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#elle fell
commedessgarcons · 1 year
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Drew Gregory Fountain shot by Josh Wilkz for i-D Japan
Makeup by Ana Takahashi, Hair by Ryo Narushima and Styling by Elle Fell and Eliza Goldsmith
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mariska · 5 months
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MEGUMU photographed by Josh Wilks for i-D JAPAN; September, 2022 • Hair by Yuho Kamo • Make-up by Ana Takahashi • Styling by Elle Fell
(via anatakahashiii on instagram)
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spacedace · 7 months
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Reluctant War AU Part 3
Part 1 Part 2
More of the brain worm that has taken me over, gonna probably post it to Ao3 here before too long. Already got another part started and so many ideas for additional stuff, someone please send help I've been consumed by this thing lol
Sorry if Waller seems out of character, outside of fandom I'm mostly familiar with her through Justice League the animated show & Justice League: Unlimited and her vibe there has always struck me as "deeply incredibly unlikable character that also kind of has a point but also has done so much fucked up shit in the name of her goals that you don't really care about her point anymore." So you know, complicated lol. If she's completely unrecognizable let me know, but I'm hoping she feels at least somewhat like Waller.
Forgot to say this in the last update, but still feel free to use all this as an overly long prompt if yall want. Literally anything I throw out to the void should be treated as a prompt lol If there's anything at all interesting to you in any of this nonsense go for it <3 <3 <3
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Amanda Waller was someone who did what needed to be done.
Ruthless, heartless, vicious, cruel.
She’d been called it all. Wore the words thrown as insults as a badges of pride and valor. Because at the end of the day, when it came to the problems she was given to face, the issues she was meant to solve, those words meant she’d done what others had been too squeamish or cowardly to do. Life was a never ending slog of trolley problems and she the only one unshakable enough to pull the levers that needed pulling.
It wasn’t so simple as a matter of greater good.
Greater good was what the weak willed muttered to themselves after having feelings over doing the bare minimum. A justification used by people on all sides to do what they wanted with fractured, faulty logic thrown around like truth was a thing immutable. To assuage their guilt when they were forced to make a call they didn’t want to.
It wasn’t a matter of greater good. It was a matter of preservation. Of protection. Of digging through the filth to find the threats skittering beneath and crush them with ruthless abandon. Of facing a god and not blinking because if you did it could cost the world.
Of doing what needed to be done, no matter how underhanded or atrocious it was.
Hands dirty.
Hands red.
Hands wrapped tight around the throat of something that could threaten to destroy it all.
When the Ghost Investigation Ward had been shoved her way with it’s sucking wound of a budget, it’s bloated incompetent staff, its asinine methods she’d seen a rotted limb in need of hacking off. It hadn’t been until she’d been conducting her inspection, digging through the trash for a few pearls of effective agents she could snatch up and put to work elsewhere, that she’d truly seen what they were working on. The potential.
Potential to better arm themselves with in the forms of the strange new weapons being created.
Potential for threats far greater than anything even she had thought possible before.
The GIW as it had been when she’d first come across it was a fetid waste of time and resources. A laughing stock agency only secret because no one took them seriously enough to look. Made stupid and useless with its own conceited delusions of importance it didn’t actually have. Yet.
She went to work on it. Hacking away as she’d originally intended, but this time with a different goal in mind. She ripped out the weeds with bare, calloused hands and planted proficiency and loyalty in their place. She took over as director herself, tossing the self-aggrandizing fool that had been running the place into the ground to the dogs as the culprit for misappropriate spendings, saving the agency by tweaking things until their ballooning budget was pinned neatly onto the former director as an embezzling charge.
Then she got to work.
The Fentons were brilliant, if entirely insane. But Amanda could work with that. She’d reigned Harley Quinn in - more or less - she could do the same to the two deranged scientists that so eagerly wanted to be apart of the fight against the dead. Especially when the benefit came in the form of the inventions they threw together so easily, especially when those inventions were weapons.
It took very little to get them on board with her plans for the GIW. Keeping their focus could be a chore, at times, but she didn’t even have to really do much in the way of pressing to get them back where she wanted them. They craved knowledge and understanding nearly as much as they craved the eradication of the entities themselves. Letting them have the first look at a new subject here, free reign over a vivisection there, it took so little to fuel their fervor and keep them busy working on the projects she set for them.
Things had been going smoothly.
For a time at least.
Until Phantom.
He’d been the main focus of the previous director’s attention, the big fish he’d so desperately wanted to catch and put up on his wall. Amanda wouldn’t lie and say it wasn’t a tempting prospect, but not one she’d put above the other projects she had set in motion since taking over. No, Phantom was powerful, enough to be a real problem one day, but she could the awkward youth in the way he held himself, the inexperience in how he handled situations. She had time to get everything else in order before focusing on getting Amity Park’s would-be hero brought to heel.
And he would be brought to heel. One way or another.
Hands dirty.
Hands red.
Hands wrapped tight around the Core of a fledgling god and bending him to her will.
An artifact, old an powerful, recovered with some effort. A means of controlling specters, of chaining them to the will of the artifact’s wielder. Dangerous in the wrong hands. Dangerous in the right hands.
It was shattered, and even whole and functional Phantom was resistant to its power. But Amanda Waller prided herself in her ability to see the potential in things. It could be repaired, be made better. Even gods could be bound, be made to kneel, with the right pieces, with the right application of force.
It was just a matter of time to gather everything needed.
Phantom didn’t know he could single handedly destroy every last member of the Justice League. The baby fat, the innocent eyes, the split-second hesitations when he fought. He knew enough to be confident in fighting the usual ghosts that haunted Amity Park, but he still very much saw himself as a little fish. Maybe it was the part of him that was still Daniel Fenton, gangly teenager not quite sure what he was truly capable of yet.
She had time before the Fenton’s son truly became an issue. Time to judge if his parents’ obsessiveness would overcome their - rather shoddy, by Amanda’s estimation - parental instincts and continue to hunt him once they knew the truth. Time to get as much out of them as she could before hand, should they falter at the idea of attacking their own son. Time for the staff to be repaired and returned to working order, to get the other items needed for the truly big fish hidden on the other side of the veil between worlds.
She had time.
Until she didn’t.
Pariah Dark had not been something she thought she’d have to account for - not yet, at least.
If he wasn’t already dead, she’d ring the Ghost King’s neck with her bare hands. His arrival had opened Phantom’s eyes to what he was capable of, of just how big of a fish he was. Worse still, Phantom’s defeat of the war mongering King changed the state of play. Phantom was no longer an impressively powerful half dead teenager.
He was King Infinite.
He was an Ancient.
He was getting on her last damn nerves.
Phantom’s rogue gallery were now firmly under the boy’s control. Still distinct nuisances around Amity Park, but no longer considered true concerns. They were loyal to their boy king, delighting in ruffling his feathers but never crossing the line into treason or attempted regicide. Which meant that the GIW was the only thing that held his attention.
Amanda took the time to send a care package to the former GIW director in his tiny, dank prison cell. As thanks for his carelessness in revealing to the entire town - both living and dead - of the agency’s existence and their intentions. Had he stuck to standard protocol, Phantom would have been none the wiser to their presence. Would have scratched his head and shrugged his shoulders at the ghost that went missing upon occasion. Would have been boredly uninterested in the people his parents had begun working with. Would have been taken by surprise when they finally came for him.
But no.
No that self-obsessed, fame chasing imbecile had to go and announce to everyone and their dead mother that the GIW existed and exactly what it was they were in Amity Park to do.
Phantom knew what they were there to do.
They could only count on his naive certainty that he could broker peace with them for so long.
Peace. As if he and his people weren’t the invading force, the monsters slipping in through the cracks between worlds, the latest threat that had to be accounted for. As if he himself hadn’t rent their world asunder himself in another world, another time. No. Peace was not something they could hash out with this baby-faced monarch with his too-big crown. Peace was the assurance of safety, security. Of control of the situation.
There could be no peace.
The higher ups were somehow surprised when Phantom took that to mean there would be war.
Amanda Waller was not.
The Fentons, as suspected, took the right side when all was revealed. Steady hands and flinty eyes as they crafted the weapons that would be needed for the coming fight. Minds even sharper in their maddened grief, hearts set on revenge for the son lost and the entity that stole his face and friends and sister in his garish pretense at humanity. They were blinded to the reality of the situation in its entirety, the potential in what their son truly was, but at the end of the day it didn’t really matter. They did what she needed them to do, they could believe whatever it was they wanted so long as they did.
By the time the boy king and his armies marched upon the Amity park facility, preparations had been put into place. The base in Amity had been stripped back to bare essentials, everything of importance moved to more secured locations.
The weapons labs.
The artifact.
The girl.
All tucked well away from the front lines where Phantom and his motley crew could not reach. Their time to be put in play would come, but not yet. First she needed to gauge what Phantom and his people were capable of, what they were willing to do in the name of what they wanted. Amity Park was a pawn well sacrificed on that front. As were the other facilities she’d left easy to find.
The problem with making children gods, with giving them crowns and calling them King and giving them armies to play with, was that they thought there should be rules. That even in the trenches tearing apart their enemies, there was a certain level of playing fair that everyone was held to. They thought there was a way the world worked, of how things should be that blinded them to more effective options even as time stretched on and desperation set in.
It was the Dead’s problem though, not hers.
She reached out to the Justice League. Sour faced, unhappy, bitterly reluctant to accept that she needed their help. Stone faced and barely containing their rage at what little they knew of the situation, they agreed to a meeting.
She didn’t let herself smile until she was well and truly alone in her office.
Greater good. A lie people told themselves. A fairytale told to children. A means of convincing the weaker willed that they had no choice, that they had a noble duty to bend to. A belief that could be wielded like a weapon if the fantasy of the idea had dug in deep enough. And there were few it had dug into so deep as the members of the Justice League.
Amanda Waller was someone who did what needed to be done.
Hands dirty.
Hands red.
Hands clenched tight on a victory long in the making.
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Part Four
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socksandbuttons · 2 years
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This is parts 1 and 3 of photogenic error headcanon @zirkkun​ had provided me with. aND THEN I RECALLED SOMETHING ELSE.
BUT I AM PROVIDING ERROR CONTENT FOR THE POLL. VOTE THIS BABY MAN. GO AND VOTE!! THIS HAS BEEN YOUR ERROR PROPAGANDA
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serenescribe · 8 months
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so this fic came about as a result of @llondonfog's absolutely heart-wrenching post about overblot!silver, along with @olivebranch311's addition about his phantom. originally i wasn't going to write this, but... olive managed to sway me :')
(there is a slight reference to @admiraltdevanto's latest fic as well, mainly about the nursery and what lilia nearly did. it was just such a good concept, i hope you don't mind me plucking that for this!)
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Time passes strangely when it does not actually pass at all.
The skies outside his window are blotted dark with shadows, thick tendrils of thorns enclosing over the sky from afar. The sight never changes; it is an eternal darkness here in Diasomnia, here on Sage’s Island, and it shall remain that way for as long as Malleus, overblotted and deranged, wills it.
All Lilia does is lie on his bed, staring up at the ceiling of his canopy bed, limbs frail, powerless to do a single thing.
He had awoken from his dreams some time ago — the specifics of why, he does not know. All Lilia had done was jolt awake in a sudden frantic panic, chest heaving as he sat upright upon his bed, gloved hand clutching his chest as he struggled to get his breathing back under control. Memories of the dreams he’d gone through — lost in the throes of a younger time, when he had been running wild as the feared general of Briar Valley, weapon in hand and soldiers by his side — had flashed through his mind, reminding him with startling clarity of every wicked word he’d ever said to his son, Silver.
And it had been in that striking moment, bile rising in his throat as Lilia recalled the flashes of hurt and misery on Silver’s face, that Lilia noticed him.
Silver, standing in front of his door, head lowered, a blade resting in his hand.
Silver, who dripped with armoured ink, the Phantom of a dress curling over him, its sleeves wrapped around his steadfast shoulders, a puddle of blot forming around his heeled boots.
In an instant, Lilia was on his feet, boots slamming against the stone floor as he sprinted over to— to his son. Who was overblotting — a sight that made bile rise in his throat, fear striking through him like a thunderbolt. Lilia had wrapped his hands around his arms, trembling as his eyes flicked over Silver’s body — the smears of blot staining his cheeks, the ink that dripped from his gloved hands, sliding down the hilt of his sword. Elegant carvings were etched into his armour — dark as night, a stark contrast to the pearlescent sheen of his sweeping hair. “Silver,” Lilia whispered, voice cracking as his hands moved up, thumbing over his cold, cold cheeks. “Silver, you—”
But before he could finish, strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, beginning to push him back with such a delicate gentleness that it made his words die in his throat. Silver slowly pressed him backwards, one step at a time, flowing Phantom dancing behind him, its splotchy dress turning fully pink, until finally, the back of Lilia’s knees hit his bed, and he tumbled back onto the soft mattress.
Before Lilia could push himself back up, he felt a hand brush against his hair. “I cannot allow you to leave, Father,” Silver murmured, an echoing tinge to his words. It had been accompanied by the sound of fabric swishing, and a gurgling shriek. “The castle is not safe.”
“Let me help you,” Lilia begged, hands reaching up to curl around Silver’s wrist. Blot dribbled from his son’s touch, mixing with strands of Lilia’s hair, and Lilia knew that his own clothes must be stained with ink, but he didn't care. What possible effect could an overexposure of blot have on him anyways, with his magic dwindling?
But Silver had only shaken his head, the barest ghost of a smile gracing his ink-stained lips. “No,” he says firmly, though not unkindly. Rather, there is a reverence in his words, a lurking fire that makes Lilia’s breathing hitch from the force of it — an unfettered devotion. “You will stay here,” Silver states, no room for argument in his words — not even saying that Lilia must remain where he is, but that he will. “And if he appears, then…”
Silver pulled back, his grip on his sword resolute. Behind him, the Phantom thrashed violently, flickering between shades of bright pink and azure blue, twin blades of its own emerging from its sleeves. “If he dares to appear,” Silver hissed, “then I shall stop him. I will keep you safe.”
And sprawled out against the bed, staring up at the horrific scene before him with wide eyes, what was Lilia to do?
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The Phantom lingers with Lilia at all times.
He has never heard of them doing such a thing. From all he has learnt in the past, Phantoms typically trail after their overblotter, the two of them intrinsically connected at the core. But Silver is different — as he always is, in a way. His Phantom is not the snapping, snarling, garishly violent creatures that other people’s have been. His is a tender, twirling dress, who hovers over his bed, fabric tinting pink whenever Lilia glances at it. Its sleeves flutter over him, stroking him gently. And, strangest of all, it stays with him during the few times when Silver must leave.
Here, in Malleus’ thorn-enclosed dome of magic, time does not pass. Here, Lilia has neither hunger nor thirst, the lack of sensation jarring whenever he thinks too hard about it.
The only thing he can do is drift in and out of rest, his son’s Phantom always watching over him regardless of whether Silver is there with it. At times, when Lilia is drifting off to sleep, he stirs at the sound of a keening wail, eyes fluttering open the tiniest bit to see drifting sleeves covering a crest-shaped face as the Phantom sobs, so unlike the centuries’ worth of hostile Phantoms recorded in history books.
The sight of its face never fails to make Lilia’s heart skip a beat either, the symbol familiar to him. The royal crest of his former enemies from centuries ago — a lingering proof of a heritage Silver cannot deny.
The Phantom weeps and wails whenever it thinks Lilia isn’t listening, isn’t awake. The sound always tears at his heart; this creature is a part of Silver, stoic and resolute, locked into his role as a guard by the one-track mind nature of his overblot.
So what does it mean then, to listen to its harrowing cries?
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With little else to do, Lilia thinks.
He thinks about the dreams he experienced, the ones Malleus so graciously gifted to him. His mood sours whenever he remembers them, lips pressing thin at the hazy memories of Malleus whisking everyone to sleep with an utterance of his unique magic, plunging them all under his spell. Lilia had done and said so many things that he now regrets, looking back in hindsight; he had not recognised Silver under the thick of the magic, treating him with a callous cruelty he laments to the very core of his soul.
The way he’d rejected the prospect of ever having a child, a family. The way he’d repeatedly told Silver to call him anything other than Father. The way he’d revealed the truth he never wanted Silver to ever know — that of his heritage, of the absolute hatred Lilia had felt towards him far, far in the past, loathing the child and all that it stood for.
He feels sick again.
The thing is. The thing is. Back then, when he’d broken into the nursery and held the screaming child by its neck, about to kill it, Lilia hadn’t known just what it would grow to mean to him someday. There is a distinct difference between the child of the Knight of Dawn, and Silver, his son, in his mind, even if they are ultimately one and the same.
He regrets it so badly, all of it, all of what he did in his dreams. Because even though his precise memories are foggy, Lilia is certain that his little show in the nursery had been the tipping point for Silver, the exact moment where Malleus came for him again and whisked him away, swallowing him into the darkness that trailed them all throughout their dreams.
If Lilia had not done what he did, real or not, Silver would not have overblotted.
But whenever he tries to breach the subject, tries to bring it up when Silver stands by his door, Phantom lurking at his side, he gets shut down. Lilia slings his legs over the side of his bed, and says, “Silver. About what happened in my dream—” before Silver’s head snaps up, and he immediately interrupts him.
“It is of no concern to me,” Silver always says. “It does not matter. It’s unimportant.” All the different variations of the same phrase: Silver does not care about what happened, dismissing it easily and leaving Lilia to stew in a steaming heap of his own miserable guilt.
And when Lilia tries to press even further, Silver leaves his post. He strides over, resolute and steadfast as always, as a prim and proper knight should be. And then, standing in front of Lilia, he rests his hand gently on his shoulder, shushing Lilia with the tiny gesture. “Please do not concern yourself with it, Father,” Silver always says, so kind, so gentle, even in his dire state. “It does not bother me anymore.”
It’s that last word that lingers with Lilia. Anymore. That there was a point of time where it meant something awful to Silver, except now, that feeling is buried, and the both of them are worse off for it.
Lilia still desires to speak with Silver about his dream, a thousand questions lingering on his tongue.
But Silver always dismisses him. He tells him it is insignificant. He coaxes him to rest. He promises to protect him from Malleus.
It only ever makes Lilia feel worse, in the end.
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“I-I should be the one protecting you, Silver! You— You should not be doing this, you should not be overblotting for my sake!” Frenetic words that burst forth from his lips cut through the air. Lilia feels his grip on the side of his bed curl tighter, fingers trembling as he clutches the sheets hard. How long has it been? Time doesn’t move, never moves; there is no concrete answer, except that it feels like an eternity and beyond.
And Lilia is sick of it. He’s sick of seeing his son dressed as a knight, of the disgusting mounds of cloying blot forming the plates of his void-dark armour. He’s sick of waking again and again and again, and always glancing over to the door to see him still there, unmoving, always remaining in the same place, his Phantom swishing around his motionless body.
Silver tilts his head the slightest bit at that, glowing eyes peering over at Lilia, the barest glint sparking within those dull pupils. “No, Father,” he utters, voice calm — and Lilia hates it, hates the lack of emotion, the way his ability to read Silver has suddenly, abruptly, been cut off. “It is my duty to protect you from him—”
“NO, IT’S NOT!”
The scream erupts through the air, bouncing off the walls, circling around the room. Lilia shakes his head, over and over and over again. He stumbles off the bed, staggers his way over to Silver, the tornado of chaotic emotions tearing through him from the inside-out finally reaching its peak. Gloved hands clasp around Silver’s shoulders, causing the knight to still in his movements from where he was beginning to move, automatically heading to push Lilia back towards the bed.
“You shouldn’t have to do this for me,” Lilia whispers, and oh, he feels something wet sliding down his cheeks. His emotions have finally collapsed, it seems. He tilts his head forward, forehead coming to rest against the cool, blot-slick armour of Silver’s torso. “You… you’re my son. You shouldn’t have to guard me like this. I can take care of myself, Silver.”
Silence.
“Please,” Lilia breathes. “Please let me help you.” He cannot stand this anymore, cooped up in this room, awake from Malleus’ throes of unending dreams purely because of his son. Lilia is only spared from going back under because it is Silver who stands in Malleus’ way, barring him from returning and weaving the threads of dreams to cloak Lilia with once more.
And for a while, there is nothing. Nothing except for the soft sound of Silver’s breathing. Lilia can feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, faint behind the thick metal of his ink-formed chestplate — he clings to it like a lifeline, proof that he is still alive, even with the way the blot has infested him, wrapping thin tendrils of darkness around his son’s mind.
Cool hands come to press against his chest, pushing him backwards the slightest bit. Lilia stumbles, only to be cushioned by light fabric. Twisting his head around, he spies the Phantom behind him, pink and flowing, its ghostly sleeves curling around Lilia’s shoulders, tangling around his neck in a knot.
“Silver,” Lilia whispers. “Silver, please.”
Silver only smiles. “You’ve taken such good care of me all my life, Father. You’ve protected me, even though you did not need to.” And oh, Lilia feels his heart fracture at that, splintering into tiny shards; it is the closest Silver, overblotted as he is, has ever gotten to acknowledging Lilia’s wretched dreams of his war-torn past, of the revelations in the nursery. Reaching for his hands, Silver guides him back to his prison of a bed with tiny hands, the Phantom pulling him along with its entangled sleeves trapping him in place.
“Just let me protect you now,” Silver murmurs, as the Phantom pulls away, still hovering over Lilia’s curled form, little keening cries spilling from the cracks in its crest-shaped head. “Just let me repay you for everything you’ve ever done.”
Lilia raises his head. His eyes flit to Silver, who leans down at his side, still so tranquil, as though he truly is at peace with the idea of serving Lilia like this — a shift in their dynamic that chills his blood. His eyes flit to the Phantom, at his other side, still burbling little noises, dress pink as a rose, basking in his presence.
His eyes flick to the opening before him, the gap between the two of them — the straight path ahead of him to the unguarded door.
And before he can even stop to think, Lilia is off.
In a flash, he’s sprinting over to the bedroom door. His gloved hand wrenches the doorknob, twisting it and flinging the door wide open with a loud SLAM! Lilia sucks in a breath, hand brushing against the jamb of the door before he rushes out into the dark hallway, thick, twisting throngs of thorns creeping all over the walls, eerie in the dim glow of green-lit scones.
“MALLEUS!” Lilia screams, lungs aching as he calls for the perpetrator of this entire bloody mess, and the one person Silver is guarding him from. His lips wrench into a snarl as he moves forward, steps hurried, trying to put a distance between him and his son; Lilia’s heart throbs in agony at the thought of abandoning him, of upsetting him, but he cannot stand to look upon Silver, loyal and devoted to the point of blindness, any longer.
He stumbles over thick vines, trips over slumbering bodies sprawled out all over the floor. Lilia grits his teeth, readying another screech for the blasted fae prince to appear, when strong arms seize him from behind. In an instant, Lilia is kicking, thrusting frantically, but it is to no avail. He hears the Phantom shrieking, can see droplets of blot fly through the air, can hear a frenzied swishing of fabric.
“Please,” he begs Silver as he feels himself getting dragged backwards, back to his room. “Please, Silver, you have to let me go. Let me talk to Malleus, let me handle this.”
But Silver does not budge, never budges, pulling him back through the open door and back to that forsaken bed. The Phantom shuts the door as Silver presses him against the mattress, face consumed by worry as his hands brush all over Lilia’s body, checking for any injuries with a featherlight touch. “You will stay,” Silver insists again, words that Lilia has heard so many times that he has long since lost count. “I can protect you here. I will protect you here, from him. So… please, Father. Please don’t go.”
Silver’s voice warbles with the plea, a vulnerability exposed in those shaking words. His hands grip Lilia tightly, as though terrified to let go.
And what can Lilia do but lie there, squeezing his eyes shut so he no longer has to see the absolute agony and betrayal swirling about in those auroral eyes, once beautiful but now so dull?
It’s awful. It’s loving. It’s a sickening caricature of devotion. Silver’s mind remains fully focused on one thing, and one thing only—
And Lilia hates it, all of it.
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memoryoflife · 6 months
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ngl i am very happy to see an extremely tiny community of people pop up around eastward. i remember playing the game right when it came out and finishing it to virtually no other dedicated fans. i'm happy that the game is very slowly getting the credit it deserves :>
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noacfslut · 3 days
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Would you consider doing a fic based on Me and You Together Song? All I can picture is loser nerd boy Matty and his popular next door neighbour who he’s been in love with for ages but doesn’t think she’d ever see him like that? Or something along those lines? I just love the song so much I feel like the song alone is a fic in the making😭
oh i absolutely fucking love this idea so much. i need to write this. i’m adding this to my list of wips right now i’m so serious!! nobody steal this haha
this song hold such a special place in my heart bc at one of my atvb shows i made so much eye contact with matty during this song and held it with him during entire verses and he was so smiley and cutesy with me that i cannot listen to this song without crying bc of the memory of this so 🥹 i would love to write a fic based on this!!
i have a few fics lined up already to write before i would get to this but when those are done i will definitely write this!🖤
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elletromil · 8 months
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Ok but Crowley's idea for making Nina and Maggie fall in love with the big rainstorm and them hiding from the rain under a canopy and looking in each other eyes and realising they're made for each other...
Sure the whole kissing/confessing under the rain is a big trope
But also that more or less happened twice between Crowley and Aziraphale. Crowley is speaking from experience here
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rosykims · 3 months
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the elspethian conundruum of conscripting the son of ur family's murderer in the hopes he dies horribly during his joining bc u want vengeance and yet are too self righteous to kill him yourself. ofc you're also not actually altruistic enough to let him go so you just pray to the maker it goes sideways and then it DOESNT and now you have to sit with the knowledge that u are a bad person for wanting him dead while he fucks around and raids the larder of Your castle bc he infuriatingly knows it better than you do. and you guys are literally platonic soulmates btw <3
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elitehoe · 1 year
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A big realization was just made. All this time I was fighting away Will Ospreay I think I might have actually fell for him.... I might need a month to process that my "hate" did not hate properly.
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fleshdyke · 11 months
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literally all i want is to hem a dress and this mf sewing machine is going wrong in like all the possible ways
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liesmyth · 4 months
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Headcanon: before getting really into running you were really into playing some team sport
KIND OF, I got hardcore into running during the pandemic and before that I was a weight room dyke (I blame Kara Thrace's arms in BSG 2003). But before that, I was into volleyball in school! I was just really bad at it
[send me your headcanons about me!]
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mariska · 5 months
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Sano Turdiev photographed by Josh Wilks for SLEEK Magazine; May, 2021 • Make-up by Ana Takahashi • Hair by Yuho Kamo • Styling by Elle Fell
(via anatakahashiii on instagram)
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Allison argent is back and nothing else matters
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thequibblah · 8 months
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looks like I’ve said too much on the internet 😨
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mrs-kelly · 1 year
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so many good Charlie smiles!!! just in the first minute of the episode!! oh my God!!!
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