rivers to blood banks. Now it is cold, hollow, a figment of a memory that I cannot fully manifest.

My shoulders sag imperceptibly beneath my caped armored shoulders.

People say a lot of things. They say he killed my father, my brothers, and that the grief of their loss drove my mother and I to madness. They say my seer is a crazed man given to promiscuity and blasphemy. They say I am a devil chained within a temptress’ form festering with a heart of Vengence’s own ice.

I look upon their hero, and I feel nothing. It is the same lukewarm nothingness that I have felt for countless turnings. Only now I am older, wiser, and so I know that killing him will not throw my body back into feeling. I will not relish killing their sun, but I doubt the ones who sent him here will see it that way.

The boy is unfaltering in the face of my knights. He meets their swords, and he loses none of his shine. His sweat slicked black hair would look bleak on anyone else, but his bronzed skin warms yet further, his body seeming to illuminate itself with a blinding inner light that would give other men pause. Here, in my private residence, such untested persons cannot exist. He is not the first hero to come to my doorstep, and he will not be the last to be cut down where he stands, his holy blood rendered mere fertilizer for my private garden.

If I were capable of it, I'm sure my heart would bleed with pity for the youth. Perhaps if I were more like my father I would be capable of such emotion, such soul rendering burdensome feelings. As it is, I can only stand and avenge my fallen.

My mind alights upon ghosts.

Beside where this hero stands, my younger brother had choked around a mouthful of arrows, his tongue flayed around the feathered ends. He had not yet been named. He was the last of my father's sons, born after my eldest brothers' final breaths, and the final loss that tore my father from his throne. There, by this intruder's feet, I had felt his heart like a hummingbird flutter, flutter, stutter, and give out. Under my fingertips, clutched in my arms, I felt him return to the meadows and had stared at this hero's exact likeness, born again and again, his eyes like honeyed sunshine, jubilant at killing a toddler.

My vision wavers and clears, reality replacing my memories once more.

This time, the hero is not so joyful. He has tinted, drooping skin under his golden eyes, his hands are easily jolted against the hilt of his sword, his stance not quite as unshakable as it once was. And yet they call him their hero.

Seeing my approach, the knights that had circled around him, toying with his defenses retreat three paces, their swords brandished, patience carved into their half-covered faces like the tracks of water through stone. My hand drifts to my blades' hilt, the enchanted metal pulsing with cool joy at my touch.

"Are you not tired?"

The words leave me before I know I mean to speak them.

I have not talked to a hero in several reincarnations. I have watched him patiently approach time and time again, have looked on as he shattered his bones breaking against the walls of my keep over and over. What rage I once had has been extinguished, what love or laughter or peace wilted and decayed leaving nothing within me. If he does not feel as I do, then it must be because he is made anew each and every time while I am left on this mortal plane, neck deep in sand and death and plagues that his kings hurl at my people without ceasing.

He is not of the Gods. He is simply allowed rest where others are not-- where I am not. Once, that was enough to make me despise him.

"How many more times will you let them resurrect you, Atreus? Must I put you down like a kept dog every lifetime? Are you not tired of being sent to your death time and time again?"

When I speak his name, those eyes, which had been narrowed and guarded, zero in on my face, the pupils contracting until twin pools of molten gold blaze within his haggard face.

"Atreus?" There is a cruelty lingering in the feral edges of the smile he gives me.

I know that his next words will be another attempt to hurt me, to rip a reaction from my hollow chest, but he does not know yet how deeply our lives are entrenched in one another. I let my hand fall away from my weapon, something inside me holding its breath in anticipation, as if his next words hold my very fate, as if they alone will release me from this place.

Come, I want to say, I wait with open arms for Oblivion's embrace. Come and give it to me.

"Do you think you can call me so familiarly? You are a devil, and the luminance of God's will won't touch you even if you were to pray in my name before your idols. You-"

I grant him death with a single pull of my sword.

His eyes and armor and sword blaze in the dust. I lower myself beside his gaping throat, my knees planted in sand that will soon be stained with his loss. I lift him into my hands. His spine is rent apart with a single tug, and I rock back on my heels, my thumbs stroking down his dirt-stained cheeks.

I know what this must be doing to him, can see his wide, wild gaze mutely glaring back at me. I do not care. I wait until that gaze softens, until tears fall like the moon's pearls from his long lashes.

"Atreus," I catch his tears on armored fingers and leave streaks across his skin when I try to wipe them away, "stop coming back. It will not matter how much you struggle or try to break free. They will resurrect you, and they will pollute your mind from birth unto death. Be at peace; I will always be here to put you back to sleep."

My lost, mad love gazes up at me with the world alight in his pupils. I do not recognize the face that stares back at me from within it. She is youthful and radiant, her silver hair like a quicksilver flame, her violet eyes glinting gems upon her face. She does not look like how I know myself to be.

I remember how he used to shake from nightmares when we were children together, and I know that if he could, Atreus would be but a leaf before wind in my arms. His mute lips part and tremble, his wet lashes sticking together in clumps. Below him, his body twitches as if he can compel it to move. I hum a melody now forgotten by time, one I know he's the only one at my side who can recognize now. I shut my eyes against the fear and pain bleeding through his.

"Sh," I place a kiss between his scrunched brows, my stomach twisting around a feeling my senses can no longer recognize. "It is okay. Get some rest now. I will be here."

"Lania."

A hoarse, haunted voice travels up my palms and stabs viciously into my chest. My breath falters, my eyes heating at the sound of my past before me. I have not been called by another in lifetimes. I have been King, Undying Lady, villain, temptress, guest, but never Lania. I had realized a long time ago that no one around me remembered my name and that I had forgotten it some time ago. Here, on his lips and in that unchanging voice, I can only recognize it as another mocking twist of fate that he carries its burden still.

"I am... tired, my love."

It is like my eyes have been sealed shut. As much as I know I must look at him, must see this moment for myself, it is as if my body recognizes instinctively that it is too much. I have seen too much. I have seen too many replicas of him tortured and burned and flayed alive. I cannot gaze upon him with the softness he expects. I cannot weep with compassion for the man who has pushed my territories to ruin time and time again.

"Rest," I tell him instead, my tone chilled, indifferent. "Do not come back. It is unnecessary."

The love of my life, my harbinger of doom. How long has it been since I could think of him with anything but vague familiarity, muted hatred, forgotten yearning. The ties between us have been manipulated and burned and remade over and over and over again, but in his eyes, they have not changed. He is the same on the other side of the meadow, his soul pure and without burden every time it is released.

I do not know how to convey to him that I do not want him any more.

"Rest," I repeat, because there is nothing else I can say.

#boop writes #twas bored on my morning break and made a lil heroxvillain fic #I think it's cute 🥰 #look at them struggle #rough draft #writeblr