#<- potential new tag ill probably never use again

[many-gay-magpies]

book opinions post absolutely nobody asked for: so yesterday i finished reading inkheart (which i loved), and today i started in on the sequel, inkspell. i still like the writing and everything, but already five chapters in and it's just—SO heteronormative i kind of can't.

dustfinger goes back to inkworld, where he apparently has a wife—a WIFE—that he left behind when mo read him out of the book. are you kidding me? i cannot FOR THE LIFE OF ME envision that man in a cozy, committed domestic relationship, much less a MARRIED one. and then there's the whole little romance creeping in with meggie and farid, which i wouldn't be nearly as opposed to if not for the fact that 1) he's like 17 at this point and she's 13, and 2) within the same few pages they had meggie swooning internally over his eyelashes, and then him saying she couldn't go to inkworld because she's a girl and therefore weaker/more delicate and her getting (rightfully) mad at him for it. like yes the narrative made it decently obvious that he was in the wrong there, but i am very tired of het couples consisting of a mildly-to-severely misogynistic guy and a girl who has to prove to him that women are strong independent human beings, actually.

anyways. im still enjoying the book and i'm going to keep reading it, but this was bothering me a bit and i wanted to talk about it.

[asumofwords]

Watercress - Chapter Four

Warnings: She/her pronouns. Smallfolk OC, mentions of death and war, descriptions of injury and blood, injury of a child, attempt at murder, choking, arguing. Tags will be added as the fic goes along.

Pairings: Aemond x She/Her

Summary: Raised in the Riverlands, near the shadow of Harrenhal, her life was one of endless toil and quiet resilience. Every day was the same—scraping together food, tending to the ill, and surviving the harsh realities of a land marked by struggle. But when war came, it brought horrors beyond anything she could have imagined. The skies blazed with fury, the waters of the Gods Eye churned with the echoes of battle, and then—just as suddenly as it began—the world grew eerily quiet. She believed the worst was over. That was, until a fateful discovery in the woods shattered her fragile peace and set her on a path she never could have foreseen.

Word Count: 7.2k oops....I'm so sorry....

Notes: Hello my angels, apologies for such a slow release on this one, I was so incredibly sick that I was bedridden for a week! I wrote this in my delirium and also on my journeys to work, so I hope you enjoy!! <3

“What have you done?” 

She startled, it had been so peaceful in the cottage that she had forgotten about the silver haired man’s existence in her bed.

The needle and thread she worked with this time was different to the one she used on injuries. Instead of pulling together a wound, she pulled together the seams of white linen and leather. 

It had occurred to her earlier on that she should probably get him clothed, but he had been so acidic, so scathing in her attempts to help him that she thought that keeping him vulnerable in her bed would humble him. 

It hadn’t. 

From the seat by the fire she glanced her eyes over to Aemond, who sat rod straight in her bed, long fingers grasping at his silver locks.

Ah.

“What. Have. You. Done.” He spat louder this time, the silk tresses falling between his fingers as his eye locked onto hers. His pale cheeks flushed in anger, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Saved your life.” Came her deadpan response, looking back down to his leather riding jacket. She was suddenly thankful for the way in which she had cut it off of him; it made it easier for her to go through the original holes of the leather with her needle rather than having to pierce new ones.

“You were fevered,” The healer said simply, without remorse, “Your hair was tangled, matted with blood. I had to—”

Aemond moved. Staggered from the bed, a wash of grey taking over his skin where there had just been colour. It had surprised her so thoroughly that she stared at him before jumping into action, body in autopilot. She stood to come to him, to get him to sit back down.

But then he surprised her again.

This was a man she had watched lay in her bed for weeks, too weak to stand, too weak to hold himself, but here he was, standing from the bed, furs tangled beneath his feet. He swayed, yes, and she could tell that his adrenaline was taking over, but underneath all of that, it was sheer will. 

Sheer spite. 

She worried that he would fall as she went to his side, that he would burst more stitches, un-align his leg, puncture his lungs. She was so preoccupied with worrying over his condition and potential to worsen it that she hadn’t thought for one second the sudden danger he imposed over her. She was by his side in a second.

And then he moved again. 

Too fast, too hard, ignoring the pull of his wounds, ignoring the agony screaming through his body.

His fingers found her throat and she froze.

She blinked as he gripped her, forcing her gaze to his. His hand trembled—not with weakness, but with the sheer force of his rage, and she felt the weight of him against her neck, as if he was using her to keep himself standing. 

All with the grip he had on her neck.

Her eyes looked onto his lone one, not daring to flick over to the empty socket on the other side. The violet eye she had grew accustomed to narrowing at her, flashing with anger, was now almost entirely black, his pupil having swallowed up all remaining evidence of humanity, leaving only the barest hint of a ring. 

“You had to?” He hissed, his voice low, deadly, “You had to strip me like a common dog?”

Her chin lifted, and though her pulse thudded beneath his fingers, her voice was even, “You would rather have rotted in your own filth?”

His grip tightened.

“Yes,” He snarled, the word cutting like a blade, “Better that than,” His voice dipped lower, the shadow of the firelight darkening his sharpened features further, “this.”

He was ruined.

Defiled.

Like a man shorn for punishment, like some domesticated drunk.

Like Aegon.

The realisation struck him like a blow, like a fresh wound split open, deep and raw. His lips curled, sickened.

“You’ve made me look like him,” He spat, his voice dripping with venom, “Like that wretched, slovenly oaf.”

A humourless laugh, sharp and bitter, scraped from his throat.

“Tell me,” He sneered, eye flashing with cruel mirth, “Shall I take to drinking next? Stumbling through brothels, pissing myself in the streets?” His lips twisted cruelly and she felt a pang of pity for him in that moment, “Is that what you’ve made of me? Turned me into a common, useless drunkard?”

“Only you have the power to do that. Though from what I’ve heard, your blood runs thick with it.”

Aemond’s grip flexed, his fingers twitching with the urge to hurt, to punish. She tried to inhale deeply, but he only allowed her the barest slither of air. And that was when she realised he would not kill her in that moment, not that she wouldn’t have fought him. He merely wanted an audience.

She liked her odds regardless; another hit to his ribs, a kick to his leg and she knew that she would be freed. But there was something new about this rage, something different. 

It was shame. 

“You’ve taken my hair,” He said, his voice like steel drawn slow from a sheath, “Defiled my birthright.” His breathing came heavy, ragged with fury, “And you expect me to thank you?”

You have no birthright, she thought, not anymore.

His fingers flexed against her throat, his other hand fisted at his side. She saw this as a good sign; if he truly wished to kill her, surely he would have had two hands at her throat. She tried to swallow, feeling her throat bob beneath his hand, to which he only tightened it further. Her head spun.

Opening her mouth she breathed raggedly, “I expect you to live.”

The words were plain. Cool.

Always so cold.

So detached.

And he hated it.

Where was her anger? Where was her fear? 

Where was his respect?

He had seen the fear briefly, flickering through her eyes as she had watched him stand. But it wasn’t fear of him, not at that moment it hadn’t been, it was fear of what he would do to himself. Fear that he would injure himself further. 

He hated it.

Hated that she cared.

But there was fear, the moment his hand had wrapped around her throat and squeezed her, he had seen her eyes flash with surprise, and then fear, but now, now she seemed so sure that he would not harm her. So sure that he would not lift his other hand and squeeze the life from her in the cottage where she gave so much life. 

She gave.

And he would take away.

Aemond exhaled sharply, a dangerous sound.

“It will grow back.” She said, unshaken, her eyes looking over his head, looking to the shoulder length hair he now had, small waves dancing behind his ears. 

It was pretty, his hair, especially now with the way the light caught it. It was so pale, so unlike anything she had ever seen before that it seemed to absorb light itself. 

“No,” He whispered, voice laced with something dark and bitter, “It won’t.”

Not in the way that mattered.

Not in the way that it mattered to him.

She didn't understand. How could she?

Aemond Targaryen was reduced.

“I had no choice.” She spoke again, and he felt her throat bob beneath his palm, and for a second he had to fight the excitement that coursed through him. 

She was under his control now.

He could control her. 

But there was something more. He looked down his long nose at her, and watched how she continued to look at his hair. How she continued to look at what she had done to him.

She was watching him with something more than cool observance.

“You are still a Targaryen.” She said with confidence, and his fingers twitched against the soft expanse of her neck, “There is no denying that.”

Aemond was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged motions. The pain clawed at his ribs, at his leg, at the raw stitches she had only just put back together. His fury had made him reckless. And now his strength waned.

She watched as his grip flexed, as though torn between crushing her throat and throwing her away from him entirely. His fingers twitched, then fell away, his strength faltering. And she watched as his eye darted down to her lips momentarily, the angry look on his face faltering as the pink of his tongue wet his lips.

It was fleeting.

He swayed.

The healer remained still, waiting. She knew better than to reach for him now. Knew that his pride would not suffer her hands upon him, not after she had already stripped him of so much.

Aemond let out a sharp breath, stumbling back a half step, the pain flashing across his face even as he tried to smother it. His fingers curled into fists, trembling with the effort to hold himself upright.

She cast her gaze downwards, ignoring the way that his member had seemed to swell slightly, and kept her eyes evenly on the wound that had healed somewhat on his chest and hip. Blood had welled to the surface and had begun to slowly leak from the wound staining the dressings.

“You’re bleeding again.”

She wished he would just lay down and stay quiet. Perhaps she could dose his food with milk of the poppy to keep him lucid.

His eye flicked to his side, where the fresh stitches had already begun to seep red into the bandages.

He swayed again.

Her voice was soft, placating, “Get back in bed.”

Aemond let out a breath, half a scoff, half a curse, “I’ll stand.”

“You’ll fall.”

His eye snapped back to her, gleaming with ire. But the truth of it was undeniable.

And then—his body betrayed him.

His balance tipped, his muscles clenched, and in the next moment, his knees buckled beneath him. She moved faster than he could stop her, stepping forward as he collapsed into her grasp, hands beneath his arms. 

Agony shot through his ribs. 

He let out a snarl, the sound vibrating in his chest as her hands pressed against him, steadying his weight.

“Don’t.” The Prince hissed, but his voice wavered, his body too weak to make good on the threat.

She ignored him, adjusting her hold with practiced ease, bracing her shoulder beneath his, “This is your own doing.” She muttered, bearing his weight as she guided him back toward the bed.

His muscles stiffened against her, “I won’t—”

“You will.” He tensed harder, and so she corrected herself “Or you will fall.” 

Her voice was soft this time. Softer than he had ever heard her. And it almost startled him. Since when did she have the capacity for meekness? To be quiet and polite? When had she ever shown that she could be more than cold or biting to him?

It was worse he realised, hearing her. This new her he had never seen before.

It was warmth. 

He seethed. 

She could feel his anger rolling off of him, sharp and smouldering, could hear the grinding of his teeth as she manoeuvred him step by step.

But he had no choice.

The healer felt the moment his body truly gave up—when his rage could no longer hold him upright, when his limbs sagged, when his grip on his own pride slipped and his own hands moved to her upper arms, clutching her tighter than he had ever clutched her throat.

She knew then that he would likely never actually harm her.

His breathing turned shallow, his weight heavier, and by the time she lowered him onto the furs, he had no more fight left to give.

She stepped back.

Aemond was still, his eye burning into the ceiling, jaw clenched so tightly she thought he might shatter his teeth.

A long silence stretched between them.

Then—his fingers lifted to the uneven edges of his hair, his nails scraping against the jagged strands.

The healer sighed, she was tired of his moods, “It will grow back.”

His eye snapped to her, cold and cutting, “You ruined me.”

She huffed out a humourless laugh, crossing her arms, “You men and your vanity. You’re worse than a young maiden.”

Aemond’s lips curled, “You do not understand.”

“No,” She agreed easily, moving to the table where her supplies were laid out, “I don’t.” She turned, looking at him over her shoulder, “But if I had left you to rot with the filthy state your hair was in you would have gotten an infection, and you wouldn't be here to worry about your appearance.”

Aemond exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into the furs.

She knew he was seething, drowning in his own shame, his own fury. But she had no patience for it.

Not now.

She dipped a cloth into warm water, wrung it out, and turned back toward him. “You can either sulk like a child,” She said, her tone firm, “Or you can rest, recover, and learn to walk again without having to lean on me.” She wiped gently at his stomach, throwing a fur over his length so it wasn’t in eye shot, “You will either learn to live with your leg as you did your eye, or you will learn to live as a cripple. It’s your choice.”

Aemond’s eye burned into her, sharp as a blade’s edge. He was still seething, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths, as if he were keeping his fury caged only by force of will.

"Always so bold," His voice low and venomous, "You’ve defiled me.”

She scoffed, pressing the damp cloth against the sweat-slick skin of his brow. He flinched but lacked the strength to swat her away before she moved to the dressings.

“I saved your life.” She hummed amused.

“You humiliated me.” His lip curled, disgust and something deeper—something darker—twisting his features, "I should have woken with a blade to my throat, not a butcher’s hands in my hair."

She hummed, unimpressed, "You shouldn’t have woken at all. I should have let the fever take you. Or left you for the wolves and snow. The Gods have given you another chance, and yet, here you lay," She wrung the cloth out again, her expression unshaken, "Sulking."

Aemond’s jaw ticked, his fingers curling into the sheets, "You think I will forgive this?" His voice was silk-thin, fraying at the edges, "That I will forget what you say to me just because you tend to me?"

"No," She said simply, meeting his eye without flinching, "I think you will heal. And if I have to chain you to that bed to make sure of it, I will."

His breath hitched, his nostrils flaring, but his body betrayed him—always betrayed him-- exhaustion dragging at his limbs, pain licking up his spine. He could do nothing but glare, his pride bleeding out between them like an open wound.

"You made me look like him," He spat suddenly, the words ragged, raw, "Like a common drunk. Like my pathetic, soft-bellied brother."

She tilted her head, gaze flicking over him, unbothered, "It becomes you."

Aemond snarled, but the sound was weaker now. His body was failing him, the anger taking too much from him when he had so little left to give.

She exhaled slowly, shaking her head. "Rest, my Prince. If you ever hope to kill me as you promise you must rest."

Aemond turned his face away from her, but not before she caught the flicker of something in his eye—not just fury, not just loathing.

Something like defeat.

-

The usual silence of her cottage had been shattered often and violently since the man’s arrival. The air was thick with animosity, each interaction a silent war waged in glances, in barbed words, in the heavy quiet that stretched between them. She wasn’t used to this. Wasn’t used to having her patience tested so often, or being pushed so completely to the edge.

She could feel it now—the irritation, raw and insistent, scraping at her nerves, burrowing deep, wearing her thin. It was beginning to crack her resolve, piece by piece.

Her sleep had suffered. The floor had become a constant ache in her bones, no matter how much straw or fur she gathered to soften it. She had tried, at first, to offer some measure of comfort. But comfort was a foreign word now, an elusive thing she would have gladly traded for a moment’s peace.

What she would’ve given for her own bed. What she would’ve given for a guest who did not make her wish for solitude.

Whenever she moved about the cottage, she felt his eye follow her—heavy, burning, unrelenting. She had tried to ignore it, tried to lose herself in her work, but he was a shadow, always there, lurking. Watching. The only reprieve was when others came seeking her healing hands, or when she ventured out for supplies, just to breathe something other than him.

But even then, he was waiting.

For her.

At first, she had tried to answer his sharp-edged questions, had tried to dull their bite with reason. But it became clear; he wasn’t asking for answers. He was asking to provoke. To fill the silence that stretched between them like a battlefield left abandoned.

And in a way it was. To him anyway.

Every day, she tended to him—bandaging wounds, feeding him, bathing him when he could not manage. Though he would never admit it, she saw how his pride rebelled against even the smallest mercy. His body may have been broken, but his stubbornness was unyielding. He refused kindness, even when he was burning with pain. 

There was something more fragile about that than any wound.

And because of this, her patience had worn thin. She no longer bothered to hide her irritation, no longer masked her words in civility. But beneath the frustration, there was something else—something she could not quite name.

Curiosity, perhaps.

What lay beneath all that anger? The sharp words, the bitter arrogance—what was he running from? What had broken him before she ever laid a hand on him? Before he had ever fell from his dragon?

She could not afford to wonder for too long. Because they both knew neither could hold out much longer. The pressure was suffocating, thick as smoke and filled her small cottage, throats clogged with it.

But where she found quiet in the silence, Aemond found madness.

The stillness there was unbearable. It pressed in on him, vice-like, suffocating.

Aemond had known noise. The thunder of battle, the screams of men, the roar of his dragon’s wings. He had known chaos all his life training with the blade, flying, escaping his brother. But here, in this gods-forsaken place, there was nothing. No war to fight. No enemy to strike down.

The world had moved on without him, and the quiet of it stung worse than any blade.

And she—she was a constant reminder of everything he had lost.

Her voice, blunt and emotionless, cut deeper than steel. She spoke of his failures with no pity, told him of his cause’s collapse, of his brother’s death, of the loss of his dragon. But it wasn’t the words that hurt most. It was the silence in between. The absence of anything else. No loyalty, no affection, not even hatred.

She did not see him as a Prince. She did not even see him as a threat.

She made him feel like nothing.

And for that, he hated her.

The firelight flickered against her face as she worked, grinding herbs with steady, practiced ease. The sound of mortar scraping stone gnawed at his nerves, over and over and over again. Always the same.

Never ending.

His body ached—not just from his injuries, but from the weight of it all. The stillness. The powerlessness. The sitting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

She was small. Insignificant.

And yet she carried herself like one who had never known fear. Or perhaps, she had known too much of it.

He hated it. 

The silence. 

He couldn’t bear it. 

His fingers curled into the furs beneath him, his voice low, dangerous.

“You are enjoying this.”

She didn’t look up, “Enjoying what?”

“Watching me rot in this hovel while you play at being a saviour.” His words dripped with venom, “Don’t pretend it doesn’t please you.”

She sighed, an exhale of quiet boredom, “Ah, this again. You give yourself too much importance.”

Her calm made his blood boil.

“You should pray I never leave this bed, healer.” He warned, voice thick with fury.

She did not so much as flinch. She only ground the pestle harder into the bowl, that same grating sound, “I find our silence preferable,” not dignifying his threat with a response, “You’re far less irritating when you’re not speaking.”

His jaw tightened.

“You forget yourself.” 

She let out a slow breath, as if barely restraining a yawn, “Do I?”

His breath came sharper, his rage coiling tight in his chest. Heat flooded him.

“You are nothing,” He spat, “A peasant. A nameless healer with no purpose beyond mixing herbs in this shack. Likely born of a whore and a drunk. And yet, you dare speak to me this way?”

She did not look at him. She kept grinding the pestle. The same grounding grating noise over and over.

She was grinding his resolve.

Crushing it into dust beneath her practised hands.

“Mmm,” She hummed, inspecting the herbs with feigned interest, “That may be true. But there are other truths.” She paused, then added, voice mild, “You are crippled. Like your brother before you. And your father.”

Aemond’s vision darkened with rage.

“I should kill you.”

At that, she finally looked at him. And then—she smiled.

It was not mockery. It was not fear. It was small, knowing—almost as if she had already decided something.

“Then so be it.”

Before he could speak, she moved. Across the room, to where his belongings lay abandoned. His tunic, still bloodied but sewn together. His boots, streaked with dried mud. And his sword—untouched since she had dragged him here half-dead.

She picked it up without hesitation. It was too large for her frame, but she carried it with ease. Almost too easily. 

What Aemond did not know, was that it took great effort for her to hold herself steady, but she did it out of spite.

They were both full of so much spite that she felt it almost suffocating her. This anger. This hatred. The rage. All of it. She felt it from him. She felt it within. It was drowning her.

She was drowning. 

She turned back and held the hilt out toward him.

“Take it, Prince. Since the first attempt did not go as you planned.”

Aemond inhaled sharply, eye longingly looking at a blade he had spent so much time with. So many hours in the training yard holding it. Always attached to his side.

He longed to touch it again.

“You mock me.”

The healer shook her head softly, “I only give you what you ask for.”

His fury burned hot and bright. He wanted to stand, wanted to wrap his hands around her throat, wanted to demand her respect.

She stepped back. Not offering it—challenging him.

“If you can stand without my help,” She said, smile still on her lips, “Then you may have your sword.”

Incensed, Aemond shifted, furs sliding from his shoulders. He forced himself up, every muscle screaming in protest. His skin paled, his chest rising and falling in short, sharp pants. But still, he stood.

He stood, Gods be damned.

Her eyes swept over him, not with the detached calculation of a healer—but something else. If he were not so insufferable, she might have blushed.

But he swayed. His leg trembled. His ribs protested, agony slicing through him like a hot blade. But he persisted.

Aemond reached for the sword.

The moment his fingers curled around the hilt, she let it go. In that moment, that moment that was so brief, he felt the first wave of calm wash over him in weeks. He felt the first piece of strength, of pride, slide back into place.

This was what he was made for. This was what he was capable of. But that moment was all too fleeting as her hand dropped away.

The weight of the unsupported blade yanked his arm down—too heavy, too much too soon, the pain in his ribs exploding through his chest, but his stubbornness won out. He did not let go of the blade to save himself the pain, instead his hand tightened to it, and with that came the fall. His body twisted with it, his wounded leg giving way beneath the weight of him.

She watched as he fell, didn’t move to stop him. Didn’t move to catch him as she had the last time. Just watched as he toppled, blade still clutched so tightly in his hand she thought it might break.

She had warned him he would.

Had told him he would.

Aemond Targaryen crashed to the floor.

The pain was indescribable. Black spots bloomed before his vision, his face scrunched tightly in agony as he wheezed an agonised breath. He couldn’t breathe. It felt as though his lungs seized within his ribs. As though if he even tried to suck in a breath, it would be useless.

What had the healer said about punctured lungs? Was this what it felt like?

The moment stretched unbearably, silence thick with his humiliation.

And yet she did not move to help him. She only stood over him, watching. Watching as his face grew more and more paled and ashen. Watched as he struggled to suck in pained breaths, his hand still clutched to the sword as the other clutched his middle. 

A shadow passed over him, the firelight momentarily being blocked.

And then—soft, calm, almost amused,

“Tell me, kinslayer,” She murmured, his eye blinking rapidly open to see her. There was a soft halo of light around her head, warming her features. She was pretty. So very pretty and yet she did nothing to show it. She did not dress pretty, only comfortably and smartly, nor she did not make effort to style her hair or wear jewels. She was plain. Unassuming. But in that moment, all he could focus on was how pretty she looked, just as pretty as a blade, and just as sharp as one too, “What use is a dragon without its fire?”

There came the final blow. And the warm light around her head suddenly looked like the seven hells. 

Like damnation.

Like-

A knock sounded at the door.

The moment was over.

And Aemond watched as her face moved away from his. He felt the absence of her then. The absence of her warmth. Of her fire. She rose without hesitation, stepping over his fallen form as if he were nothing more than a piece of furniture in her way.

From the floor, Aemond saw her open the door, revealing a thin man wrapped in a heavy cloak, his face lined with age and worry. A child clung to his side, perhaps six, perhaps younger, he cannot remember what Jaehaerys or Jaehaera had looked like when young. How old had they been? Lucerys had been five or six when he had taken his eye, so small yet so deadly. Tiny really. He blinked, the girls arm was cradled against her chest, her face pale and tear-streaked.

He could not hear their hushed words, but he saw the way the healer’s expression softened just slightly, how she nodded once before stepping outside.

“Not in here” She told the father,  “A man has the Shivers.”

That was all she offered, and the eagerness to enter her home vanished from the fathers face. He stepped back, his retreat swift, his gaze never even flickering toward Aemond’s crumpled form on the floor, as if viewing him would be contagious. 

Aemond had caught a glimpse of the child’s arm—swollen, bruised, likely broken. The healer moved quickly, guiding them further from the cottage. Her steps were careful, practiced. 

Gentle.

She was a paradox.

How could she be so gentle yet so unyielding? So sharp yet so tender?

If it weren’t for the pain making his head already spin, it would be now. Just one moment ago she was crouched in front of him, mocking his ability to stand, to hold a blade, and now she was as soft as the silks his sister used to wear. As soft as how Helaena had been with her own children. As soft as his mothers hair. Yet these people weren’t anyone that the healer knew. They were strangers. And yet she was so soft to them.

Aemond yearned in that moment to know her kindness for once. Not her ire.

He wanted her softness.

Outside, her voice was a soft hum, soothing, steady. The father’s murmured reassurances wove through it, the girl’s sniffles growing less panicked, less frequent. And then, to Aemond’s surprise, a small laugh. 

Even in her pain, she had managed to make the girl laugh. How she had done this, Aemond did not know.

He felt she really might be a witch.

Was she bewitching him?

No.

He hated her.

His fingers curled into fists, his body still half-curled on the floor. He tried to push himself up, but the pain in his ribs was sharp, so sharp it darkened the edges of his vision again and he slumped back to the cold and hard ground. His limbs felt foreign, his breath ragged, the wood of his splint dragging painfully against the floor as he tried and failed to get his leg beneath him and comfortable. But he couldn’t.

He was stuck.

He was pathetic.

Useless.

He had watched her work for the gods only knew how long. Watched the way she moved, how the father and young girl looked at her. As if she were something holy.

She was not.

She was nothing.

Nothing.

Rage twisted in his gut like a coiled viper.

Through the gap in the door, he watched—spiteful, seething—as flickers of movement passed through the firelight, watching as she tended to the child, as the father hovered behind them watching with nervous eyes. 

Always watching.

When at last she returned fully into view, the child’s arm was bound, and the father’s relief was evident as he lifted his daughter and pressed a kiss to her forehead, hand holding the injured arm inspecting it. 

Aemond wished he could see the healers face. See how she looked at the two people at her door. Would she be smiling softly at them both? At the girl? Or staring indifferently the way she looked at him. 

Gods the way she looked at him.

Indifferently.

And then sometimes not.

Like he disappointed her.

As if she knew he could be better.

His mother didn’t look at him like that anymore. 

Wouldn’t ever look at him again.

He could be better.

He could-

The father spoke to her, and Aemond strained to hear it, trying to shift on the floor to angle himself better to hear what is being said, but he couldn’t move. Every time he tried to shift himself he felt ill. He hadn’t felt so helpless since he lost his eye, and that made his heart race in his chest all the more.

Small. Innocent. And yet half blinded. 

His half sister, estranged yes, but calling for his punishment after her bastard had attacked him. Blinded him.

Her face, his own blood, calling for his punishment.

His punishment was coming.

It was always coming.

Always coming for him.

He groaned softly as he tried to move, panic winding up his throat, and was surprised to see the healers face turn to him. To check on him. To see if he was okay. And that small piece of care, small piece of worry made his heart slow, and the panic he felt lessen. 

She wouldn’t punish him.

She couldn’t.

She-

At the movement, the father reached into his cloak, the sound of coin in palm loud amongst the quiet. He placed the coins into the healer’s hand but to Aemond’s surprise she tried to take her hand back. She shook her head. Refused. Refused payment for her skill, for her time, for her help. It made Aemond furious. But the man insisted, and to Aemond’s disgust, she accepted only half of what was offered.

Half.

The father nodded his thanks before ushering his daughter back into the cold. And Aemond watched as the healer came back inside, dropping the coin carelessly into the front pocket of her gown.

The door shut. 

Silence fell.

She was back.

She came back for him.

She-

-turned back to the table, washing her hands with methodical ease in a wooden bucket. As if nothing had happened. As if Aemond were not still sprawled on the floor, humiliated. In pain.

Waiting.

She did not look at him.

She did not even glance at him.

It struck something inside of him.

How she would see him.

How she would not look at him.

He already knew what he would see.

Her voice, when it came, was soft, “Let me know when you wish to try again.”

All indignation on her behalf died.

All curiosity was burnt to ash.

Aemond wanted to kill her.

But it was more than that, Gods help him. He had never wanted to survive more.

—

After that night, Aemond had expected fear. Deference. Even hatred.

Instead, she simply… existed. Moving through the cottage as if he were nothing more than another broken thing to mend.

She never bowed. Never used his title. Never even flinched when he threatened her life. She had walked over to him, snatched the sword from his hand and leant it against the fire where it had been prior before helping him back onto the bed and tucking him in the furs. 

Each morning, she left without a word, disappearing into the woods for what felt like hours. And when she returned, her basket would be filled to the brim with herbs and roots—sometimes even rabbits or birds caught in her traps, and fish. 

Always fish.

He hated fish now.

Aemond watched her, seething at his own uselessness as she skinned the catches with quiet precision, prepared broth with effortless ease. And on occasion forgot herself as she moved to feed him. 

He resented her for it. For the way she cared for him despite everything he had said, everything he had done. He had tried to kill her. She had brought his sword to him as what he could only assume was a test, and he had grabbed it and tried anyway. 

And yet still, she tended to him.

She did not punish him.

Her willingness to forget the sword unnerved him. Set him on edge. It made him feel as though something was coming. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

That perhaps she was waiting for something. Waiting for him to grow complacent, to let his guard down, and then she would strike. Then she would attack him the way he had tried to do to her.

Four days had passed since the sword incident when she ventured into the woods again. She had set traps earlier in the week—though it was not out of necessity for food that she went. She simply could not bear the thought of an animal left suffering for days.

The healer was no stranger to pain. She had seen it, felt it. But she had always sought to prevent it where she could. Especially for those smaller and more helpless than herself.

The rabbit had struggled when she found it, panic in its small, shuddering frame. A swift cut of her knife ended its suffering.

The second trap was empty. The third, too. She reset them, then turned back toward the cottage.

The moment she stepped inside, she felt it.

His gaze.

He was sitting up, leaning against the wall, watching her.

She hated when he watched her.

It unnerved her.

He unnerved her.

She felt like prey in her own home. A creature being stalked, studied. Her every movement, her every reaction watched. Observed. She knew that as he healed, his threats would become more than words. He would regain his strength. And then, one day, she would no longer be safe.

Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps he would kill her.

A smarter woman would have turned him over to a nearby Lord. Let them deal with him. But the thought of sending a man wounded and half-broken to certain death made her stomach turn. It was not who she was.

She was a healer. And what kind of healer would she be if she knowingly condemned a man to die? 

Even him.

Even after his cruelty.

When she told him that evening as the sun had set low in the sky that he needed to stand, he had thought she was mocking him. Thought that she wished to see him flail, humiliated. Stand above him as he no doubt fell once again to the floor.

He had refused, spat his usual vitriol at her, cheeks reddened. Life flowing through him.

But then she had ripped the furs away and his eye had widened. Was this it? The moment he had been waiting for? Perhaps she would cast him into the cold outside instead. But she hadn’t, and only moved to to hold his arms as she softly pulled him to the edge of the bed. 

It wasn’t without pain, despite her gentle hands.

Nothing was ever without pain.

His lashing out was never without pain.

Pain to his pride.

Pain to his solitude.

Pain to her.

It was over quickly.

He had stood, and she had helped him, telling him to not put weight on his broken leg, had pulled an arm over her shoulders despite her being shorter than him, and held the brunt of his weight. He had barely lasted before pain overwhelmed him, the edges of his vision fraying. But she had not laughed at him. She had held him aloft until he could stand no longer.

She had murmured quiet words of encouragement as she helped him to sit back down to lay. Had told him that the more he stands the easier it would get. That the more he did it, the sooner he would heal.

She had been as patient as the day he met her.

And Aemond had sneered. Because her care for him made his head spin.

It made him feel out of control.

And yet, the more time he spent with her, the more he wanted to know. She seemed to know much about him. Yet he knew nothing of her.

Even now, as she sat at the table, preparing another stew, frustration burned through him like an open wound. The cottage was too small. The silence too thick. He was caged, restless, filled with something dangerously close to loathing.

He felt like a caged animal, cornered and alone. Nowhere to go. He bared his teeth. Snapped his jaw. Bit. Clawed. Tore. And yet still, she persisted.

The hand that cornered him persisted. And he bit the hand that fed him viciously and repeatedly without repent.

The words left him, sharp as a blade.

“Is this all your life is?” Aemond sneered, and for once he immediately regretted it. The peaceful look on her face was gone, and the cold wall he had grown accustomed to slid into place, “Tending to the weak, the sick, and the worthless?”

His words stung himself.

She did not look up. 

Her voice was flat, unimpressed as she cut through vegetables at the table, “I prefer it to pretending I’m something I’m not.”

Aemond’s teeth clenched. The insult was clear.

"You think you’re better than me?" He spat, he couldn't stop himself, it was like watching himself from the ceiling, "A peasant who hides behind a façade of kindness?"

She exhaled softly—whether in amusement or exasperation, he could not tell.

"Better than a Prince who has nothing left but his pride."

The words struck deeper than they should have.

His fists curled. 

He was still Aemond Targaryen. Still the blood of House Targaryen.

But the worst part?

She wasn’t entirely wrong.

His voice dropped, low and edged with warning, "You think your kindness will change anything? It’s weak. It’s meaningless. You have nothing."

Finally, she met his gaze. Her eyes were cool, unwavering. The wall of ice thick between the both of them.

"It’s more than you’ll ever have."

Aemond inhaled sharply. He wanted to wound her. To find the crack in her armour and cut just as deep. But he knew nothing of her.

Not her age, though he could guess they were roughly the same. 

Not her life. 

Nothing. 

She turned from him, already moving to add the vegetables she had cooked to the pot. Food she would feed to him later.

And Aemond, for the first time, had no choice but to sit in the silence she left behind.

Aemond hated her.

He hated the way she moved through the cottage, unbothered by his presence, as if he were nothing more than another broken thing to mend. Hated the way she never flinched at his words, never cowered when he spat threats like venom. Hated that she did not treat him as a Prince, did not bow her head, did not offer the reverence he was owed by birthright.

She was insufferable. A ghost drifting through the dim light of the fire, tending to her work with quiet hands and steady patience. Always watching him—not with fear, not with admiration, but with that infuriating, unreadable gaze. As if she were waiting. Waiting for him to prove her wrong. As if she knew something he did not. 

It made his skin crawl.

And yet—

His jaw clenched as his eye tracked the subtle grace in her movements, the surety of her fingers as they sliced carrots into chunks, the way the dim candlelight flickered against the smooth curve of her cheek. She never hurried. Never faltered. There was something assured about her, something unshaken. He had seen knights on the battlefield waver more than she did in the face of his anger.

He despised that about her.

But he couldn’t deny there was something compelling about her certainty. The way she met his gaze, unwavering, unafraid. The way she never raised her voice, never allowed his rage to provoke her, as if she had already decided he was not worth the effort. It burned him from the inside out, that quiet dismissal.

And her hands—gods, her hands. He had felt them, too many times now. Pressing against his ribs, cool against his fevered skin, smearing salve over the bruises that littered his body. They were careful, practiced, but firm. They did not hesitate. Even when he had sneered at her, insulted her, she had continued without pause.

The scent of her still clung to him, faint but unmistakable—herbs and something softer beneath, something warm, something that made his pulse press against his throat too tightly.

Aemond’s fingers curled into fists.

He was being ridiculous.

She was nothing. 

She was nothing.

She was a wretched peasant, a woman who knew nothing of war, of power, of the weight of a name like his. She was insignificant, a speck of dust in the grander scheme of things. And yet, here he was, watching her as if she held the answers to questions he refused to ask.

His stomach twisted, a sharp coil of frustration.

He hated her. He loathed her.

And what was worse—what was far worse—was that even now, beneath all that hate, there was something else.

Something he did not have a name for.

Something he would rather burn than acknowledge.

Aemond exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his gaze away.

Yes. He hated her.

And that was all there was to it.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

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[nardo-headcanons]

About Shisui Uchiha

just some shower thoughts i had about him. this is very headcanon heavy and rather vague at times.

tw for talks about suicide, manipulation, trauma, abuse, etc

tagging: @uchihaharlot @pxssy-stuntin-for-itxchi @lalalover33-blog @burning-bubble @naruto-scribblings-j

Unlike Itachi, who was born during the last year of the great Shinobi war, it is safe to say that Shisui was born while it was still going on. So naturally, he was exposed to the worst side humanity had to offer, most likely traumatizing him in the process.

His mother is never mentioned, so I assume she must have died during his birth or in his early childhood. His father, most likely ravaged by illness before he even entered the battlefield, lost his left leg, leaving him with phantom pains and high medical bills. As a born shinobi, Shisui’s father lacked the funds and education to pursue any other path of career, leaving his child as the only breadwinner of his family. Shisui probably had to spend his entire childhood and youth slaving away just to keep his father and himself afloat. Additionally, he took care of a terminally i’ll man who didn’t even remember his son’s name. Of course, this would lead to Shisui being very perceptive of the psychology of the ones around him, how else could he search for a sign of his father’s state health changing?

Shisui often spent time wondering what it’s like to have a family, a family in which he is allowed to be what he is: a child. Someone who is cared for, someone who is looked after. Despite being an Uchiha, his relation to Kagami Uchiha - the Uchiha allied with Tobirama, the very person planting the seed for all the discrimination the Uchiha would face, up to a point of their genocide, would probably lead him to feel ostracized within his own clan. And like everyone of us, he is trying to find the balance between individuality and belonging - the latter being the one he lacked. His abilities as an Uchiha become a defining factor of identity for him, leading to him being willing to let a comrade via withholding aid - just on the basis of that comrade potentially being stronger than him. Once his comrade dies, the young Uchiha is ravaged by feelings of guilt, by the awareness that the blood of his friend is on his hand.

But nevertheless, he is blessed with a new Uchiha ability - the mangekyou sharingan. His entire life he had to enter a role he didn’t want to be in, robbing him of memories he could have had. So what better mangekyou ability to have than the one that alters memories, and, in extension, alters your role in the world?

Shisui’s resentment against his Uchiha identity starts bubbling up inside him again, and being a shinobi who frequents B- or even A-Rank missions as a literal teenager (how else would you pay for your father’s medical debt as a shinobi, eh?) he was closer to the village from the start. Hailed as the strong and talented Uchiha boy, taking on missions to serve his village, behind the facade a broken kid forced to grow up way too quickly. His first serious doubts begin when he is forced to kill Mukai Kohinata, a direct reflection of Shisui, just the other way around: a father wanting nothing but funds to care for his dying child.

Things don’t get better when the tension between the village and the Uchiha rise. His own brethren or the collective - who will you support? Getting into Shisui’s mind and twisting his perception of what’s right is an easy game for Danzo, almost too easy. A civil war breaking out in Konoha would be a repetition of his initial trauma - the one thing Shisui wants to prevent the most. Shisui starts feeling conflicted, until he finally stumbles upon THE miracle solution: forcefully keeping up the status quo by manipulating the leader of the revolution - an unpleasant reality, but better than the Uchiha clan’s extermination or a civil war breaking out, right? To Shisui, atleast. And honestly, who could blame him? As a ninja who graduated young, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he lacks the methodical and critical thinking outside of the parameters of violence and manipulation he is used to from Danzo and the shinobi world.

And then it happens. He agrees to suppress the revolution of his own ethnic group just for the sake of keeping up a false sense of peace, and suddenly, his co conspirators, the man that is supposed to be guarding him, leading him, suddenly abandons him and steals his eye? Shisui’s entire identity as the Uchiha boy from Konoha collapses and he doesn’t know what to think or believe anymore. In his last moments, he becomes aware of the utter pointlessness of the killing and the brutality of the shinobi system, the sheer feeling of powerless overwhelming him. At this point, death seems like a sweeter option than continuing to live powerlessly in such a system.

Shisui is a skilled ninja, but not always in contact with his emotions. Therapy is a rarity in the leaf, with even the counselors themselves not being able to give advise outside of the parameters of what’s “acceptable” in the hidden leaf.

So, what better way to hide your agony than behind a -albeit manufactured- goofy smile?

[blackholesun321]

New One Piece AU dropped focusing around Zoro and Mihawk! You shall be subjected to it.

TW: Long Ask

Okay, so basically, this au has a long title but I dubbed it Child of the Sword. It started off with Zoro being able to see the spirits of the swords since in One Piece, swords are sentient and are possessed in a way. Only Zoro can see these spirits and talks to them all the time. At first, he didn't realize others couldn't see them. My friend and I played around with this a lot, and now's it's developed into a whole thing.

When Kuina died, Zoro's anger and grief erupted and Zoro discovered he was the incarnation of the Ancient Weapon: Ares. Created by the war god Asura. The sensei makes Zoro swear to never use his power in public unless it was life or death. Zoro goes on to see Kuina's spirit tied to Wado Ichimonji. During the shells town arc, Morgan is extra cruel bc he is Morgan, and when Zoro is tied in the courtyard he has the swordsman whipped on the back, marring and littering Zoro's back with scars. Zoro's honor is in shambles when Luffy shows up and helps him. During Baratie, Zoro fights Mihawk and loses, ending up with the scar on his chest. After Zoro promises to never fail, he whipsers "Finally a worthy scar" and Mihawk overhears. Mihawk almost noted how Zoro always seemed to be looking at things that aren't there.

So naturally, the warlord decides to kidnap Zoro instead of Luffy (yes I am mashing up OPLA and the anime, fight me). The Straw hats go on the free Nami from Arlong then make plans to get Zoro back from Mihawk. Zoro is less than pleased to be kidnapped by the strongest swordsman. Mihawk brings Zoro with him to meet with Shanks about Luffy's bounty poster and Shanks convinces Mihawk to give Zoro back to the Straw Hats, but before that happens, Mihawk and Zoro end up talking about Zoro's special abilities. Mihawk comes to the realization of what Zoro is and keeps it to himself.

During the two year time skip, Zoro reunites with Mihawk (even though he never stopped talking with the warlord after being dropped off ((begrudgingly)) at lougetown). Mihawk trains Zoro in the way of the sword AND helps him to realize his full potential.

This is all I have for now, but I have ideas for Dressrosa and Wano. :D

FUCK YEAH ASKS AGAIN! I’ve been ignoring the rest of my wings au ask gotta go finish those up lol just kinda sitting in my drafts. Anyways.

Oh fuck yeah again! I love the guy can see spirits no one else can mixed with reincarnation trope my little Bleach nerd heart is swooning.

But yesss constantly talking to air and technically he doesn’t need to but the swords haven’t told him that because it’s funny. And he’s just this ball of angst plus weirdo probably crazy guy who talks to his swords— so he’d be even more ostracized then in canon yeah the mentality Ill are stigmatized and treated poorly in all universes. Expect he not mentally ill I mean if we don’t count the Kuina trauma ™️ probably which is what gives Ironjaw the gaul and to whip him as well as tie him up to suffer dehydration and probably heat stroke so fun.

Maybe Kuina tags along in the form of wado-ichumongi? Maybe he can talk to her sometimes? Idk I just want him to be constantly fighting and loosing to a preteen girl that lives in his sword, I think that would be funny.

Mihawk please! Mihawk that’s kidnapping! Mihawk you’ve kidnapped a child. Because of course he has and did because Zoro=interesting equals if I leave him alone he could die and with the looks of his crew probably will die. Ugh guess I have to steal him.

You know he shows up at that beach eyeliner on, lip gloss applied and cunting it up to shore and with Zoro trying to stab him every other step. Shanks is very worried and weirded out. But also laughs his ass off because of course this is how Mihawk acquires a kid. But also he’s like Mihawk seriously no bad we don’t kidnap… Whitebeards the exception not the rule!

[salems-lots]

Here's my 8:11 pre-game headcanon/theory timeline, which most of the art i make about the game is based on. Putting it under a cut because it's too long ( tw for canon type stuff, power imbalance, manipulation...)

> Leon and Francis are both at the Basilica, having different roles in the church

> Vitto, Gabriel, Accardi, Susan and Juliek are a close knit friend group

> Dante is a new arrival, but gets to tag along with the friend group occasionally because Vitto takes him along (they go hunting together). He's also very ill, due to a multitude of health problems, but is the sort of stubborn idiot to bear it all alone. His days are already numbered at this point.

> Leon nearly kills Francis during a fight on accident (potentially bc of the bible) and hides him in the catacombs, swearing to fix this.

> He takes up Francis position and also uses it to do a lot of questionable medical shit in an attempt to learn how to fix Francis

> Starts listening to the bible and "follows its commandments"

> Gabriel disappears into the catacombs, and when he comes back, his parents are so disturbed by the changes in their son, they take off without Another word, leaving his former friends to believe he was never found and probably died.

> Leon declares that Dante will be his (Francis) successor because the bible told him that guy is important. As he's the newest addition to the basilica and literally just 19, people get very distrustful of the situation and start suspecting Dante of just being Leon's little pet.

> The isolation and rumors lead to Francis!Leon being the only person Dante can confide in, which in turn makes the rumors worse. Dante becomes completely emotionally dependent on Leon, and things escalate from there. Vitto literally stops him in the halls to tell him he knows what he's doing and it's disgusting.

> Leon opens the doors of the basilica to everyone in need. The place becomes crowded but that makes it even easier to cover up his medical malpractice on the sick, dying and dead.

> Vitto, trying to escape the filled halls of the basilica, ends up exploring the heart of the catacombs and it drives him just a tad mad.

> Dante has a really bad health scare. Francis does a [Fills Dante with yarn] [Wow isn't spiritual surgery great] because he's hoping to save him, even if not physically, spiritually.

> Dante's health gets even worse, and Vitto is starting to feel the first steps of divine madness, and Leon promises he can fix this (again). In reality, he uses this surgery to try and complete his first one, connecting Dante to heaven, which is the first step of making him into an Angel, while Vitto gets a lobotomy to open his third eye (which does in fact not work).

> Vitto comes out disturbed, but Dante can see angels now. That's Leon's biggest success ever, and he becomes even more attached to Dante. Vitto and Dante slowly get closer again.

> Francis dies while Leon tries to tie him to heaven too. His body cannot handle the pain any longer (and the many additions Leon has sewn on). Leon takes 2 of his fingers so he can carry Francis with him, always. All he's ever done was out of love, but now he can see that he's become a monster because of it. He promises Francis at his grave to be better, to fix all of this.

> Dante, led by divine madness, takes the whole friend gang (because he needs help) to the catacombs to find… something. There they find what is left of Leons experiments to save Francis. Dante finds out that Leon killed Francis and buried him, because he can literally see him there. He doesn't tell the others because he wants to confront Leon alone.

> Everyone is super traumatized.

> Leon runs away because he can't handle any of this (cue him becoming like. An alcoholic) leaving Dante no way to actually confront him

> Leon's absence leaves a big hole in the power structure but also the outside trust in the basilica. Bit by bit, it gets revealed just how many fucked up surgeries have happened here, to the living but also dead and how many corpses can be found in the catacombs.

> Meanwhile, Vittorino and Dante become close again. Dante convides in Vitto what exactly has happened between him and Leon/Francis, but leaves out the fact that he knows that Francis is dead. He wants to take care of this himself. He knows he will be able to (<- divine madness, again)

> Dante, unable to handle the pain and visions any longer, asks Vittorino to kill him, finishing the surgery in a sense. He'll be back. Most of him is dead already anyway, and it's getting very difficult to be both human and already an angel.

> Leon meets Ryker, literal ray of sunshine and regains a bit of faith in the bible. Maybe he can repent by helping one person, and this time he won't fuck it up. Listening to the bible for the first time in ages, if actually agrees with his plan.

> The trauma (and for Vitto, the lobotomy) makes everyone in the Rosso Cadre friendgroup suppress the memories of what exactly happened in the basilica. That whole year barely exists in their minds. No one remembers Dantes face.

> Even if they started to remember these events, Dante would only be Leon's pet, or a patient, or just someone who got pulled into the mess with the catacombs. Not even Vitto can remember his face, and he can probably remember the most.

> Dante, travelling through mirrors, is always on the hunt for Leon. He does not think it's fun and cute that Leon has a new person to take care of, and sees Ryker as potentially in danger (but like. If they're in the way, they need to go too. Stopping Leon is actually more important)

> Gabriel, now a detective, starts slowly uncovering what has happened in his past, with the basilica, with Dante and Leon, before getting his head exploded at the start of the game. This is like his personal silent hill. Might actually be aware of Dante and his goal.

> The game's intro happens.

> Dante actually does not end up feeling better having killed Leon, it didn't resolve anything, and is now searching for him in heaven (because of course this fucker has tied himself to heaven too)

> gets mega distracted because Ryker can't let go of Leon and also has the fucking bible that mortals just can't understand and now he's messing with the goddamn balance of life and death and heaven and earth again.

> Francis is either beetle or the deer, but he's helping his brother because he loves him despite all that has happened. He knows he's not a bad person just….. troubled (and now dead)

> When Dante offers Ryker the knife to skin Leon, it's an attempt to let them know what's happened, and that while Leon is a changed man, sometimes change is not enough. He has to pay for his deeds, and for having turned Dante into what he is now

[caisleanlaider]

Rook Appreciation Post. #1

*Spoilers for Gameplay Below Cut*

Maliah de Riva

Human - Mage - Antivan Crow

Backstory:

Maliah grew up in Treviso on the streets, her parents mere citizens and held no fortune. The home was her mothers, her father was from Fereldan. He didn’t know their customs and he didn't understand much of anything from the north. While Maliah was still young her mother passed away of an unexpected illness, breaking both her and her father. Later on Maliah found they couldn’t afford a doctor and her mother may have survived had their situation been different. Her father took odd jobs to get his small family by but they were heavily labor intensive. On a particularly difficult job he was nearly crushed to death and was nearly made lame. No healer could fix his left leg. It was a miracle he could still walk albeit with a heavy limp.

So Maliah took to the workforce starting honest and clean but soon finding that the shadows favored her better. Never once did she tell her father what she was doing hoping she could help him. She defended herself and stole only what was needed to get by. That is until the day she stole for the wrong man. Viago de Riva, brother to a merchant prince and Antivan Crow Talon. He caught her and pinned her before she could escape him but something in his eye sparked as she tried to fight.

“Thievery is barbaric without propose. Why don’t I show you a better uses for those skills?” And so she became an Antivan Crow of House de Riva. Viago pushed her far more than anyone else, seeing her potential and forcing it to shine. On occasion when she would travel home he would “tag along”. Of course the first time went about as well as you’d expect. Her father was furious but knew he couldn’t stop her. His fereldan stature dwarfed Viagos even with the bum leg. He was still strong enough to pick Viago up by his collar and pin him against a wall but he did nothing except glower at him. Viago though, had surprisingly let him do it too. After a time her father set him down with a bit of care and sighed. He apologized to the man before collapsing in a nearby chair.

After that Viago would “drop in” whenever he was in the neighborhood to see him. They would talk and quip like they were brothers. There were times Viago would even bring a chef so they could eat together like old friends. Her father didn’t have any friends in the north, everyone he knew was in southern Thedas and he would probably never see them again. His accent normally gave that away most days.

This is how things continued for a few years. She was able to take care of her father. She did odd jobs and smaller contracts because Viago could not trust her to be a sound mind. She was good at what she did, but her emotions would get the better of her. As was the case when she jumped the Antaam and freed Varric. This resulted in her immediate layoff from the Crows and how she formally joined Varric’s quest to find Solas.

*Spoilers Below- You’ve been warned.*

Epilogue:

She took the events of the game very hard. Between the siege of Weisshaupt, fighting old Elven gods, choosing to save Treviso instead of Minrathous, and witnessing Harding‘s death, one would say she was a broken person. The burden of leadership was never something she wanted. But she did her best for Varric and she hoped that she made him proud.

When she returned home to Treviso after the defeat of Elgra’nan, she was unable to take contracts for several months. Both due to her injuries and her state of mind. She stayed with her father the entire time and many of the crows would come to visit. Viago and Teia being there nearly every other day. But she wasn’t alone. When she returned home, she brought with her Lucanis Dellamorte, the new First Talon of the Crows. The two were virtually inseparable. 

Over the course of a year, she reestablished herself within the crows and made a name for herself. She was only called Rook by a select few in honor of Varric. She still kept in contact with her friends that she made during her fight with the gods. Some would often see her disappearing through an Elluvion with flowers. Lucanis would be on her heels as he often was. It was no surprise that the two of them ended up married. She was no longer of house, de Riva, but now a part of house, Dellamorte. Much to Viago‘s dismay, there also may have been threats made and knives thrown when this was announced. Viago supported her decision, even if he didn’t publicly say so. Something Viago and her father both shared.

Years later, a new crow would emerge from the Dellamorte ranks. A promising fellow with the name of Álvaro. He was Lucanis’ and Maliah’s son. His stature looked more Fereldan, but his skin was tanned like his father’s. He was an even mix between the two. He had his mom’s blonde hair and freckles, as well as her purple eyes. But his complexion came from his father. Many would argue he looked close to his grandfather in appearance otherwise.

His great grandmother Catarina loved him dearly. And so did his uncle Illario. Viago even tired to make him his protégé like he had Maliah. When his father got older, he was made the successor to House Dellamorte.

Whether or not he took the position was entirely up to him.

I am mainly doing this so my Xbox doesn’t delete my screenshots and so I can remember each of my characters as I play more.

The Epilogues are mainly just the head cannons I have for my character and those they romanced. You’re free to think what you want, this post is just my opinion.

[anzynai]

Hii it's the anon who sent the ask Abt looking other places for fanfic so I found this longfic called Ocean Mist on Wattpad and there's specifically a chapter called "Ticklish", Yuu finds out Azul is ticklish in that one and it's sooo cute(tbh I just loved the whole fic so much flustered Azul <3)

Additionally, on AO3, you may or may not have found these already because they're not tagged but they're tkl fics

Tickle Attack (You notice the octatrio isn't feeling well, cheer-up tickles ensue)

Tsuisorando Shotsu (I'm not sure if I spelled the name right, but there are quite a few tkl fic chapters in there, I think it's best to just select "read entire work" and command-f "tickl" bc that's what I did to avoid anything potentially explicit) But just in case you don't want to come across anything like that, there's the chapter 'Our Lovable Octopus' which might have had one vague explicit implication but I don't think there was anything major and the tickling was wholly sfw

A Fine Line Between - I just liked this fic in general the M isn't for any sexual content, and there's a tkl scene (if you wanna skip to just that part, I'd recommend just clicking read entire work and command-f 'tickl')

Also, I'm not sure if you already know this (probably do, but just in case) there's some fics w/Azul that were made in 2023)

On Wattpad, NGL I just looked up 'twst tickl' and sifted through the stuff I got so sorry that I couldn't rec much stuff, also I saw this one that was a transcript of tkl audios but there was an explicit chapter in there meaning this was probably a kink for them so I clicked out)

Ffn's mostly AO3 cross posting so there isn't anything there you wouldn't find on AO3 (I'm saying this to myself because I was about to check only to realize that everything there's on AO3, sorry)

Tbh I mostly looked for every single fic I could find on AO3 and then ended up also finding sfw tkl scenes in the process (I also command F'd a bunch of longfics) so I can mostly just say specific scenes from certain fics sryyy

Anyways, I hope at least one of these is new to you <3

hello anon! thank you sooo much for these, i already read the first one just now and it was so cute omg and also i thought i was the only one who would search for tickle content by using “tickl” cuz it can be ticklish, tickling, tickle, and litwrally just all that LOL anyways these are very appreciated and if u ever find any more, please dont hesitate to send them my way hehe

im going to link some of the ones from ao3 under the cut

so tickle attack which is by missyliz - which i haven’t read yet! it seems really cute tho!

and uhh i couldnt actyally find the next fic tbh😭😭 i searched high and low but maybe im missing something?? could u possibly provide an author?

a fine line between by kyuubiluver342 - i actually havent reqd this one either but i did skim over it so for others, the scene is near the end of chapter 2 and from what i’ve seen, it’s comfort tickles

and yeah, ffn is something i noticed did have lots of crossposting, but i never really minded because i dont really know how to work the website anyway LOL

also since you shared some, ill share one that i found also!

so the first one is giggles by psycheprincess — this one isnt tickle centric but it does have a small scene

and here’s a SNIPPET of a scene in this azujami one-shot — that is this is me by dizplixity but the wcene is very short so i have a photo below

and im assuming u have read the fics under the tickling tag, but there’s some really cute ones there too! if not, i don’t mind sharing them:)

again, thanks for these recommendations and i really didnt expect them to be centered around the octatrio so it was a nice surprise hehe <33

[ilikemesometaetaes]

Set Me Free (M)

Min Yoongi Oneshot

•••> Author: @ilikemesometaetaes​

•••> Summary: You are just an ordinary woman with a strange aura about you that Yoongi can’t seem to resist- even past the compulsion of his mentor. The question is: why?

•••> Pairing(s): Yoongi/Reader

•••> Requested by @itsgottabeyoo-ngs​��: “Hi daddy, One shot request with vampire Yoongi x brat reader. Bonus points for adding in choking or spitting idk make it filthy k thanks love you byeeeee xoxoxoxox”

•••> Word Count: 10.95k

•••> Rating: 18+

•••> Tags: smut | vampire!au | Yoongi!AU | Vampire’s Mate | Vampire!Yoongi | Human!Reader | Gifted!Reader

•••> Warnings: smut, oral (female receiving), unprotected sex, murder, attempted murder, slight choking/strangulation, dirty talk, biting, blood drinking, spitting, violence, horror, vampire/human relationship, cursing, mental attachment, thirsty Yoongi, Yoongi thinks he’s scary, but he’s totally not

Copyright © 2020 ilikemesometaetaes. All Rights Reserved.

Thank you for the request, babe! This one is a bit to unpack, as you can see. I hope you enjoy :)

~#~

Yoongi never claimed to have his thirst under complete control.

He stands before his brothers once every week for the feed, snarling as he consumes his share of blood, while the others bear witness so as to provide him ceremonial protection- a vampire is very vulnerable while he consumes blood. The polydipsia made one lose all form of reason and sense of mind, driven to the brink of animalistic insanity when it was in the process of mildly quenching the eternal hunger.

Polydipsia, used to describe his level of thirst, was the word made just for him in his own little world.

It wasn’t normal thirst, like a human, but the savage-like impulse to drink and drown until he could swim in a river of blood and take deep lungfuls of the crimson fluid. The impossible desire to consume and be completely consumed by blood until he became it himself always loomed over his mind in his early days as a Deadblood- a vampire youngling- causing him to search for a word that could completely describe his affliction.

Then the Greeks begun transforming their language, perfecting the word that he could use to chronicle his need. He had mulled over the thought throughout the few centuries that the word came into existence, truly connecting with it on a level that was deprived of him when his soul was taken from his body.

But the word was not only used to describe normal thirst; it described the abnormal desire to drink as a symptom of disease- and a disease is what Min Yoongi had.

From the days he explored the lands of Goryeo as a young teenage boy, he knew that disease racked every inch of the world. Street beggars, riddled with sicknesses and incurable illnesses, asked him for coin, food, clothing, and any necessities that could potentially carry them through the night into another sunrise. But the one thing that they begged for the most was water.

Liquid life. Yoongi thinks back on the ironic turn of events and how, even as a privileged boy of nobles, he understood just how desperate a person got when they were deprived of the one, singular fluid that supported life as he knew it.

As Yoongi approached adulthood, he was promoted and bestowed larger honors in the name of the Min clan, allowing him to provide more for the beggars and lower-class individuals that he came across on the streets every day- not that his father would find out.

Until he did.

Yoongi recalls the moment he knew that his father figured out that his son was spoiling the family riches on the lower class. They weren’t sitting down for dinner and having a conversation nor taking a stroll along the river like the two of them normally would- it was quite surprising, really. Yoongi had to applaud his father for the creativity of the circumstance.

He knew that his father figured out his whereabouts when he found himself bleeding out in the middle of the woods with three arrows, adorned with the Min clan crest carved into the wood, sticking out of his chest. He was sent to look for his supposedly lost little sister under the direction that she was probably at a watering hole- which Yoongi had never heard about- about forty-five minutes from the edge of Goryeo’s walls.

Many people ventured outside of the city to fend for food and necessities, or to find civilization elsewhere, so it wasn’t surprising to him that his curious baby sister wanted to see for herself what life was like outside of the city’s limits.

As Yoongi lay dying on the soil of the earth, staring up at the greenery of the trees above while they lightly swayed in the breeze, he realized that everyone, regardless of social-class or physical health, was fighting the same, universal disease: death. No one could escape it and no one was safe. At least, that’s the epiphany he had in an effort to comfort himself while he felt his heart painfully struggle to beat with an arrowhead lodged into it. Copious amounts of blood spurt out with each pulse of his damaged organ.

And then the universe decided to set him free from death with a cure worse than the disease itself.

Yoongi doesn’t remember who his creator was. He doesn’t remember how long he spent on the forest floor with the arrows still in his chest. He doesn’t remember waking up.

His memory of his new life started from the moment his consciousness returned, in the exact second that he found a set of vocal cords clutched in the palm of his hand, dripping with crimson, after apparently ripping them out of a young boy who was actively collapsing in front of him. The boy, who Yoongi immediately recognized from the streets of Goryeo, was choking on his own gore as he clutched at his now nonexistent throat, staring up at his killer with a jumbled expression that silently begged for help yet withdrew from terror.

It took Yoongi five years of trekking everywhere and no where while attempting to control his thirst before he found new meaning. He mostly had a hold on the scorch in his throat by staying away from the city and surrounding villages before he met another and figured out what he became.

The woman- no, girl?- appeared young yet spoke as if she had seen countless winters, the wisdom of a million middays glowing behind her carmine eyes. She was the first person he had met who did not end up dead within the first two minutes of scenting them on the wind.

“You are a vampire. You survive purely on the life essence of others. You are still a young Deadblood. Judging by your age, you should become a Redblood soon.” She sat with her back to him, overlooking the valley below the then-unnamed Odaesan mountain that they sat perched upon. “Do you know who created you?”

“Created me?” He asked. “What do you mean? My parents?”

She turned, her vibrant red eyes continuing to shock him. Did his own orbs look like this?

“I mean, who turned you?” She seemed to look at him incredulously, shocked by his lack of knowledge. “Who gave you their venom- their shi?”

“I…” Yoongi tried very hard to remember anything before the burning sensation that scraped like rocks against the insides of his bones and flesh, but all he could see and feel was fire and agony- and then blood. He couldn’t help but think with a grain of salt, disbelieving of the method in which he was born into his new life. “I don’t know. I just remember from my first kill.”

“Strange.” The other vampire muttered, returning her gaze to the valley. “Strange, indeed.”

Yoongi was always the silent type, only interacting when he needed to as a habit formed to avoid the questioning glare of his father when he returned home late on certain occasions.

But he couldn’t help the burning desire of curiosity within him, a welcome distraction from the need to feed within him. He had so many questions.

“You may ask your questions, Min Yoongi.” The woman sighed, not even bothering to spare him a glance whilst she spoke. The man was shocked to find that she knew his name without him telling her.

“How do you know my name?” The new revelation took precedent in his mind, hoping that she was not an enemy of his clan.

“A valid question.” She mused. “Anticipated, but valid. I suppose I’ll answer your question to the best of my ability.”

Yoongi shifted his position in preparation, a new habit that he formed in his new life. He learned from the first time he moved to stretch that his body did not need to be stretched as it usually did. He never ached, never cramped, never tired, and never lost energy. Despite the lack of his emotions in their usual form, he knew that it should have been unsettling to find such a new change within him, so he did the sensible thing of pretending that he needed to.

He pretended he needed to breathe- after two hours at the bottom of a lake he stumbled upon in his aimless journey, he was amazed to find that he required no oxygen to continue existing- and that he didn’t need to sleep nor use the bathroom. He would practice taking breaths, trying to inhale and exhale evenly without becoming allured to the pungent yet undeniably attractive scent of animal blood so that he could finally smell the forest again. He pretended to go to sleep and wake up with the urge to relieve himself of the noneixstent pressure in his bladder despite not having any of the instincts he once had.

The woman spoke, answering his first question.

“I can hear your thoughts. They’re not necessarily specific, but I can hear when you are wistful- like you are now- or when you are curious or sad or angry. I can hear the causes of these emotions.” She paused. “It comes with the gift of my second life. A form of protection, if you will.”

“Why would I need protection when I am invincible? I’ve seen the things I can do and what my body can endure.” He briefly recalled repeatedly jumping from a cliff, automatically landing on his feet no matter how hard he tried not to. Before, he had a will to survive with a choice of dying, but now? There was no comprehensible choice. “There is nothing that can hurt me.”

Yoongi couldn’t help cocking his head to the side like a confused dog when the woman let out a breathless laugh.

“Because, young one,” She looked at him with her eyes again, a look of mock endearment filling them. “You are not invincible.”

For a moment, Yoongi did not believe her. He believed that the liquid running through his veins was pure ichor, an essence of the gods, but when he returned her look of sincere truth, he understood that dying was still very much possible.

Thanking the gods, Yoongi looked to the ground and began toying with his fingers at his revelation. He could stop murdering people, willing to die in order to do so.

The woman shook her head. “No, Min Yoongi. You do not have to die to stop killing humans. In fact, it is the reason I have not killed you yet. You are unaware of the possibilities.”

His head perked up at the comment, suddenly eager to learn.

“How? How can I live without killing?” All he could see was the young boy that he had murdered in cold blood; the boy’s warm brown eyes staring up at him as he watched the life drain from them burned into his memory- he didn’t even know the boy’s name. The boy could not have been older than his own sister.

“I never told you that you could continue to live without killing. Of course, you have to kill. But you do not have to kill people.” The woman nodded her head down the mount. “Do you smell that? Do you smell the life that lives throughout this mountain?”

Yoongi attempted to focus on his senses but could only feel the thirst once again tormenting his throat. As soon as the woman shifted his attention back to the aroma of life, he salivated. Of course, he smelled the animal’s scents, but he could also detect traces of human life upwind that completely took away his desire for anything but humans.

“Push the thirst aside to open your senses. Embrace them. Embrace your power and your abilities. Focus on those.”

Again, he tried to push the scorch in his throat to the side, only to find that it was an impossible feat seeing as he had not fed in several months. He wanted human blood so badly.

“Poor child. I did not realize how weak you were.” She let a grimace morph her features, the first true expression of genuine emotion that Yoongi had seen on her. “Come sit in front of me. I will help you.”

For a moment, Yoongi hesitated. Was she going to kill him? He was not sure, but after a few more thoughts to himself, he realized that he had nothing to lose. Following her direction obediently, he moved to sit with his legs crossed in front of the woman.

“Now, close your eyes and listen to my voice.” She raised her hands to his head, placing her fingertips on his temples, and began whispering while he let his eyes flutter closed.

He felt as if he was mentally hit by a charging bear.

The woman’s words echoed in his mind, seating themselves amongst every corner and crevice that they could touch before Yoongi could understand what was happening. Shocked by the feeling of being intruded upon, he tried to push back against the mind-numbing force of her words, uncomfortable and feeling violated by the sensation. Instead of stopping them, her voice just broke down his amateur attempt at a mental barrier and pushed its way further into his brain. He was helpless to her superior mental awareness and gift.

“You will not focus on the thirst. You will focus on your abilities. Focus on the blood of animals and the blood of those already dead.”

And Min Yoongi had no option but to obey for he was forced into a dieted life.

But as he stands, thousands of years later, in the middle of your kitchen whilst watching you silently with the inferno of the blazing sun in his esophagus, he couldn’t help the need that overcame him. He could not obey his mentor; miraculously and horrifyingly, the gift of his mentor did not work with you.

He was impelled by his mentor’s gift, effectively removing most of the bloodlust he had for humans. In his lifetime, after the unavoidable command was bestowed upon him, he had only killed a handful of humans when he was consumed by the thirst after living in self-induced exile for so long. But standing before you, he may have needed to add a finger to that handful depending on what you did next.

Yoongi first clocked you on his radar the moment you walked into the small coffee shop he was occupying for the later part of the morning.

Building a friendship with you was quite easy.

You were bright and warm and everything wonderful upon meeting him. Your smile was just shy of naive, yet he couldn’t help the alien tugs on his heart when watching you giggle.

“How old are you, Yoongi?” You asked while circling the straw in your caramel macchiato.

“Old enough.” He chuckled, looking down with what you perceived as shyness.

“Oh?” You laughed with him. “And how old is enough for you?”

“I could ask you the same question. How old do you think I am?” He met your eyes, once again shocking you with their beautifully vibrant shade of brown.

“Well…” You trailed off, studying his facial features closely- the hint of a permanent smile line, fresh haircut, and no wrinkles alluded that he couldn’t be over thirty. “I’m gonna say… twenty-five?”

The man across from you smiled. “Very close. I’m twenty-seven.”

So he wasn’t that much older than you. You could totally do him.

Yoongi noticed the flash of lust that ghosted through your pupils for a split second, recognizing the dilation of them as you glanced at him. He watched you stick your chest out a bit more, begin fiddling with your hair more often, and part your lips while you let the thoughts of sexual satisfaction run across your mind.

“Twenty-seven, huh? That’s not bad at all.” You smiled, letting your tongue lightly swipe along your bottom lip unconsciously.

Yoongi zeroed in on the action with a piercing gaze, watching as the muscle seemed to move in slow motion tauntingly, daring him to dig his fangs into it savagely before tearing it from your mouth to feel the blood pouring from your lips onto his face. 

His body reacted sensibly, blood rushing like fake adrenaline to awaken his better instincts- rushing everywhere- and making his jeans become uncomfortably tight as they restrained his filling manhood. 

Blood drinking was as exciting as it was satisfying for a vampire. An extremely personal and holy moment, consuming lifeblood was the most raw and sexual moment to experience. A vampire could not experience real sexual desire without it.

He dug his fingers into the faux leather of his side of the booth until they broke through the material to restrain himself from attempting to attack you in the middle of the day.

Quickly, gaining his sense of mind once again, he tore more holes into the leather to round out the punctures so that it could appear as if the holes were from wear and tear.

The scent of your blood transpierced by the hormones and adrenaline beginning to flow through your veins made it just that much more implausibly alluring. Yoongi admitted that you were a beautiful and kind woman from the conversation throughout the morning. He also knew that you had a deviant side due to the surprisingly quick appearance of your lust-filled gaze.

Yet he couldn’t help the urge to murder you on the spot.

He knew that he couldn’t touch you. The supernatural safety of the sun that shone on your body prevented him from laying a finger on your skin without his own lighting aflame. He learned the protection of sun rays on humans the hard way.

His fifth human victim, a monk who travelled the heights of Mount Odaesan- Yoongi’s sanctuary and home- for a religious trial, travelled early in the morning as the sun was rising. Yoongi smelt the sweat dripping from the man’s skin instantly. In the small cove he called home, he tried to resist the urge to kill the man for he hadn’t smelt human blood in several years.

His mentor’s words were ever present. ‘Focus on the blood of animals and the blood of those already dead.’

Despite having those words affecting his instincts, Yoongi had managed to convince himself that the monk was a dead man standing once he smelled remnants of a virus tainting his scent, effectively bypassing the impulsion of the woman’s mind control.

Yoongi found himself rushing at the man without a second thought, fangs bared and fingers curled in preparation to tear the man’s limbs from his body. However, before he could get within two feet of the vulnerable monk, he was thrown back by an invisible and boiling hot force that left him screaming in agony and flying through the air.

The monk quickly ran back down the mountain in terror, yet Yoongi could pay no mind as he lay on the forest floor, ready to die once again as his skin singed and fell from his flesh like swamp sludge.

As his throat tore itself raw from his wails of misery, his body writhed in and out on itself in complete and utter anguish. The smell of burnt flesh overwhelmed his nostrils, pungent and nauseating in every possible way. How he was able to focus on something other than the pain was beyond him.

Despite the burning, Yoongi could feel his aflame skin beginning to heal itself. Clawing through the dirt, he felt the blood stored in his stomach rushing through his veins to the broken and severed ones, rebuilding them and recreating the network of arteries necessary to begin restoring his expanse of skin.

Before long, the pain subsided and Yoongi was no longer screaming. The entire ordeal lasted approximately twenty minutes- long enough that Yoongi no longer heard the footsteps of the monk and long enough for him to process the events that had just happened. 

He was thankful that he became a Redblood with the ability to use consumed blood throughout his body, unsure of what would have happened to him if he had been a Deadblood at the time. Deadbloods burned through consumed blood quicker than a spark from a flint could ignite kindling into a flame.

He definitely needed to ask the woman, Zizi, about it. And he definitely needed to track that monk until sundown so that he could get rid of any loose ends.

Yoongi grimaced slightly, remembering the occurrence like it was yesterday, as he sat across from you.

You were still looking down at your cup in blissful unawareness of his inner turmoil and life that he’s lived thus far. You definitely were not dense enough to not notice his gaze on your skin, but you were definitely ignorant of the fact that he was thinking about what would happen if he could just get you to move a few feet to the right to gain cover from the direct line of the sun. He just needed to get you into the shadows.

“Y/N,” He called your name. You instantly looked up in response. “How old are you?”

“Old enough.” You teased him back with his own words. He let a small smile thin his lips before he looked down to hide it. When you followed his gaze and noticed that he didn’t have a drink, you jumped to the opportunity.

“Can I buy you a drink, Min Yoongi?” You asked him.

“Oh, I’m not particularly craving coffee at the moment.” He paused and held his breath, as if trying to find the words to say. “I just like to sit here sometimes and enjoy watching the street.”

“Well,” Ask him! Ask him out! Yes! Do it! Your head screamed at you to be confident. You knew he was the shy type; you would be waiting all day for him to make a move and you just didn’t have the time nor patience for that. “Let me get you a drink at my bar?”

The man looked mildly impressed for a moment. “You own a bar?”

“A small one.” You swiftly added. “It’s not a big popular one or anything but I didn’t want a place too big. I like the smaller things.”

Yoongi couldn’t help but smile. You were a kind and beautiful woman living a simple life. He dreaded the moment that he was going to have to kill you.

“I take it you’re pretty well off then?” He asks. “And please don’t take this as me digging around. I’m just curious.”

“Don’t worry about it. Yeah, actually.” You laughed and sat back in your chair, looking out the window onto the street as people and cars passed by. “I’ve always been pretty lucky for some reason. The gods always seem to be in my favor and give me what I want.”

Yoongi smirked for a moment. If she wants me, she can have me. Then, I’ll have her.

When Yoongi found himself in the prime position to attack you in your kitchen, several weeks later, he knew. He finally had you where he wanted you.

A handful of dates that he found quite pleasant were all it took. 

You turned out to be just what he thought- a strangely attractive and alluring woman, the scent of your blood aside. You exhumed an odd magnetism about you that Yoongi had never felt from a human. He regretted the decision of waiting so long to kill you seeing as he was considering letting you live. But he knew that he couldn’t do that.

With your back turned to him, busying yourself with dinner, he could easily snap your neck so that you wouldn’t scream and struggle- and you would be dead almost instantly. A quick and nearly painless death was what you deserved. He didn’t want you to suffer at all.

However, just as he crouched in preparation to lunge at you, you spoke.

“Are you ready for dinner, babe?” You asked him.

He smiled devilishly, venom filling his mouth as he salivated. “Yes, I am. I’m starving.”

You chuckled. “Okay.”

“Go and sit down at the table.”

It was the most simple of commands. Telling Yoongi to sit down wasn’t an order. You weren’t demanding him to do it. You never demanded anything of him. It was a mere suggestion in your eyes.

Yet Yoongi felt his body moving to the dinner table without a second thought, unable to resist obeying your words.

What in the everliving fuck.

He sat quickly, impotent to move from his spot while he waited for you to bring the food from the counter. His thirst obliterated his throat, causing it to seize up and restrict any air that he could previously breathe, but he sat in wonder as you seemed to hold power over him that he had never felt before.

You turned with both of your dinner plates in hand and he quickly smothered the panic on his face, wondering what in the world had just happened.

“I’m not at all a chef, but you better eat everything.” Yoongi tested your words, seeing if the inclination to finish your food was present, only to find a slight mental nudge- as he expected. You didn’t tell him to do anything; you merely made an ‘or else’ statement.

No longer desperate to kill you for the time being, Yoongi sat still and waited for your next words. Once you sat the plate in front of him, you uttered a joke.

“Dig in.”

And dig in Yoongi did. He picked up his fork and scooped into the pasta you made without any willingness to deny you.

The pasta wasn’t fantastic in any sort of the word- It was plain, although it could be due to the fact that it wasn’t at all what he truly craved and needed. It was like eating a piece of stale bread while he was offered a perfectly cooked and outright juicy steak on a silver platter. The food that he ate wouldn’t be consumed by his body and used for nutrients; the shi in his stomach would burn it to nothingness within the next few hours.

Uncontrollably, Yoongi shoved mouthful after mouthful into his mouth- he couldn’t stop. Once he finished chewing one bite, his hand was immediately bringing him another, and then another. Despite lacking the need to breathe, Yoongi felt himself suffocating with each bite as the realization that he could do nothing except eat his food settled in his mind.

“I see you were hungry.” You laughed, unaware of his predicament. Yoongi’s eyes shot up to yours and silently hoped you would give him another command so that he could stop the foolishness.

You, however, just sat there feeling sort of proud of yourself- not only for making an edible meal, but for making one Yoongi seemed to enjoy. Even though it was slightly shocking to see him out of his usually cool character, acting like a man suffering from hunger, you couldn’t help but find it undeniably cute.

Eating slowly while watching him, you let your feelings for him come to the surface.

Yoongi was utterly beautiful. His black hair that fell over his face while he was cleaning up the last bits of his plate was just long enough to cover his eyes, yet as he looked at you without reservation, you felt he had a clear line of sight straight into your soul.

His skin was nearly flawless save for the light and narrow scar that cut into his right eye. Others found the scar intimidating and ugly, but you found it rather attractive. Yoongi, with his uncanny physical allure, was undeniably the most beautiful man you had ever seen.

Your body was alight with joy and content. In the few weeks that you got to know him, liking him was incredibly easy and having him in your home, in a domestic setting, lit your heart on fire with the possibility of falling in love with him.

He was incredibly easy to love, you discovered. Everything about him begged you to fall for him. As if the universe created him just for you, Min Yoongi was the epitome of perfection- in your eyes, anyway.

Briefly, you had shown a photo of him to your mother. She became unsettled instantly by his appearance.

“He’s so pale. And a little scary-looking.” She squinted at the photo you took of him when he wasn’t looking. You never brought him up again to your mother, disliking the fact that she didn’t like your potential boyfriend and found him scary.

The picture just happened to be your favorite- being because he didn’t like pictures and it was the only one you had of him.

He kindly asked you to not take photos of him. When you prompted him as to why during one of your more intimate moments at your bar, he only answered playfully as he held you close to him, lips begging for you to kiss them.

“Because I don’t want to leave evidence.” He whispered, breath tickling your nose. His body was warm and sturdy, muscles rippling under your touch as you clung to his shoulders.

“Evidence from what?” You asked breathily. The heat in your panties had increased tenfold over the last few minutes as his eyes grew hungrier with want. Yoongi’s fingers dug into your waist painfully, pulling you so close that you barely had room to expand your lungs to breathe, yet you couldn’t help the edgy feeling of how rough he could be with you.

“From when I eat you up.”

Thinking back on the memory, you shivered involuntarily, hoping that tonight might be the night you actually get to have him. He’d made you wait for a little over a month and you had no idea why. You definitely felt him straining through his pants a few times. But no kisses or anything further than the pressing of your bodies was accomplished.

Yoongi finished his plate and sat upright briskly, pulling you from your wishful thinking with a jump.

“Y/N,” He nearly growled, shocking you. “What else do you want me to do?”

The fork you were holding clattered to your plate instantly. Wow. He’s sizzling hot.

“I-“ You stuttered a bit. “I- uh.”

“Spit it out.” He hissed. You jumped again, trying to find the words to say with the heat growing in your panties.

Quickly, you answered him. “I want you to take me to my bedroom.”

“Thank god.” He groaned, getting up slowly with a smirk on his face. “Is that just a request? Because I can walk out now if you don’t actually want this.”

“Take me to my bedroom, Yoongi.” You stood slowly, carefully, as if you were afraid to trigger him.

Yoongi pushed in his chair and moved towards you at a speed that was almost inhuman. You yelped in astonishment as Yoongi attempted to control himself- he couldn’t bring you to your bedroom at his natural speed or else he would have a very motion-sick human to worry about. Instead, he trembled with the effort to resist your command at full force, knowing that the only way it was possible was due to the fact that he was still, in fact, taking you to your bedroom.

Picking you up was easier than breathing. You weighed absolutely nothing in his arms because of his advanced strength, so when he felt you trying to assist him in carrying you by holding your body stiffly, he huffed out a laugh whilst he walked.

“Relax, woman. You are as light as a feather.”

You blushed under his words, leaning into his chest to hide your cheeks.

“Stop that.” He growled, entering your bedroom. You looked up at him and he couldn’t tear his eyes from the blood that rushed to your cheeks. “I can’t resist if you do that.”

“Then don’t.” You whispered. Your heart pounded in your chest, begging him to hear it. “Don’t resist.”

His fangs came forth immediately, for he could not resist your command while he flew to your bed to throw you down. Despite your unknowing of what you were telling him to do, he fostered no opposition to what he was about to do.

The roughness of his throw startled you for a moment as you looked up at his vastly approaching figure, only to grow terrified when you caught sight of his face.

The veins protruding out of his temples and cheeks pumped blood straight into the whites of his eyes, turning them completely bloodshot, as they framed the now-crimson irises. Long incisors protruded from his mouth as he opened it with a hiss, revealing the way his human teeth shifted apart to allow his inhuman ones to break through the gums. Instantly, you parted your lips to scream.

Yoongi was upon you instantly, hand covering your mouth and silencing your cry while he snarled menacingly, yet he couldn’t help but feel remorse for killing you.

“I’m sorry.” He whimpered through his animalistic demeanor. “I can’t stop.”

You were screaming below his hand and, instantaneously, he had an idea.

He was leaning forward slowly, able to slow himself in the process of not resisting you. “Y/N,” He strained, changing the frequency of his talent, and waited for you to silence yourself in order to listen to him. He took his hand off of your mouth slowly after he heard your heart calm itself past your weeping. “Tell me to stop.”

“Stop!” You sobbed whilst clawing at his chest and kicking at his legs. “Don’t kill me!”

Not a second passed before Yoongi flew off of you, throwing his back to your wall with a loud thud while he cursed lowly.

You scrambled to the headboard of your bed, pressing your back against it in an attempt to gain some distance between the two of you. Your eyes were wide, chest heaving with your breath short, as you looked at the man in front of you.

“I-“ Yoongi stuttered for the first time in decades. “I’m sorry.”

“Your eyes!” Your burst out. You were unable to contain your fear and shock, so you displaced it into your curiosity. “Y-your- Your face! Your teeth!”

Yoongi stood against the wall, breathing just as hard as you, with his eyes cast to the floor in the process of trying to control his facial features. He could no longer kill you. The thought revolted him- every time he considered drinking your blood, the idea was banished from his mind with a sense of nausea following. Good god. She is unaware of her ability yet I am completely at her mercy.

“I apologize. I couldn’t help myself.” He breathed. What Yoongi forgot to take into account was the fact that he began implementing the gift of his second life on you the moment he stepped foot through your threshold, so your mind was completely scrambled by this point.

It was nighttime now; he could not leave your house no matter how hard he tried. He knew of the fallacy that vampires needed to be invited in and he found himself giggling from time to time at how close humans got to the actual lore of his kind.

He could enter your house, uninvited, during the day. He could lurk every corner of your abode without a bother, yet when night fell and the sun finally set, he would be stuck inside until morning. He knew he would be staying the night in your house the moment he agreed to have dinner with you. If he attempted to enter through your door during the night, however, he would have no luck- the night’s protection would convince his brain to walk away from your home without any further reconsideration until he was a good distance from it.

He was in the first position now.

He wished that he could leave you and disappear from your life without a trace so that you could live a peaceful and happy life without him, but he was afraid that it was impossible now with sundown a mere two hours prior. Your powers were no match for the natural protection of the earth. The both of you had a long night ahead of yourselves.

So he used his ability. Yoongi gave you control- rational thought, rather. His gift allowed him to grant organization of the mind and precise focus to others, but he could also take it away.

Upon entering your home, he began the process of slowly but surely ebbing away your barriers and logical thought- he couldn’t do it too fast or else you would panic like you were now. With a presently impossible-to-kill human whose heart was beating out of her chest and a command to not kill you forcing him into submission, he was obligated to prevent you from having a heart attack that was caused by him.

With laser-like focus, he channeled his gift straight into your open mind. Yoongi rebuilt the walls he had previously broken down over the past few hours, restocked your jumbled thoughts into their proper spaces, and flowed his energy through each corridor of judicious conception so that you could continue to develop your focus into that of supernatural proportion. He hoped that you, with a new mind, would tell him to get away from you and to kill himself. Dying by the hands of such a robust ability wouldn’t be too bad of a way to go.

You, however, never had such a decisive mind. Your mind was never clearer and you had never felt such clarity in your thoughts before. It allowed you to feel the magnetism that he radiated.

You knew he was a vampire. You don’t remember how you knew or how you recognized it, but you knew that he was not the first of his kind you had come across. Maybe it was the obvious fangs that gave it away.

“Yoongi,” You whispered. “You’re a vampire.”

His eyes, now back to their normal gorgeously coffee-bean shade, flicked up to yours in surprise.

“You know what I am?” He spluttered, flabbergasted. “You don’t think I’m a demon? Or the devil?”

“I’m not stupid. I know a vampire when I see one.” Your tone did not waver nor shake despite being a potential victim to a vampire. Was it the adrenaline?

“Then you know that I am a danger to you.” He said lowly, shock still evident on his face, while he began gravitating towards your bedroom door to leave.

“No. Stay.” You found yourself pining for his presence while he froze up in his spot. You eyed the action analytically. “If you were a danger to me, I wouldn’t be alive right now. You had plenty opportunity to kill me.”

“That’s the thing,” His hands pressed to the wall and scratched into it with the effort to move further from you. “I don’t have much of a choice anymore.”

“And why is that?” You relaxed your body and slowly slid your way across the bed towards him.

“Because I can’t.” Yoongi actually gasped for air as you stood from your bed to slowly approach him. “Y/N. Don’t come near me.”

“Why don’t you have a choice?” You ignored his warning, fully aware of the risk you were taking yet uncaring of the consequences. You were too focused on the fact that you actually wanted him.

Yoongi could not move from his spot, a side effect of your command to stay, but he refused to meet your eyes. The irresistible scent of your blood clashing with the order to not kill you fucked with his mind in ways he never experienced, creating an excruciatingly splitting headache between his temples. He wanted to drink from you so bad yet he could not move a single muscle.

“You can tell me to do anything. You can tell me to stay away from you. You can tell me to leave you alone. Hell, you can tell me to kill myself and I’d do it.” He ground out, attempting to press his back further into the wall as he felt your body heat against his skin. You came too close. He could smell your hormones lacing through your blood, triggering a wash of his shi over his dry tongue and a yearning to tear you apart overriding his senses.

He wanted to sink his fangs into your flesh so badly that he was beginning to scare himself. Allowing his venom to seep into your system would undoubtedly send you into ecstasy; you would only feel a pinch of pain as his saliva instantly burned through your nerves and set them alight. He could kill you while you were in pleasure; you wouldn’t feel anything but bliss as he drained the life from you.

“And why do you, a powerful creature such as yourself, allow me to have this power over you?” You asked. Was he in love with you? You definitely could love the man with how much you felt drawn to him but, for crying out loud, it had only been a few weeks.

“I don’t allow it. You are a gifted human. You possess this power over me.” Although Yoongi enjoyed having a calm conversation with you, he couldn’t help but feel bad that he used his gift on you. It was almost an unfair playing card- a “get-out-of-jail” card.

Because you should be running, terrified and screaming, even with his ability active in your mind. Maybe he had used it too much? Yoongi recalled the one time he went overboard with his gift, driving a man to suicide as he focused too much on the meaning of life and the regretful things he had done. Immediately concerned, Yoongi reached out a mental tether- a rare talent amongst his kind- to gauge your stability.

What he found, instead, was a dark and curling line attaching to his, pulling it in as quickly as Yoongi offered it. Before he could reel back away from it, it was fully intertwined and pulling his line to attach to you, only to rear back and completely obliterate his senses when it entered his head.

No. No no no. It’s impossible.

Yoongi was moving forward and caging you against the bed at full speed before he could stop himself, nestling his body between your eagerly opening legs as a hiss escaped his lips. Immediately, he realized that he broke through your command unwavered. The thirst came back at full force when you moaned from the friction on your heat.

“You’re-“ He tested the sensation of true, sexual arousal with a slow grind of himself into you, gasping with a jerk of his dick when his action squeezed his member between his body and yours. “You’re my-“

You moaned again, sitting up slightly to try and capture his lips with your own, unable to control the desire that surmounted in your heart. When he resumed his look of shock, backing away from your advance so that he could look at where your bodies touched, you spoke through the heady emotion. “I’m your what?”

“It can’t be.” He whispered. After a single beat, he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours with a crushing pressure that split your lip instantly.

The pain seared across your bottom lip and distracted you for a moment, emitting a groan deep in your throat that he matched when the taste of your blood exploded onto his tastebuds. Instead of swallowing it like he wanted to, he brought a hand to your chin and opened your lips to spit your blood, along with his venom, back into your mouth so that it would take your pain away.

For a moment, you held the mix of liquids on your tongue, unsure of what to do as no one had ever spit in your mouth before. You looked up to him with confusion extremely evident in your arched brows.

“Swallow it.” He growled.

The taste of iron and an almost sugary sweet tang of saliva was too strong for you to keep sitting on your tongue, so you did as he told you to before he kissed you again to repeat the same action. Slowly, you got into the rhythm of swallowing what he gave you.

Before long, he simply gave you his tongue, allowing you to suck the saliva from his mouth greedily. You didn’t understand why, but the taste was addicting and adding to the pulsing feeling that radiated between your legs. Were you getting lightheaded? No. This sensation was much more blissful and exciting.

He pulled away after sucking on your wounded lip once more, spitting the mixture into your awaiting mouth for a final time before sitting up to look down at your body.

His venom was already taking effect. He could smell it on your skin as it flowed through your veins and filled your system just like a virus would. It would be simple to turn you at this point. You would be his for eternity, bonded to him in ways only the Fated One of a vampire would. Yoongi shook the thought from his head as he wasn’t even sure that you were, indeed, his.

“What am I to you?” You asked genuinely, swollen lip slightly obstructing your speech.

“Don’t worry about that right now, Y/N. Right now, I am going to fuck you, okay?” He met your gaze with his dark eyes filled with confidence, knowing that you would be unable to deny him if his belief was true.

“Yes. Yes, please Yoongi.” You breathed, begging him almost drunkenly. “Please. I’m yours.”

His mind was nudged forward by a different force this time, warranting unknown instincts to play into action.

He felt his center of gravity shift. His skin grew tight and uncomfortable around his body from the emotion that wished to burst through the surface. He breathed with you. Perfectly aligned were your rhythms; his heart soared alongside your own galloping one, desperate to match you in every aspect. The sensations in his body were difficult to ignore as he felt the ancient and sacred pull of a bond lacing itself through his limbs.

Instead of pondering over the reality of it any further, he slid his hand from your chin to your shirt and pinched the fabric between his fingers. You nodded in reassurance.

Your clothes tore form your body like paper. Wrapping his fingers around your arm to keep your body in place, Yoongi ripped your thin blouse from you easily. Your breasts, made plump by the bra you wore, caught his attention the moment they were revealed. Perfect.

Instead of looking like a moron seeing exquisite breasts for the first time, he moved his hand to your dress pants so that he could rid your body of them. In under ten seconds, Yoongi had you almost bare below him. Perfect.

Not even realizing it until you brought your thumb to his lips to swipe his shi from the corner of his mouth, Yoongi shook his head at the fact that the sight of you wriggling and bare-skinned beneath him made him literally drool, but his instincts went haywire when he watched you place your thumb in your mouth to suck his venom off yourself with a low moan of appreciation at the taste.

Yoongi’s hands couldn’t move faster as he tore the clothes from his body, stripping himself bare to reveal himself to you. He wanted to give you everything. To open his mind and spread everything out for you to see- he hoped you could handle it.

You, on the other hand, were laying below him with the desperate need to have him inside you.

You wanted him everywhere. You wanted him to sink himself into you- it seemed to be the only fathomable option. You wanted him to hold you and kiss you and surround you with everything him.

As you stared up at him with a needy look in your eyes, you couldn’t help but want him in every facet possible.

You saw yourself making love to him, holding him, kissing him- loving him. The new sensation brought on you by the psychic connection- that was all you could call it when you felt the mental attachment- brung passionate emotions through your body in an onslaught that you could barely handle. It was too much to deal with without him inside you to be with you through it yet you didn’t know if you could handle what would follow.

Yoongi could smell you through your panties; a delicious scent of the most raw tease he had ever allowed himself to indulge in. Unable to help himself, he moved down your body quickly, throwing your legs open- rather roughly- to give himself room to press his nose straight into your heat. Your aroma filled his nose as he expanded his lungs, triggering his natural instincts to push out his fangs and load his vision with blood to enhance it despite his eyes being closed. Fuck, he wanted to consume you.

You keened at the contact, closing your thighs around his head to trap him there. You felt his groan vibrate on you, driving you closer to the brink of insanity.

Without any further time wasted, he grabbed onto your panties and ripped them from you to expose your pulsating pussy to his mouth without moving his nose away from your intoxicating scent. Not a beat passed before he dug his tongue into you to scoop up your DNA-laced juices. Fuck.

Yoongi lost himself in you immediately. You whined out a small cry, unable to keep yourself from grabbing onto his hair and yanking when all you felt were his lips and tongue laving over your opening relentlessly. There was no skill nor technique in his movements; he was simply devouring you without a mind to pay attention to your bundle, yet you couldn’t stop the sensitivity from boggling your mind and driving you to an instant orgasm.

His hands squeezed your thighs around his head and, for a brief moment, he opened his eyes to look at you. The color of his eyes staring back at you was unexpected- a solid, snow white color filled his orbs and contrasted starkly with the red hue of his engorged veins and bloodshot scleras.

“Yoongi,” You whimpered from another swipe of his tongue and suck from his lips. “Y-Your eyes.”

He pulled away from you instantly at the comment, eyes widening and wet mouth hanging agape, while you let out a groan of relief- or sadness- at the lack of attention to your incredibly sensitive core.

“What color are they?” He asked.

“White.” You struggled to speak, voice cracking under the post-orgasm glow.

He took a moment to look down at your heaving body and messy pussy, jerking forward slightly at the sight of your delicious juice smeared all over your thighs. Once he had a handle on his thirst again, Yoongi met your eyes as the white faded from his irises. “Then you are her.”

“I’m who?” You reached for him, needing to hold him anywhere you could get your hands on. Yoongi caught this action immediately, the same desire to grasp you evident in his hand rushing to meet yours. It was natural to intertwine your fingers while he leaned over you to press his lips to yours in a short, uncharacteristically loving kiss.

“You are my Fated One- my mate. You hold my soul in the palm of your hand, as I do yours.” He murmured, feathering his lips over yours as he spoke.

Under normal circumstances, you don’t think you’d be able to comprehend his words with your current position with him. You were exposed to him and he was exposed to you, making you feel vulnerable and turned on beyond belief. Yoongi was reaching behind you to unclasp your bra while you took in what he had said. His thumb was brushing over your bare nipple before your bra even hit the floor.

“So-” You had to clear your throat again. “So you’re mine? Like, completely?”

He chuckled warmly at your question and you couldn’t stop yourself from reciprocating the smile.

“Yes, Y/N, I am yours.” He brought his hand down to grip your thigh and move it to the side. “I belong to you.”

Yoongi placed his dick against your folds and you watched him so do. You felt his tip capture onto your clit several times as he lathered it with your arousal languidly, preparing himself so that he could slide into you easier. “However,”

“However?” You looked up at him with a questioning look accentuated by your eyebrows.

“You are also mine.” Yoongi stopped his movement so that the head of his cock finally caught onto your opening, kickstarting your heart into a pace that you were afraid would kill you. “Do you understand that?”

He didn’t wait for you to answer.

Torturously, he began to push inside you. You widened your legs to accompany his approaching hips. As you warbled out a cry when he decided to drop his control and fill you completely in the next second, Yoongi began speaking again.

“Do you understand that everything about you,” He reared back and pushed inside you again, forcing your legs open to take him while he did so. “-is mine?”

You couldn’t respond. Your emotions were running rampant with your mind overflowing from too much stimuli while he fucked you. He spoke again without your reply and you could only pull him closer to you and take the feeling of his cock caressing your insides.

“Your lips,” Thrust. “your eyes,” Thrust. “your hair, your hands, your skin;” He punctuated each part of your body with a ram of his dick into you. “Everything, Y/N.”

Yoongi took a moment to look down at your joining bodies, smirking softly at the sight of how easily he slid inside. “-Especially this greedy little cunt of yours.”

You watched his smirk drop while he bit his lip and ground himself into you, lips parting again with a low moan whilst keeping his gaze transfixed on the sinful sight. You watched him in awe as his cock plunged so deep that it felt like it was in your throat.

He snapped his eyes to yours quickly, repeating his prior question. “Do you understand?”

Expecting to be interrupted by a thrust, you sucked your bottom lip in your mouth and braced yourself, only to be grabbed by the neck while he leaned down to bring you face-to-face. You could no longer breathe as he pulled his lips back to reveal his fangs. “I asked you if you understood, Y/N.”

With your airway restricted, you could only nod with your lip still stuck between your teeth. Did you taste blood? Promptly, you remembered that Yoongi busted your lip, yet you were confused as to why you hadn’t felt the pain of it since he first kissed you.

“And are you okay with that?” Yoongi began to nose his way down your neck once he turned your head to the side and slowed the rhythm of his hips. Right before you could answer, he released your neck to look at your face, allowing a large rush of air to enter your lungs just as you were attempting to give him an answer.

“Yes!” You released your lip to scream out at the welcome sensation of oxygen and the feel of his dick pushing it right back out of you. “I’m yours! Everything is yours!”

“Good, my love. Good.” He whispered, smiling down at you. His smile was wiped clean off his face in a heartbeat, his thrusts into you completely ceased, as he zeroed in on your lips. You licked them subconsciously, immediately tasting blood and internally cringing at the flavor of iron coating your tongue.

Yoongi attached his lips around your bottom one quickly and you felt him suck it into his mouth. Your walls squeezed tightly around his at the sensation of his tongue swiping over the spli in your engorged lip again and again. You knew that your lip would be swollen yet you couldn’t find yourself to care because it, surprisingly, didn’t hurt at all. The small bits of Yoongi’s saliva that slipped into your mouth were enough to keep you on edge, tasting like raw sugar at that point.

He began moving inside you again, starting a slow and steady pace. You whimpered into his mouth as he began taking his fill of your blood and you mirrored his thirst with the need to taste his mouth again. Your lips pressed closer to his in order to, hopefully, get a bit more of his spit.

You felt your orgasm building laggardly. It was creeping in at a speed that you were able to prepare yourself for your ascent towards ecstasy. You tightened your legs around his waist and dug your heels into the globes of his ass, pulling him in.

It wasn’t until you were bordering on your climax that Yoongi pulled away from your lip with your pop and sat up to focus on fucking you, his peace of mind obviously waning.

You saw it in his face; you saw the way he couldn’t control his veins from darkening his face; you saw the way his eyes burned white and the way he was attempting to hold himself back from attacking you.

So you did him a favor.

“Yoongi.” You mumbled past your swollen lip. “Bite me.”

Min Yoongi had no option but to obey your command.

He surged forward, pressing himself against your clit deliciously and bottoming out as he lunged for your neck with his fangs fully protruded and a warbled hiss scratching its way out of his throat. With barely enough time to prepare, you bared your neck to him once more and clutched onto his arms for dear life, hoping it wouldn’t hurt too bad.

What you weren’t expecting was for it to feel unreservedly good.

The sensation took you by surprise, warranting a loud moan to escape from your lips before you could stop it. Why did his fangs feel so good in your flesh? It should definitely be hurting. But all you could do was moan and whine like a madwoman as you felt his lips close over the puncture wounds and begin to drink your blood straight from your flesh. His tongue continuously swiped over the teeth marks in your neck, keeping them clear from your body’s natural ability to scar itself and begin blocking the escaping blood. Every lick he delivered sent a pulse straight to your clit and an automatic instinct to tighten yourself around him.

Your pussy quivered around him uncontrollably. You were so close to cumming that you could practically taste the release on your tongue. In the few moments that Yoongi took his sips from your body, his slow propulsions forward into you had become more rough and insistent- as if he was trying to split you in two. Even as you felt your life essence leave your body, you were being filled time and time again by his cock at a deep and passionate rhythm.

At the first sign of getting lightheaded from blood loss, you came- hard.

Your juices squirted around him every time he reared himself back and your eyes rolled to the back of your head while you craned your neck back into your very-bloody pillow. With no where to go, unable to still him with his supernatural strength, you were only able scream out his name.

His speed increased through your orgasm and your sweet exclamations of pure bliss drove Yoongi into a lunatic, freeing himself of control and using his uncanny speed to fuck into you. Your extremely drenched pussy, still convulsing around him was battered and raw, yet he could not find it in himself to care as he desperately surged into you over and over again so that he could fill you with the cum of several centuries. Picturing the image of your cunt spewing his release from it had him closing his jaws and pulling on your wounds harder to get more blood from you.

He knew that he couldn’t drain you. Hearing the pulse of your heart weaken slightly was enough to make him detach his teeth and lick over your wound so that his shi could assist it in healing- it would be completely sealed and unblemished in the next few hours. Instead of worrying too much about your neck, he reared back to look down at you again while he grabbed onto your hips with fervor.

You saw the drops of blood running down from Yoongi’s mouth and chin drip onto your breasts and stomach, creating an erotic and utterly unwholesome image of carnage and horror on your body, but you were unable to help yourself in feeling unsettlingly drawn to the wicked image. With a new flash of desire exploding through your body and reawakening your lust, you reached up and grabbed his neck, pulling him back down to trap him in your embrace.

The oversensitivity of your last orgasm was enough to send you hurtling to the edge of another orgasm- You just needed his fangs in you one more time. Silently begging for it, you kept your grip on his nape and softly nudged him back in the direction of your neck.

Yoongi was close. You could tell. But even past his stupor, he spoke.

“Y/N. I can’t. I took too much.” He almost whined with need, struggling to form words past his fangs.

“Just-“ Your body jolted wildly as he desperately tried to cum. “Just do it!”

Yoongi was able to deny your command, which he figured was due to not being a specific one, yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave it unanswered as his body built in preparation to release.

“I fucking can’t!” He was close to roaring at this point, gums aching to meet your flesh as he pressed his fangs into you and filled you with his essence. He wanted to so badly.

“Drink from me, dammit!” Your eyes were welling with tears of frustration, needing that small push from him to make you orgasm again- his dick hammering your cervix was too much to handle without that small bit of pain to ground you. And without hesitation nor the choice to deny you, he did.

Your orgasms were perfectly in sync as he placed his fangs back into your wounds, delicious blood spilling across his tongue once again. Liquid life. It was the perfect few words for how you tasted.

Your pussy ached with the force of how tight you squeezed around him and Yoongi groaned lowly against your neck as he pressed himself so tightly to you that you knew his hands would be leaving bruises on your hips and ass.

“Yoongi.” You sobbed as his cum filled you, pulsing spurt after warm spurt of the hot liquid onto your abused cervix. The thought of him taking your blood while he gave you his cum was too sinful for you to bear, an outburst of emotion causing you to chant his name over and over again. Never before in your life had you felt so complete and free.

You could feel your blood levels draining as you slowly came down from your climax, knowing that you would not be awake for much longer if he kept drinking.

“That’s enough.” You whispered tiredly, head becoming truly lightheaded. Yoongi, unable to rescind his teeth from your neck, kept drinking from you as the thirst and aggression of the first mating actuated his movements. “Yoongi.”

He tried to pull away- he really did- but the feeling of your blood coating his tastebuds was like finding a quarry in the middle of the Sahara Desert. He lacked the true thirst for humans for thousands of years- and now he was suffering the polydipsia for blood all over again.

“Yoongi, stop.” You commanded, testing your supposed ‘power.’

Yoongi ceased to drink from you yet his fangs were still embedded in your skin, vibrating with pleasure and need. As he stopped, he couldn’t help but whine and then growl savagely with want. The vibration of of his throaty sound in your flesh did things to your body. Unable to resist the temptation, your body clenched involuntarily around his softening cock.

Yoongi groaned again, retracting his fangs and face from your neck, and sat up once more to look at your body. With a slow hand, he stuck out his index and middle finger to smear the droplets of blood on your stomach in small circles aimlessly, picturing you as a canvas made just for him to ruin. “You’re quite the minx, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?” You giggled deliriously, needing sleep as soon as possible.

“I mean,” Yoongi reached down to smear a droplet of blood across your hip before digging his thumb and fingers into the bone and the flesh of your ass harshly. “Your cunt is playing games with me right now.”

“How so?” You tilted your head to the side in mock confusion.

The vampire pressed his lips into a thin line and sighed almost disdainfully. You gasped as you felt his dick jerk within you, filling to stiffness once more and awakening a new cloud of lust despite the exhaustion you felt. “Well, if you want to play clueless, you can play clueless. We have eternity to teach you how to not play games with me, my mate.”

For eternity? You kind of liked the sound of that.

~#~

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[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 3

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

Winter soldiers on, the cold and occasional snow giving way to the promise of spring. Her birthday comes and goes, celebrated at her mother’s with her family as it had been before there was someone else to lay claim to her time on special days. The vacant spaces in her apartment that had been occupied by Ethan’s books and clothes, his toiletries, and VHS collection, begin to be filled by evidence of her new, single life. Her solitary toothbrush in the cup by the sink starts to look normal, the indent on her finger where his ring lived begins to fade, and the silence she arrives home to at the end of her workday becomes mundane instead of painful. Though this change was initiated and welcomed by her, change is always hard. She goes through the motions of being okay until one day in early April, she realizes that she is. The budding crocuses bring with them the optimism of a new life, another chance. A third chance, as it were, to get it right. Now she only has to figure out what right is.

Though they’ve always been close, she and Missy become even closer, taking up the space in each other’s lives that would otherwise be consumed by boyfriends or lovers. They are each other’s better half, sharing the minutiae of their workdays and staying available for unexpected illness or the need to move heavy furniture. While every human needs other humans to thrive, the Scully sisters fill that need with each other, shunning the idea of casual dating simply for the sake of companionship. There is no companion more perfect than the one who has known you since before you could understand the need for such a partner in life, and who is by your side not out of obligation, but because their soul is stitched so firmly to your own. They have always pledged their dedication to each other through thick and thin, and the new year of 1997 proves that to be a sincere promise on both their parts.

As such, they sit at their favorite local coffee shop on Sunday afternoon when Missy finally dares to ask her sister the question she’s avoided for the past four months. Not because she was afraid of her reaction, but because she knew Dana wasn’t ready to talk about it.

“Have you heard from Mulder at all?” she asks so casually that Dana flicks her eyes up and stares in disbelief, not sure that she heard her right.

“What?” Dana asks, her heart having lept for one single beat at the mention of his name.

“Mulder. Have you had any contact with him, or seen him?” Missy is misleadingly casual, acting as though this is not a question she’s been waiting months to ask.

“No,” Dana says flatly, her eyes dropping down to her coffee cup. “I wouldn’t expect to.”

“Does he know that you and Ethan split?” Missy asks next, her feet folded underneath her in the oversized armchair.

“I don’t see how he would,” Dana posits.

“Have you considered reaching out to him?” Missy tries, watching her sister for signs that she is going to shut the conversation down.

Dana shakes her head glumly. “After what I put him through, I’m sure I’m the last person he wants to hear from. That was nearly nine months ago, he’s probably long since moved on.”

“Have you? Moved on?”

Dana pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I don’t know how to answer that. What does it mean, to move on?”

“Do you still think about him?” No assertions, just gentle questions, leading her sister to the conclusion she knows she needs to come to.

Dana nods softly. “All the time. Every day.”

“Then I think your answer would be no. You should contact him, Dana. It feels like unfinished business.” Missy has a thing about unfinished business. She believes it prevents you from achieving your full potential in life.

“Missy...what would I even say? ‘Sorry I broke your heart, good news is it didn’t even work out so it was all for nothing’? I don’t want to cause him more pain than I already have.” Her tone is resigned and defeated. Another regret she will come to live with, pinned to her lapel with a collection of other mistakes that she can never quite atone for.

Missy shrugs. “You know what I think. The rest is up to you.”

Missy is right. The trouble is, she doesn't trust herself to make these decisions anymore. She’s proven to herself that she doesn’t know how to make the right one.

———

“Excuse me,” a rough, nasally voice calls from behind her. She turns to see a red nosed young man in the doorway of the pathologist’s office, slumped against the doorframe with watery eyes. “I’m here to pick up an autopsy report, for, um...I think it’s Richards or something.”

Scully has worked with this courier before, and compared to his typical demeanor it’s easy to tell that he’s unwell.

“Are you alright?” she asks as she uses her feet to push her rolling chair over to the file cabinet, retrieving the report in question.

“Uh, not really, no. But if I call out sick one more time I’m gonna get canned.” He leans his head against the cool metal of the doorframe. She suspects he’s feverish.

“You don’t look well enough to work. Where is this headed?” she asks, still holding the file in her hand.

The young man blows out a stream of air and she holds her breath for a moment, not wanting to inhale whatever he’s infected with. He pulls a slip of paper from his pocket. “Hoover Building, Behavioral Science Unit. Agent Kissop.” He stuffs the paper back in his pocket and looks around, taking refuge in the extra chair near the end of her desk.

She feels a little flutter in her belly; what are the odds?

“I’ll tell you what,” she begins, “I was just about to head out for the day and I live in Georgetown, so I’m going that way anyway. Can I drop this off for you? You don’t look well enough to drive and I’d hate to see you on the news in the morning if you cause an accident.”

He sighs deeply, the biggest display of excitement he can muster. “Are you sure? I’d really appreciate it,” he says, his eyelids barely maintaining half-mast.

“No problem at all,” she replies, gathering her coat and purse. “You get home and take some Tylenol, okay? And get some rest.”

He nods weakly and she leaves him there, climbing into her car with the file and a pounding heart. She can’t help but feel like this is a sign. She’s been thinking about signs a lot lately, and she’s recently resolved to start paying attention to them.

———

Mulder stands beside the copy machine, doing his Wednesday afternoon ritual of fighting with the toner cartridge and cursing profusely. From around the corner, he can hear AD Kirkbride drumming up his own song of profanity, which is more of a daily ritual than a weekly one.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Kirkbride is shouting. “Now that dipshit is conning goddamn doctors into doing his pathetic job?”

Another much softer voice answers him, but Mulder can’t quite make out the words. He moves closer to the open door, bored enough to bother eavesdropping and seeing which of his colleagues is going to get their ass handed to them today.

“Yeah, I’m sure he is sick, that fucking lowlife. He’s sick every fucking week, it’s always something with him!”

“Sir, I don’t know what the history is between you and the courier,” answers the other voice, and it’s familiar in a way that makes him stop in his tracks, his stomach clutching in a mix of nervousness and excitement. “Can you direct me to Agent Kissop, please? Then I’ll be on my way and you can work it out with the courier service.”

It’s Scully. It’s her, he’s sure. He’s been dreaming of that voice for months, the soft sibilant S’s and the way her plush lips rest against her adorable overbite. Without thinking, he enters Kirkbride’s office and sees her standing in front of his desk with a file in her hand and an exasperated look on her face.

“Scully?” he asks, and she turns to him. Her hair is a bit longer, now just past her shoulders, and she’s wearing black slacks and a white blouse. She’s as beautiful as ever, maybe even more than he remembered. She doesn’t look all that surprised to see him. If anything, she looks relieved. Emotion boils up in his chest immediately and he feels his throat constrict.

“You know her?” Kirkbride asks, gesturing to Scully, and Mulder nods. “Great, then show her where Kissop sits so I can call the fucking courier service and tell them to fire that lazy asshat before I strangle him.”

Scully walks towards him and he turns wordlessly to show her out of Kirkbride’s office and down the hall to where Kissop sits. His heart is beating slowly but firmly, his pulse resounding in his ears. What is she doing here? Did she come here to see him? And if so, why? When they arrive at Kissop’s desk, Scully hands her the file and they exchange words that Mulder doesn’t bother to listen to. Then Scully looks at him hesitantly and slowly turns to walk away, towards the exit. He feels suspended, unsure if he can believe his own eyes that she is really here, and entirely conflicted over what to do about it if she is. He’s spent nine months trying to forget her, but she’s as real and alive as ever, standing before him. His self-protective instinct says to let her go, but his heart says to run after her.

“Quit standing here like a dumbass and go talk to her,” Kissop orders him, clearly picking up on some tension though she doesn’t have the faintest idea what’s causing it.

Shaken from his daze, Mulder follows Scully into the hallway.

“Scully,” he calls out, and she stops walking but doesn’t turn around. When he catches up to her, he touches her shoulder and she turns to face him with wet eyes.

They stand there for a moment, looking at one another, an expectant feeling hanging over them. He wants to touch her, to feel the press of her body against his again, but he doesn’t dare. That would seem like a relapse, of sorts.

“Would you have coffee with me?” she finally speaks, her voice small and unsure. It’s an invitation she is not at all confident he will accept.

“Okay,” he answers, and they walk out of the building side by side, silently.

They seem to understand without saying so that Mulder will lead them to where they ought to go, which is a little cafe called Burial Grounds just a block from the front doors of the Hoover Building. They stand in line stoically, tension crackling between them like static as they order something that will occupy their hands and give them a safe place to avert their eyes while they talk. They sit at a small table near the door and wait, glimpsing at each other’s faces and then away, summoning courage. Because this was at Scully’s invitation, it seems like she should have the floor.

“Ethan and I aren’t together anymore,” she finally blurts out, and his first instinct is to look at her hand, which is indeed bare of any jewelry. Next he looks at her face, considering her expression and whether she takes this to be good news or bad. She looks pained, but not about what she’s just said. She’s had this look on her face since he first spotted her in Kirkbride’s office. He’s unsure if he should be offering congratulations or condolences, and irritated that he’s being put in the position to figure it out, so he says nothing.

“I’m sure that I’m just about the last person you want to see,” she continues, her ocean irises tracing the logo printed on her cup. It wasn’t a question, but if it were he’d tell her that she’s the only person he wants to see, the only one he ever thinks about. The reason he can’t sleep and, when he does, the only thing he dreams about. “If it’s okay, there are some things I’d like to say to you. I understand if you don’t want to hear them.”

She flicks her eyes up to meet his for a moment and he nods softly, keeping his expression neutral. She returns her gaze to the skull and crossbones bearing the name of the coffee shop.

“I have always believed that life is about making the right choices. That we are presented with an ongoing series of options, opportunities and situations, and that we are tasked with determining the right choice that will put us on the path towards the best possible life. But as of late,” she pauses to take a sip of her coffee, stealing a glance at him before she continues, “I’ve come to believe that there is actually only one choice. One path we’re supposed to be on, and there are signs along the way to pay attention to. The choices might not always make sense at the time, but in the grand scheme of things, they are the ones you need to make in order to have the best possible life. Or the right life, the one you’re supposed to have.”

She pauses and slides her hand across the table, covering his with her own. The soft warmth of her skin electrifies him a little, sending a flush to his belly. She brings her eyes up to meet his, her brows knit with emotion as her chin gently puckers. She’s so beautiful it physically hurts.

“I ignored the signs,” she says tightly. “I made the wrong choice, Mulder. I thought I was doing the right thing, the best thing, but I was wrong. I’m so sorry that I hurt you.”

He feels his chest tighten, a telltale precursor to tears, and he looks away from her. Why is she doing this? To make herself feel better? She pulls her hand back and sniffs, then stands and slings her purse over her shoulder.

“Thank you for having coffee with me,” she says, and then he watches her leave. He sits there, staring at the pink lipstick that stains the rim of her cup, wishing she’d given him some more time to absorb it all. Wishing she’d never made the wrong choice.

[danwhobrowses]

One Piece Chapter 1023 - Initial Thoughts

15 Minutes is on the clock

Onigashima reaches the mainland and the fights continue on. Including the Wings of the King vs the Disasters of the Beast

Without further ado, let's get into it

Spoilers for Chapter 1023, Support the Official Release too

Vivi cover page is nice, proper Disney Princess action with Karoo being jealous birb again, but now I have worries because last we heard something went down with Alabasta...all those post-Reverie questions

Back to where we left off with the boys being back in town

Miyagi can you not ominously foreshadow Zoro's future pain please?

Kawamatsu's here to save Zoro from interference, and Hyou's telling the Yakuza not to get in the way of this fight

Marco though is a pensive Pineapple, taking a good long look at King as he recalls Whitebeard telling him about King's race living on the Red Line before the world nobles, Void Century and before stuff

Mention of Gods does fuel one of my old post fan theories, but also fuels that the WG kicked King's race out of the Red Line

Izo though out here saving Marco from being an easy target, tbh Marineford did show he was prone to a surprise attack

Asking Izo if they believe in God though in a raid that may lead to their deaths is kinda irreverent right now though huh?

Queen back to hyping themselves up though

Hm? Is there a limitation to Sanji's raid suit? Sanji's saying he feels weird

Zoro wasting no time to banter with it though, saving Sanji from King as Sanji returns the favour with Queen

Queen does make a valid point though, as much as Sanji expresses that he is unenhanced by Germa he can also set himself on fire, I do wonder if it is just part of that enhancement in there that he expresses as his 'fiery hot passion'

Lunarian though, that must be King's species' name: moon people again I bet which feeds my fan theories

Also since we mentioned Germa again what happened to them? Jimbei made it out after all and I wanna see me some alive and well Baeju

I would issue doubt on Queen's claim that their enhancements are beyond Vegapunk's, given how little we know of Vegapunk after all

King's got a special sword too, it can change its edge to be teethy which he used to ensnare Zoro's swords

Wado saves Zoro's face from eating King's spiked fist though

King does make a fair point though, traditional weapons are romanticized but a fight's about getting every advantage you can, Zoro at least respects that since King never claimed to be a Swordsman, while also reminding King that he could be a feral bastard too

Kinda gave me mini Mr. 1 fight vibes there

Oh here we go, potential Zoro lineage time

Kawamatsu and Hyou muse over how Zoro was like Ushimaru when he was young, even down to his style (though that could be more Shimotsuki Koushiro's doing since he's Zoro's master)

Also Ushimaru was Ryuma's direct descendant, which means that 1. Ryuma banged, 2. Swordsmanship runs in the blood and 3. Ryuma banged

Also Ryuma also had the one eye, and it does seem pretty mythical that a swordsman of similar skill and stature returns Shusui back to Wano (even though this should mean that Shusui would be Zoro's birthright and he was kinda forced into relinquishing it)

Also worth reminding that Kozaburo was Kuina's grandpa so there may only be loose relations if Zoro is a Shimotsuki too, we don't exactly know how Kozaburo and Ushimaru are related if it's by blood or clan, plus I still wonder about Tashigi

Over to Jack vs Inu though, and Jack's hybrid form is just...weird

I did not need to see an Elephant head with abs you know Oda!

Both are pretty tired, as Jack mocks Inu saying he has forgiven Zou for the Raizo stuff, since he already destroyed most of it

Inu though with the shoulder toss, reminding Jack that they had to make these sacrifices to get to here

But we're getting the epic speech, and the hole in the roof caused by Ashura's sacrifice is changing Inu back into Su Long

Same thing is happening with Neko, turning Su Long in front of Carrot and Wanda (who I guess are covering from the moon) as he stares down Perospero

And I'm glad Neko's pointing out that Pedro's sacrifice is valid. I truthfully always felt a bit iffy about people saying that Carrot's desire to avenge Pedro was ill-found because 'Pedro killed himself'. Had Pedro not sacrificed himself then Brook and Chopper would've been dead by candy and Big Mom would've obliterated the rest on the ship

Raizo and Megaforehead though prelude with the mention of maturity, that everyone - even the Akazaya - needed time to mature into who they wanted to be

Down to the surface though and the Heart Pirates are on high alert/panic, they think Kaido's here

But it's Momo, and he looks magnificent

Shinobu's aged him up to 28, the age he'd be had he not been leapt through time, but now she's upset he looks like Kaido

There's new fire in Momo's eyes though, the return ascent begins!

Can you feel that? It feels like the last stretch before the ultimate battle of Wano

Sanji and Zoro vs King and Queen hopefully will remain a tag bout, but I am curious as to King's abilities and what's affecting Sanji in terms of the raid suit. It's not bad to have a limitation but this is the first we've heard of it after seeing him use it 4 times. I don't hate Zoro being a Shimotsuki, though I do feel like we could've built to this, plus we're still lacking in the how.

One wonders what role Marco will now play, and whether Tiny Tiny Chopper is due to recover. We haven't heard from the others for a bit, nor CP0 nor Yamato. Our Pineapple does have unfinished business with Edward Weevil tbf so he could make it out, Izo may be a variable in that, they've yet to learn of Kiku's fate.

Also we never did see who that mystery person was did we? Still could be Hiyori

Marco's musing about gods does feel like we're gonna get more about King, and more lore of the world that Robin will love to soak up like a sponge, Oda have been leaving these seeds since Skypeia, and where there are Gods, there are Devils.

We are however getting major death flags from the minks, one last turn to Su Long to enable their efforts. I like how Ashura's sacrifice is not in vain because of this though, it makes me wonder if there's a slither of hope for Kin and Kiku. If anything though the minks will die from exhaustion rather than being defeated, Su Long eats away at you after all, it's probably gonna be traumatizing for Carrot a little but I hope we see some resolve out of her more like when she was in Zou and WCI, I still want her for Nakama.

And then the final coup de grace, giant dragon Momo, it's one hell of a panel and it means we're bringing Luffy back into the fight. But the extent of Momo's ripening is only in body remember, in mind he's still young. But now we have the setup for the final fight between Luffy and Kaido, I'll expect in that time we'll have to try and finish off everything else with the Akazaya, reconvening the Straw Hats, King, Queen, Big Mom, Kid, Law, Killer, Hawkins, Apoo and Drake.

Act's not over yet, less than 15 minutes until Onigashima Falls.

[cubedmango]

can you tell us mmore about the childhood friends au, please? it look so cute and has so much angst potential with the events of dgs 1 and 2.

yeah sure thing!! i'll take this ask to discuss the childhood timeline a bit then hehe (this one's also under the cut bc long™)

so it starts off w ryuu and asougi first meeting at a festival when they're young (based on that one concept art!) where they get lost in the crowd and end up both waiting for their parents

asougi was tagging along with genshin as a one last outing with him before his exchange trip

while they wait they get talking a bit (mostly just asougi gushing abt his dad) and after a while their parents find them and take em home

ryuu thinks he probably won't get to meet asougi again (for reasons) buuut that ends up not being the case since they both enroll in the same school

so they hang out and years pass until asougi gets the news from london, and it gets worse from there w him losing both his parents, ryuu ends up being basically his only emotional support at that point

when asougi gets taken in by yuujin, ryuu actually tags along and gets to meet susato, and thats where the babie defense trio shenanigans begin

then asougi gets that letter, and that basically worsens his attitude a Lot and he rlly doesn't feel like he can trust anyone (especially after what yuujin told him)

so uh . smth smth asoryuu fight drama stuff . i am working on it i swear-

but basically it ends in asougi finally telling ryuu about the letter, and ryuu promising him that he'll help him find the truth

ryuu encourages asougi to talk to yuujin about the letter too, so he does and get a tiny little bit of the truth for once (ofc yuujin doesn't go into any details but he admits that his father didn't die from illness)

from then onwards asougi's basically rlly Rlly motivated to go to london anyhow and find out what happened, and ryuu, and later susato, try to help him make a plan

in the meantime asougi also starts getting into law and defending as canon, there's wholesome moments of him practicing his "objection!"s with susato somewhere in there

an opportunity to visit london ends up presenting itself at university as canon and it's.......... not exactly the greatest option, but asougi feels like he has no other choice so he agrees to the mission

he never tells ryuu or susato about how he actually got into the exchange program, so they both think it's a legit thing

aaand from there it sticks to canon basically, with ryuu and susato trying to find information on genshin’s death and not getting anything, and ryuu taking up asougi’s place as the defense attorney for the exchange

post dgs2-3 stuff is gonna be different tho for which i have Plans

[theunconcernedembalmer]

Toko! I was thinking of creating an ask the character blog for IDV or Genshin Impact and wanted a few tips on how to start off. Anything you can share?

ey yo my dude!! thank you so much for this question, now im lowkey tempted (again) to make a genshin ask blog sjadhlkshgkahshglsaj anyway my 1.5 cents is under the cut, yall know how much i talk here HAHAHAHAH

uhhhhhh so i guess we start with picking a character u really Vibe with tm? I KNOW THIS SOUNDS LIKE COMMON SENSE BUT LIKE ive been considering making a genshin ask blog for a while now but i never really got to it cos i couldnt really decide on a character (plus the fact that their outfits are. so intricate. is also a hmm since i try to follow details to a t) (at first i wanted to do zhongli, but i feel like to be able to muse him well u need to know the lore super super well, which i dont n im too lazy to research on that aha. n u know how much i respect characterizations, especially for such a complex character like him. i also considered xiangling for a period of time mostly for guoba but also like i have 2+1 blogs here n having one more might not be a very good idea aha) (as for aesop he was my Hyperfixation Character tm also cos i looked at his kit n went Yep i could work with this. probably)

so assuming ur not a dumbass like me n u kinda know who u wanna pick, id actually say to snoop around here for other ask blogs n kinda get a feel of the... scene? is that the word? or like u know, other blogs that u can potentially vibe with. ive run a couple of ask blogs before this current one (both that have died for different reasons) n from my experience interacting with other blogs (if theyre okay with it, i think most should be) is pretty fun. it also kinda helps get ur blog around to other ppl on other blogs so they can go Oh whats this cool shit n check u out, n its also a reason why we kinda reblog promo posts for other blogs (also cos we’re always excited when someone new comes on, its really the more the merrier. we see all :eyes:). interacting with other blogs is also an option when ur inbox is looking real roomy too

another reason why i havent exactly done a genshin blog is that idk i cant actually seem to find genshin ask blogs around (i have seen rp blogs, or those that answer asks with mostly text instead of art, but thats. not my thing since i hate my own writing aha) (i did find one aether blog some time ago, but for some reason i hardly see them around anymore??? idk man i might be wrong). its not like im trying super hard to find them ask blogs, so im sure they exist out there (hopefully?? im not sure but im being optimistic). i mean theres nothing wrong with just starting an ask blog without others around, but for me i do find a difference when i interact with other ask blogs n when i dont, n i prefer when theres others to have fun with (unfortunately i couldnt find any ask blogs to interact with in my previous fandom. i tried, but the blogs i approached seemed to go inactive shortly afterwards...) plus u get to meet friends that way too :D (i made a lot of friends via idv askblogs n its really been a joy vibing with others)

as for the idv scene. gestures around me. unfortunately there are a lot of ask blogs that arent that active anymore, but theres still some of us who are alive n kicking empty inboxes, n im sure everyone would love to see a new face around. winks at u. also there seems to be a lot more blogs popping up lately, which is really heartening to see.

then u kinda just. make ur blog? n a starting introduction post so ppl can reblog it n spread the word XD n yay u have a blog i guess??? XD

i gotta say tho. dont expect ur blog to take off immediately (especially for smaller fandoms like idv, tvbh i didnt think my blog would even get half this far when i started cos of how non existent idv tumblr seemed to be) n ur inbox will probably be looking pretty empty a lot of the time (or at least filled with some that u havent quite thought of how to reply to yet aha) (but also like empty inboxes happen pretty often, im sure most of us here have experienced this problem)

in the case of the first ask blog i ever started, it never really took off at all. ngl it was kind of demoralizing n depressing but to be fair i had picked one of the more obscure characters in the series, so obscure that many ppl in the fandom would have never heard of this character before. if u wanted to know, i took a character that only appeared in the 2nd musical of the series, who also made a very brief cameo in the manga to acknowledge his existence within that universe. thats how obscure my character was, but i went with him purely because he was my favourite character. i will say though i did enjoy it while it lasted n i learnt a lot from the experience, n i think thats whats important really.

i guess this kinda leads on (not really but let me digress) to the whole uhhhh thing where if u choose a more popular character, u get more attention. which is fine i guess? if u really vibe with the character, i mean theyre popular for a reason. n choosing a more popular fandom (like genshin) would objectively also get u more viewers n numbers. but like honestly i believe that ask blogs are meant for u to have fun with, n like trying to get popular gets tiring pretty fast (this shouldnt be like a main goal, but u know sometimes u subconsciously also want that gucci follower count n bomb ass notes or something. i used to be guilty of this until i realized it isnt worth it) especially if ur not enjoying yourself in the process. (case in point: my previous fandom was considerably larger n my blog got about 700 followers within a year or so, but it got very tiring n stressful to maintain after my interest in it died, n no one was really interacting with the blog even though i tried which kinda made it even more depressing despite the so called success n popularity of the blog)

anyway on a less serious note, theres a lot of fun stuff u can do with the ask blog, like some ask blogs have really fancy tags that i really like n try to do but also like not really HAHAHAHA. i kinda just channel what i want to see in an ask blog into my own ask blogs (good art is one, i try very hard for it to be good :,DD another is characterization, n others is just extra miscellaneous arts n stuffs like au ideas or memes. these are also somethings u could work on during ask box downtimes perhaps)

uhhh another side thing is like a posting schedule i guess? like ppl would be more likely to interact (i think) if ur blog is relatively active, n this is usually determined by the last post u made (i think XD). but like generally for blog maintenence id say try to kinda find a frequency that ur comfortable with?? cos i know my once a day posting is kinda insane if i wasnt so hyperfixated on all of this n fight the urge to dump all ur replies when u finish them XD (though ive seen some blogs do that n they do it pretty frequently so its pretty nice to know once u see their post u can spend some time going through the latest batch of posts XD) the queue function is pretty useful here even though i truthfully have never really used it, i kinda just post from my drafts really but it also helps to space out ur content to seem somewhat active especially when u dont have the time to be working on replies sometimes. i hope u know what im trying to say here aha

ANYWAY that was like my 1.5 cents cos i dont even think its worth 2 cents HAHAHAHAH these are just my thoughts from running all my blogs up till now, some that are still running n the others that have just died a natural death. i wouldnt actually delete them (theyre still around actually XD) cos theyre kinda like archives n i can look back at what i did last time. cos ngl i made some high quality stuff back then, n i dont even know how i managed to do that aldhflhdsgk. also ppl do look at archive blogs every now n then for the content thats there yknow

BUT YES anyway if u do decide to join the idv ask blogs hmu, ill be sure to give u a lil shoutout here. winks

[hansols-yoda-boxers]

Kitten Ears - Part 1

Joshua x Cat Hybrid Female!Reader

Word Count: 2935

Contents: hybrid au, reader in heat, lots of awkwardness, sensitive ears, clit stimulation

Tag List: @skjdln, @funinfundamental, @kwanismsworld, @taikalinna, @svt-mangos, @strawberry-artini, @lovesickmark, @cliffordmonarchy, @skylions-den, @karenbcy, @jisooderulo, @sleepy-star-boy, @brokenheartloving, @sno-leopards, @livorna

Note: From here on out the series is smut (except for the epilogue). Thank you all for support and love so far. Also please message me if you change your url so I can update it for the tag list.

Your nose always twitched when you were waking up. You took in the way Wonwoo smelled, his breathing was still deep and even so he was probably sleeping. He smelled so much stronger but all you wanted to do was get closer.

You shifted closer under the covers. You wanted to press your face into his neck and take in his intoxicating scent. The way the sheets felt shifting over your skin made your breath hitch. Your skin was sensitive and the sheets felt cool and comforting. You let out a small whimper at the feeling as you glanced at Wonwoo, your gaze drifting to his hands. Your mind started to wander to thoughts of him playing with your hair and trailing along your skin.

Your drowsy brain caught up a few seconds later and you let out a yelp as you pushed yourself back so hard you fell off the bed. Wonwoo stirred and mumbled something but you were barely paying attention. You rushed out of the room as he slowly sat up. You passed Mingyu in the kitchen but ran past before he could ask you anything, zipping through the living room and into your bedroom before locking the door behind you.

You sat panting on the other side of the door and you heard footsteps approach.

“Are you okay?” came Wonwoo’s gruff morning voice.

“Did something happen?” Mingyu added.

“I-I’m fine!” you called back, panicked. “Just not f-feeling well!”

You weren’t sure if you really convinced them but they did leave and you let out a sigh of relief. Of course your heat would start now. In all fairness you knew it had to be soon. They were usually every three months or so, at least for you. And it would explain why you were so whiny and emotional the last few days. You just hoped Mingyu and Wonwoo didn’t figure it out. You might be fine if you could just hide out and tell no one. You knew they said they were willing to help but how would you even ask for that? You knew if you spent too much time with any of them you would be tempted, you’d need relief. Even now you could barely get the day dreams of Wonwoo’s touch out of your head.

This was gonna be a long three weeks.

---

The first day was always the easiest. You knew that and still the first day had been rough. It was difficult staying locked in your room, especially when Joshua came knocking to see if you were okay. You could smell him from under the door and it made you whimper quietly, wanting nothing more than to touch him. You had spent the minute talking to him pressing your thighs together and trying not to whimper as you told him you just wanted to be alone. You snuck out in the middle of the night for food and otherwise stayed in your room.

Yesterday and today hadn’t been any better. Each day your heat got worse. You fever got higher, your sense of smell got stronger, and your skin got more sensitive. Each day Joshua checked on you and it was getting harder and harder to turn him away when he told you if you needed anything, anything at all, he’d help. Your mind was swimming with ideas that would have made your face flush if your skin wasn’t already so hot..

By now you were beyond discomfort and verging on pain. You wanted to cry from how badly you needed something, anything. You had never been very successful on your own and this heat was so much worse than any of the ones previous. You weren’t entirely sure why that was but you were beginning to wonder if you could make it to the end of the three weeks if the whole thing was going to feel like this.

At this point though, you absolutely needed a shower. You were hot and sweaty and as much as you didn't want to leave your room midday you couldn’t wait any longer. You held out until you couldn’t hear or smell anyone close by before slipping into the bathroom. It wasn’t the total relief you needed, but the cool water running over your hot skin helped a little. You felt a little better as you washed away the sweat and put on a t-shirt and thin shorts. It was a little cool for that but you were too warm to care and you knew your body would heat back up sooner or later.

You narrowed your eyes as your nose twitched, your hand halfway to the doorknob.

Joshua was definitely waiting outside.

You let out a hiss and plopped yourself down on the toilet lid, hoping he’d leave. Maybe he thought you were in your room, he hadn’t checked up on you yet today so it could be. You played with your fingers ideally, trying to suppress any thoughts of Joshua’s until he spoke.

“I’m not leaving until you come out.”

You gritted your teeth, ignoring him.

“I know you’re in heat and I’m not letting you suffer.” His voice was stern but still laced with concern. Between his tone and his scent your resolve was cracking far more quickly than you wanted. “I need to check your fever and if you don’t come out I’m coming in there.”

You felt the heat rising in your cheeks. You were starting to feel childish and you knew you should let him get whatever he wanted to do out of the way so you could get back to your room. You slowly opened the door and dropped your head at the look of disapproval on his face, taking in the sight of the bag in his hands and the thermometer held between his fingers.

He called your name and you looked at him, only barely meeting his eyes. He held out a thermometer and you felt your face heating more as you took it and stuck it under your tongue. He pressed the back of his hand to your forehead and sighed.

“You feel really hot,” he frowned. “You’re going to start feeling sick.”

You let out a huff, knowing he was right. You knew you’d feel ill if you ignored it but you were currently being humiliated so really, six of one, half dozen of the other.

The thermometer beeped and he pulled it from your mouth quickly. You barely had the time to react as he read it and scowled, before quickly grabbing your arm and dragging you into your room. You yelped and whimpered as he closed the door and made you sit next to him on the bed. You quickly pulled your knees to your chest and scowled.

“Alright, I already know you don’t want to talk about this or think about it but you’re worrying me. You have a bad fever, worse than they said is normal. You’re hiding in here away from everyone and I’m not even sure if you’re eating. And you’re shaking.” He gave you a very sincere look. “I don’t want to sit out there for three weeks without even offering to help.”

You watched him carefully. At this point it was almost stupid to deny you wanted him. Your brain was clouding with ideas and this was exactly why you wanted them all to stay away from you. Being this close to him was torture. He kept offering to help and that was sounding more tempting by the second as you gripped your legs tightly, but some small part of your brain reminded you that you didn’t think you could ever talk to him again if he saw you like that.

“I… I don’t need…” you trailed off, not sure what to do.

“Look, I know that an orgasm can break the fever,” you swore you noticed a slight pink tint his cheeks as he said that. “And I know you probably didn’t want them to tell me but the shelter did say you don’t have any previous experience-”

You groaned and hid your face. “Did you tell the whole house?”

“I mean… I thought it was important that the-”

“Joshua,” you whined. That small part of your brain was right, this was too embarrassing.

“I know that it might be awkward so I did think ahead and… uh, got you some things…”

You peeked at him. He was now clearly blushing as he opened the bag he’d brought in with him. Your eyes widened as you took in what he’d bought. Three brand new vibrators were now sitting on your bed and you were sure your face had never been hotter..

You still cursed yourself for not being able to tear your eyes away from Joshua’s fingers.

“I mean I figured you p-probably wouldn’t have any b-but that way if you really don’t want help from anyone you can handle it more easily on your own.”

You bit your lip, looking at him slowly. The whole idea was just too overwhelming. You had no clue where to start. Or, you knew in theory but in practice?

Joshua seemed to be watching you hopefully at first, but the longer you looked between the different vibrators, your eyes darting quickly to his hands and then his eyes, he started to piece together the reason for your apprehension.

“You don’t know how to use these, do you?”

“Of course I do!” you said indignantly. “I-In theory. B-But…”

He sighed, deflating a bit. “I… Okay.” You gasped as you felt his fingers on your chin, turning your face up to look at him. “You don’t look good and I know enough about this to know you shouldn’t just let it go. So do you want help?”

“W-What would, I-I mean w-what would t-that-”

“Do you want me to make you cum?”

Your nails were digging into your skin as your mind quickly processed his words. It wasn’t like you didn’t know what he’d been offering all this time but it felt different to have him state it so bluntly. His fingers on your chin felt nearly heavenly and it was just a light touch. His smell was intoxicating and the longer you breathed it in the more you wanted to pull him in and kiss his plush lips. Your need was outweighing any potential embarrassment, and besides, he was offering.

“Please,” you breathed. He moved closer to you and started to lean in. You quickly wrapped your arms around him and pulled him in for a kiss. He let out a small yelp in surprise before relaxing into the kiss. His hands were gentle as they found your sides and helped you lay back against your pillows. You tangled your fingers into his hair and whined, pulling him closer to you, needing him to touch you. You heard him chuckle at you and faltered in your kiss and pulled away a bit.

“Don’t laugh at me,” you whined quietly.

“I’m not. I won’t,” he said with a smile on his lips. “You’re just cute.”

You would have hidden your face but Joshua captured your lips in another kiss as his fingers caressed your face. You leaned into his touch and he hummed sweetly against your lips.

“I learned something when I was doing research before we adopted you,” he said sweetly.

“What did you learn?” you asked as his fingers moved from your face to your hair.

“That your ears will get… very sensitive during your heat.”

You felt your face heating even more as he pulled back from the kiss to look at you. You opened your mouth to say something but instead a moan fell from your lips, a shiver running down your spine as Joshua rubbed the base of your ear. You let your eyes flutter open and began to feel very flustered as Joshua smirked at you.

“Y-Yeah,” you managed shakily as you let your face fall to the side. Joshua’s fingers ran up your ear and scratched at the base and you bit down on your lip, trying to hold in your moans. His lips pressed against your jaw and slowly down your neck, leaving soft kisses before finding a spot to suck on.

You let out small whimpers as he continued to play with your ear, trying not to be too loud. You hadn’t thought about how he would hear your moans; how if someone was in the living room they might hear them too. You gripped at the sheets, your nervous thoughts getting distracted by the feeling of Joshua’s thigh pressing between your legs.

You let out soft pants as he dragged his nails up your ear lightly, rolling your hips against his thigh. You felt your need building more and more with every passing second. The heat pooling in the pit of your stomach had you moaning quietly. You felt like something was tightening as you panted faster, your tail flicking and batting against the bed.

His lips sucked a little more harshly at the base of your neck. He rubbed along the outside of your ear as his thumb trailed gently along the even more sensitive inside. You bucked your hips against his thigh, moaning out more loudly and letting out high pitched whines and mews as the coil inside of you released. You gripped the sheets and pressed your face as far as you could into the pillow as your body trembled and you squeezed Joshua’s thigh between your legs.

He pulled his hand away as you started to whimper and pant and caressed your face gently. You nuzzled against his touch as your eyes fluttered open. He smiled down at you as you tried to organize your thoughts.

“That felt… so good,” you hummed quietly, your gaze heavily lidded as you stared up at him.

“I’m glad,” he said, kissing your forehead before frowning. “But you’re still burning up. How do you feel?”

You bit your lip. You knew it meant your fever hadn’t broken and even though you were feeling better you knew your need was already building slowly again. You were nervous to ask but you knew you needed more.

“I-I think I need more,” you mumbled.

He grinned at you. “I had a feeling.”

He kissed you deeply, slowly swiping his tongue along your bottom lip. You let his tongue past your lips and got lost in the way he kissed you as his hand trailed slowly down your body. You let out a squeal as his fingers pushed past the waistband of your shorts. 

He stopped, pulling back to look at you and you whined at the sight of his glossy, kiss-swollen lips. “Do you want to stop?”

You shook your head and pulled him close again. “Just, go slow please.”

He smiled sweetly. “Of course.”

He kissed you again, letting his fingers rest against the skin of your lower stomach before ever slowly moving them lower. He kissed you deeply and rubbed soothing circles against your skin as he slowly crept between your legs.

You gasped and whimpered against his lips as his fingers pressed against your clit. He started to move his fingers in slow circles and you gripped him tightly, adjusting to the new sensation.

He moved his lips to your jaw. “Does that feel good?” he questioned.

“Mhm,” your answer was barely more than a whine between gasps and small moans. “S-So good.”

“Perfect,” he murmured against your ear before leaving kisses in the hollow below. 

Your fingers gripped his shoulder and hair as he pressed his fingers a little harder and moved them a little faster. You bucked your hips up against his hand as small moans cascaded from your lips. You held him as close as you could, his name mixing with the moans as they climbed higher in your voice.

You gasped and cried out as he moved his fingers faster and your legs shook as you reached your release again. Shocks of pleasure spread through your body. You bucked your hips up and he kept his fingers moving until you were panting and whimpering, twisting your hips away. You pulled him in for a kiss as he pulled his hand from your pants.

He rolled onto his back and gently pulled you closer. You clung to him and nuzzled your face into his neck, whining at his scent.

“Y-You’re, y-you didn’t-”

“Don’t worry about that,” he hummed. “Are you sleepy? Do you want to take a nap?”

“Mhm,” you whined. “But your smell…”

He kissed your forehead. “Will you be okay if I’m gone for a few minutes?” 

You nodded and he rolled out of bed. You grabbed a pillow and held it tight, your legs still shaking a little as you waited for him. You really should have done this sooner. This was so much better than just waiting it out and being uncomfortable and in pain for weeks. You wondered if Joshua would help you again. You assumed he already knew that you would get needy again sooner or later, though you didn’t know how long it would take.

You smiled at him sleepily as he came back into the room and climbed back into bed, now smelling equally as good but not in a way that was getting you worked up. You nuzzled against him and purred as he wrapped his arms around you.

“Thank you for helping me,” you mumbled sleepily.

He kissed the top of your head. “You’re welcome, now get some rest okay?”

You hummed in affirmation as you drifted off to sleep.

[unsettledink]

Gotcha Chapter 6!

(Trying something new and posting the full text here as well as AO3? It feels too long, but I’ve posted longer things here before, Idk.)

Read on AO3

Peter: sorry im on my way!

Peter: iswear im just running late

Peter: i will be there supr fast!!

Peter: sorry!

Quentin stares down at his phone and somehow, manages not to sigh. It’s a full ten minutes past when they were supposed to meet, and he doesn’t even want to be here in the first place.

Quentin: Don’t worry, it’s fine.

Peter: im sosorry

Peter: my alarm got set for tomorroow instead of today

Peter: i dont even know how

Peter: adn i just woke up and i dont even sleep this late like ever

Peter: but i willl bet there soon i promise

Peter: sorry!

Quentin: Really, it’s fine! There’s no hurry.

Quentin: We’re not exactly on a schedule or anything.

Peter: its so rude tho

Peter: for once it wast me losingt rack of time!!

Peter: im still sorry!

Quentin had given himself a little extra time this morning, just to remind himself of all the many, many reasons he is doing this, in this particular way. Had spent that time summoning up every bit of patience he could find to get through this day, because he had a feeling he was going to need it.

It feels like he’s already used half of it.

And of course he won’t be able to comment on Peter’s lateness, not even as a joke.

Peter: im like hafway there already illl just have to chagne and then ill be there!

Peter: seriously i am so sorry

Normally he’d be all for hearing Peter apologize, but it keeps happening every other word, Quentin will lose his mind.

He’s already losing his mind.

Well, he’s not going to just stand here until Peter does show up. He glances around for somewhere to sit; there’s a coffee shop just across the street. Perfect. He’s going to need that.

Quentin: Hey, don’t rush!

Quentin: I’ll just grab a coffee okay?

Quentin: I’ll be over at Kaldi’s, it’s just across the street. Can’t miss it.

Quentin: You want anything?

Peter: you dont haveto!

There’s no stopping the sigh this time. God.

Quentin: Not what I asked, kiddo.

Peter: um

Peter: suure?

Peter: someting with carmel i dont care mych

Peter: ill be there realy soon tho!!

Quentin: Then we can just sit for a bit.

Quentin: You’ll probably need it if you just woke up.

It’s a little funny how… drastically downgraded Peter’s texting is when he’s apparently still half asleep. Or maybe it’s just that he’s in a hurry. Or—

Quentin nearly stops in the middle of the sidewalk. He— surely, Peter isn’t—

Quentin: Are you texting AND webswinging?

Peter: …maybe?

No wonder he goes through phones so fast.

Quentin: You’re going to drop your phone

Peter: hey! imst icky! i wont drop it!

Quentin: Then you’re going to fall from being distracted

Quentin: And I won’t feel sorry for you.

Peter: :(

Quentin: I’ll laugh

Peter: :( :( :(

Quentin: You brought this on yourself.

He spends the time until Peter gets there reviewing Lynn’s newest plans for the miniaturized drones; they actually aren’t too bad.

Of course, they’ve probably had them sitting, waiting, for months, what with how they’ve harped on and on about how this should be a priority.

It won’t do to let them get too full of themselves, so along with the praise he sends back plenty of potential revisions. Even brings up some entirely new bits for them to consider; should keep them busy for a bit.

“Hi!” Peter says, flinging himself down across from Quentin. He’s flushed and still out of breath, his hair sticking up. “I’m here! I’m so sorry!”

Quentin allows himself a slightly amused smile. “Hi,” he says. Pushes Peter’s drink—some sort of ridiculously sweet caramel flavored thing that’s barely coffee at all—across the table to him. “Sit. Drink. Relax a bit, okay?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, running a hand through his hair and only making things worse. “Yeah, okay. I’m sorry, though. I’m just… it’s really embarrassing to be that late when this was my idea in the first place and—”

“Peter,” Quentin says, cutting him off. “Breathe! It’s fine, I promise.”

For once, Peter listens, and takes a deep breath, holding it in for a moment. Lets it out and relaxes the smallest bit, and grabs his drink. “Oh,” he says. “This is good! Thanks; you were right about me needing it.”

Quentin watches while he unwinds; Peter’s latest idea regarding ‘things they could do together’ was to show Quentin around Queens, so today they’re wandering. Quentin’s thrilled.

It could be worse. Peter had been all set up to take him to the most popular, well known, touristy spots, and Quentin had barely been able to hide his dread at the thought. It’d taken a little work, but he’d manage to convince Peter that Quentin would much rather see Peter’s favorite places. Even if they were nothing fancy or exciting, or little hole in the wall type places, or silly.

Even if they bored Quentin to tears.

Not that he can let Peter see even a hint of that. There’s a special kind of… vulnerability in sharing the smallest things you like, something different than exposing the larger, more damaged pieces of yourself. Something oddly hopeful about showing someone the unexplainable, intimate things you like and waiting for them to enjoy those things as well. Or at the very least, not reject them, in a way that suggests they’re rejecting your tastes as well.

Not rejecting you.

He’s started to prove to Peter he can handle the bigger things, the superhero stuff and the feelings nearly suffocating Peter; time to show that he can be trusted with the little things too. That Peter can come to Quentin with anything at all. Anything. Everything.

“So,” Quentin says. “What’s first?”

He was right; it is pretty boring. Not… awful, surprisingly, but not Quentin’s sort of thing at all. Peter’s apparently decided to try and cover as many miles as he can in one day, dragging Quentin from one end of Queens to the other. And then back; Quentin’s going to take tomorrow off for sure. Peter just has so much energy.

Has so much enthusiasm, Quentin thinks, as they poke through a small used record store that isn’t nearly as hipster as he expected from Astoria. So, so much enthusiasm, for the smallest things. It just bursts out of him once he gets comfortable and isn’t second guessing every single word he says.

Once Quentin has seemed interested in the first few things Peter shows him. Peter’s nervous about it, trying to explain away any shortcomings before Quentin’s even gotten in the door. He’s just desperate for approval, for acceptance. For Quentin to like him.

It’s not that hard to, actually.

It’s never been that Quentin dislikes Peter. Sure, Peter’s causing him grief and can be incredibly annoying, and sure, about half of what he feels for Peter is pity, but those can exist alongside the fact that Quentin kind of likes Peter.

Has liked him, ever since he started compiling research on him, ever since he’d met Peter as Mysterio and shook his hand and watched him get so excited over the existence of multiverse. It’s harder not to like Peter, not even a bit. He’s ridiculously smart, and stupidly good-natured, and—

He throws himself into everything he does; goes full out, with his heart on his sleeve. It’s no wonder he gets anxious as hell, if his first impulse is to practically flaunt all his soft spots, open and eager and expecting the best. It’s going to go poorly more often than not.

Must have, judging by the way Peter pulls himself in and hides, overrides that instinctual reaction so quickly it’s just a flash, a glimpse Quentin keeps catching again and again. He’s been taught to second guess himself somewhere along the way, by someone—probably a lot of someones—who saw those tender spots and couldn’t help poking them, taking advantage of them.

Just like Quentin’s doing; Peter should be better about spotting that sort of thing by now.

It’s almost a shame to fix Peter just to tear him apart completely, to have to use him like this, but… well. In the end, Peter’s nothing but another obstacle scattered in Quentin’s path. There are far more important things to worry about than the fate of one kid.

Peter grins at him when Quentin admits that this dinky little secondhand bookstore in Jamaica was worth a stop, even if it’s just for the most comfortable couch Quentin has ever sat on. Smiles when he points out a mural he loves on the way to the next attraction and admits he’d actually webbed up someone who started to tag it.

Straight up laughs at Quentin’s face when Peter shows him the most supremely creepy things in some huge thrift store, full of weird antiques and vintage crap. God, it’s disturbing that the things Quentin had as a kid, even as a teen, are considered vintage now.

“Jesus, Peter,” Quentin says after he has to look at a one hundred percent haunted taxidermied squirrel. “Why would you make me see that? I’m going to have nightmares.”

“For that exact face,” Peter says. “Oh my god, you look like you think it’s going to bite you!”

“It might,” and it’s unfair that Peter just laughs harder. He glares at Peter, but it might be slightly put on.

He’s allowed to like Peter a little, Quentin decides, watching Peter nearly double over with giggles. It’ll make having to deal with him easier, if nothing else, and it’s not as though liking someone has ever stopped him from using them—even disposing of them—in the past. It sure won’t this time.

They wander some more, Peter chattering on and easily filling the silence as long as Quentin remembers to make the appropriate listening noises occasionally. Every now and then, Peter hesitates, a nervous stumble in his words, something throwing him off, and Quentin reengages fully. He can’t afford to let Peter get too caught up in his thoughts.

But a few questions—carefully designed to make Quentin seem far more interested than he is—are enough to get Peter going again, bouncing from place to place until Quentin suggests they could use something to eat.

“Oh my god, yes,” Peter says. “I’m starving and didn’t even realize it. Ooo, last time we were down here, Ned and I found this awesome truck that does crazy good Korean barbeque, you’d love it.”

“No,” Quentin says without thinking, the sweet tart burnt smell so strong he can nearly taste it, can feel it stinging when he draws in a breath.

He twitches, shrugging it off, and tries to walk back how sharp that had come out. “Uh, I’m not big on sweet sauces and meat?” he says. “Got another recommendation?”

Peter drags him to a place that has the weirdest chimichanga combinations—and normal ones too, thankfully—and once again, attempts to pay.

“You know,” Quentin says as he pokes Peter out of the way, immensely irritated that Peter is still pushing him on this. “I didn’t realize your memory was this bad.”

“Hey!” Peter says. “It’s not! What are you talking about?” like that doesn’t prove Quentin’s point exactly.

“I seem to remember a bet I won,” he says, “relating to this exact situation.”

Peter opens his mouth to protest, and then closes it. “Um,” he says.

“Yeah,” Quentin says,raising his eyebrows.

“Okay,” Peter says, “okay, you can’t blame me for trying!”

“Hmmm,” Quentin says, passing over one of the foam trays. “You’re forgiven. This time. Just don’t do it again.” It’s always a good idea to get Peter into the habit of following Quentin’s rules, of remembering not to challenge Quentin too much.

Of remembering that Quentin will forgive him anything, easily.

“Fine,” Peter says through a mouthful, so mature.

They eat on the way to the next stop on Peter’s little tour; Quentin had been hoping they were approaching the end, but when Peter looks at him and asks, so hesitantly, if Quentin is tired and wants to call it a day—

Well he can’t say no.

Quentin finds himself dragged on to little half hidden shops, with any signage and down stairs that Quentin has to ask how Peter could have found in the first place. To statues Peter likes, to places he feeds pigeons—why he’d want to, Quentin doesn’t know—places with great views of the Hudson.

And, over and over, once Quentin catches on and starts pushing it, places to eat. Because Peter’s metabolism is a thing of wonder.

It’s interesting watching Peter banter back and forth with an older man about his sandwich; Quentin had gotten the impression Peter was uneasy around strangers, all his awkwardness amping up. But the way Peter’s interacted with people today is much more relaxed, much easier. Peter has a sharp sense of humor that Quentin has only started to see, as Peter gets comfortable around him.

Why do all these strangers get it right off the bat?

He watches Peter dart over to help get a stroller over a curb and— they’re not strangers. Not really. It’s not just that everywhere they’ve gone is somewhere Peter has been again and again, to the point where he knows people.

This is Peter’s home ground. His comfort zone, and the people in it— they’re his people. And when he’s helping them, his nerves disappear. His awkwardness becomes a tool of its own, disarming, downplaying the threat Peter could so easily be.

This is what he wants to be when he’s Spider-Man; the guy on the street, helping in a hundred tiny ways.

That’s fine with Quentin. Perfectly fine; now how does he get Peter to stay there, with EDITH looming over his head?

He can practically hear that in William’s voice, ugh. He’s working on it.

They wind up in Kissena late in the afternoon, almost early evening, really. Peter steps off the path once they get into one of the more wooded areas, and there’s a grassy spot past a few bushes, with a truly massive tree near the center, smaller ones scattered around it. It’s well hidden.

“Alright,” Quentin says, as he has with every other place, “what's the story behind this? How’d you find it?”

“So, when I got bit, when everything changed?” Peter settles down at the base of the tree, cross legged. “One of the things that was like, a huge pain, was how all of my senses got crazy amplified. Everything was turned up to eleven, you know?”

Quentin sits across from Peter, stretching his legs out as he leans back. Ugh, grass; he’d better not end up with bug bites. “Okay,” he says. “Sounds like that was pretty overwhelming.”

Peter groans. “You have no idea! It was really hard for a while, because even once I started to get used to everything being too loud and too bright and too smelly and— things tasted weird and my clothes made me feel like my skin was crawling and it was—” He stops, tipping his head back against the tree and looking upward.

“It was a lot,” he says. “Eventually I sorta started being able to deal with all that sort of… feeling stuff? I mean, physical, sensory, not like feeling feelings.”

Coherent; Quentin does not roll eyes through sheer force of will.

“But I was still really struggling with the, um,” Peter frowns, tips his head back further until Quentin can’t really see his face. “The stuff in my head. Actually doing things, thinking about things or even focusing on one thing was all so hard. It was like…”

“It was like what?” Quentin asks, after a few moments have passed.

“Everything was a distraction,” Peter says, slowly. “That’s still not right, because normally, before, I’d get distracted thinking about something else I wanted to do, or I’d be daydreaming, or, um, just, good stuff? Stuff that I’d want to focus on, just not right that second.”

“This wasn’t like this.” Peter looks down and starts to fiddle with a bit of grass, pulling up blades one by one. “This was like so much noise inside my head, like every little detail about every single thing was right there, grabbing my attention. I’d be trying to do one thing and all that would be clamoring at me nonstop.”

He closes his eyes, scrunching his whole face up. “People talk about wanting super sense a lot,” he says, “but it sucked so much at first.”

“People generally don’t think through those kinds of wishes very much,” Quentin says. Honestly, for the most part people don’t think at all.

“I’m pretty much okay now,” Peter says. “I figured out how to filter things most of the time; when there’s a bunch of stuff at once I can get so caught up in trying to ignore it that I ignore everything, and then that’s it’s own problem.”

“I noticed,” Quentin says, dryly. “Makes you pretty jumpy.”

Peter huffs, almost a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, brushing the ripped up grass off his pants. “I’m still working on getting the kinds of focus right?”

Quentin leans further back on his hands, crossing his legs. “You said something about focusing on me that one time,” he says, and Peter goes faintly pink. “That the sort of thing you’re talking about?”

“Something like that,” Peter says. “If I have one thing I can focus on, almost completely, then I can make it into… uh, white noise, I guess? Or it makes everything else into white noise. If that makes any sense at all.”

Not one bit, but whatever. He can press that later. “Sure,” Quentin says, waving his hand. “I’m following.”

It’s actually something to consider— if Peter manages to function better in difficult situations by focusing on one specific thing, what happens when that thing is taken away? Is ripped away from him, in fact. Would there be a moment of disorientation they could take advantage of? Maybe they could set Peter up to focus on what they want; he’s already using Quentin as a focal point, apparently.

He’ll have to watch Peter, Quentin thinks. This fumbling little explanation leaves a lot to be desired, but he doesn’t have much faith Peter actually could explain it better even if he tried.

“That helps,” Peter’s saying, “but it’s still really exhausting after a while. Sometimes I want to just… stop. Just not feel it at all, not have to try not to feel it.”

He glances at Quentin, and Quentin nods. Peter looks oddly shy, so he’d better pay close attention to what he’s showing.

“I’ve found a couple of places like this, but this is probably my favorite,” Peter tells him. “I can come here and actually relax. If I stop trying to block things out, or stop focusing on one thing, it doesn’t matter.” He tips his head back again, looking up at the tree.

“It's quiet here, pretty much all the time,” Peter says; the light through the leaves is diffuse, dappled on his face. “Even the noises that I get are like, soft things. Leaves and wind and things walking on grass. People talking, yeah, but that’s more distant and almost like background noise. It’s still shadowy in here when it’s super bright out, and there aren’t any super gross strong smells either. Just dirt and water and uh, green stuff.”

He darts a glance down at Quentin without moving his head. “Don’t laugh at me!” he says, and it’s right on the edge of plaintive. “I don’t know what else to call it.”

“I’m not,” Quentin says. He understands; it’s not something a city kid would be around that often, would probably even notice without senses like Peter’s. “I wouldn’t. I know what you mean, Peter.”

“Okay,” Peter says. Looks back away from Quentin and then closes his eyes. “It’s nice. And when I have to go back to the real world, it’s not quite as hard to handle.”

Quentin watches him. Watches as he slowly, slowly unwinds. Peter doesn’t move, aside from his head tipping slightly to the side, and Quentin—

He’d thought, earlier, that it was interesting how much Peter loosened up around people he felt comfortable with, places he felt safe. He’d thought it was a large degree of relaxation—and it was—but it was nothing compared to this.

Nothing compared to the way the tension drains from him with each passing second, from every single bit of his body, until he looks calmer than Quentin has ever seen.

Happier.

If this is how he looks when truly relaxed, the level of stress Peter must carry with him every day, everywhere he goes—from the physical tension to the mental, the anxiety, the constant background level of effort that other people don’t have to think about—must be ridiculously high.

He doesn’t want to say anything, do anything, that would break the stillness that seems to have spread over the entire glade. Poor kid. He might be doing a great job at being a pain in Quentin’s ass, but he isn’t cut out for this superhero shit.

Everything Quentin sees just convinced him further that taking EDITH from Peter really is doing him a favor. He’d never intended for that to be true, but— it’s not a terrible byproduct.

Peter sighs eventually, a barely there breath of a thing, opening his eyes halfway. He looks dazed, almost half asleep.

At least, until he notices that Quentin is watching him, and then he flushes. Looks down, the moment dissipating. “Anyway,” Peter says. “It’s— it’s a nice place for me,” like he’s admitting something embarrassing.

“I can tell,” Quentin says, offering him a small smile. “You deal with a lot every day, don’t you.” He shifts against his tree, trying to get more comfortable without Peter noticing and getting all fussy about it.

“I guess,” Peter says.

He picks up a leaf, twirling it through his fingers absently. “It’s getting really frustrating,” he adds. “Because it’s been almost two years, right? So I should have a better handle on this! I shouldn’t still be getting tripped up by such little things. And—” he makes a face, shoulders starting to hunch again.

“So I have this… this sense? Uh, I call it a spidey sense— I know, it’s kind of stupid. It sort of warns me about things? Like someone poking me, or shouting that something bad is about to happen.”

“Mmm, you mentioned that once,” Quentin says. “Sort of like a limited precog?” Honestly, he’d dismissed it— not fully, it wouldn’t do to completely dismiss anything about Peter. But it hadn’t seemed like it did much for Peter in Europe.

And it hadn’t picked up anything about Quentin, so how good could it really be?

“Oh, huh,” Peter says. “I hadn’t really thought of it like that? Maybe, but it’s not very exact. Sometimes it’s super obvious, but others it takes me a while to figure out what’s wrong. And lately, especially, it’s been— it’s gone kinda nuts? I don’t feel like I can trust it anymore.”

“Like, like right now?” he adds. “Right now it’s just going off like something really big and bad is happening, but come on!” He throws his hands up, exaggerated. “We’re just sitting here talking! Nothing, literally nothing bad is happening. It’s freaking out for no reason.”

Fuck.

Maybe he really shouldn’t have dismissed it, Quentin thinks, trying to stay as relaxed as he was a moment ago. Maybe he really fucking shouldn’t have, because some part of Peter knows that Quentin’s not good news. Knows that Quentin is something dangerous, is a threat.

And apparently knows it very, very insistently. Oh, fuck, this is the last thing he needs. Why now? Why is Peter’s sense losing its shit now and not at any time in Europe? What has he done differently to set it off?

God, what if it had been going off then too? Could that be why Peter had backed off at the last second in the bar, EDITH almost in Quentin’s hand? Has Peter been feeling this the entire time?

It’s a good thing he doesn’t seem to be listening to it, but that could stop at any second. At any time, Peter could decide that maybe his stupid ‘spider sense’ isn’t wrong, and that would be— that would be bad. That would be so bad.

Quentin has got to figure out how to make sure Peter keeps dismissing what it’s telling him.

“It’s so annoying,” Peter’s saying. “I wish it would stop, would just shut up already. It’s like this constant thing lately, sort of fading in and out but almost always there, but not a single thing has happened!”

Oh, that’s really, really not great. Almost always? In and out? How long will it take before Peter starts to realize it’s linked to Quentin?

No. No, he can fix this. He can nip this in the bud, before Peter has even a hint of suspicion. Peter’s already trying to ignore it, already annoyed by it. Quentin can use that.

“Maybe it’s just confused?” Quentin brings one knee up and rests his elbow on it, letting his arm dangle oh so casually. “After all,” he adds, “I’m hardly a bad thing, am I?”

Peter smiles, all that irritation gone in a second. “No!” he says. “Of course not! You’re like, the least bad thing that’s happened in a while.”

Quentin grins back at him. Yeah, keep thinking that, kid. “Well that’s a relief!” he says. “How finely tuned is this thing anyway? Could something have… I don’t know, damaged it? Hmm, screwed up its baseline, maybe? How do you even recalibrate it?”

“I have no clue,” Peter says. “I mean, it’s not like I can’t really test it or fix it or whatever. It’s practically useless now.”

Perfect; he wants Peter distrusting this sense. Wants him not thinking about it at all, avoiding the topic entirely— ah.

If he can get Peter thinking his damaged sense has something to do with the fights he’s been in, these bigger battles, that would be ideal. Peter’s already trying hard not to think about those; tie this sense to them as well, and he’ll just have even more reason to avoid both

“Could something have overloaded it?” Quentin asks. “Just completely swamped it, and it hasn’t recovered yet? If it got used to there being danger nonstop, on all sides, maybe it can’t stand down.”

“…maybe?” Peter says. “But I don’t know what would have caused that, or even when. It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

What.

Really, Quentin thinks, really? Peter can’t think of anything that would fit? Why wouldn’t he think of that? “Nothing?” he says, quietly.

Peter frowns. Takes a moment, and when he opens his mouth, Quentin is almost sure he’s made the connection; but Peter hesitates. Shrugs. “Not anything that’s like, major or a big deal or anything,” he says.

Does Peter— has he really managed to convince himself that all the fighting he’s done is nothing? Or at least, been trying to, because that hesitation says a lot.

He should have expected this, with the way Peter’s consistently downplayed himself so far. He really should have, but somehow it still annoys him. No wonder Peter isn’t willing to admit how scared and screwed up he is, if he thinks he’s completely overreacting to ‘no big deal’.

“Well,” Quentin says, and he’s watching Peter carefully. He doesn’t know quite how this will hit. “You were at war, on a battlefield. More than once, even. That can really mess you up in all kinds of ways.” Remember, Peter, he thinks. Remember that you were hurt, that there’s a good reason to be scared. To run.

“I— that—” Peter stares at him. “I wasn’t in a war,” he says. Dammit. Looks like downgrading it in his head is exactly what Peter’s been doing, and that is exactly the opposite of what Quentin wants.

“No? What would you call it?” Quentin asks, raising an eyebrow. He pushes himself more upright, uncrossing his legs. “It sounded a lot like war to me.”

Peter shakes his head, fingers crushing the leaf he’s been playing with. “It was just a fight,” he says, strained. “That’s all!”

A fight. Just a fight, like it was nothing more than a little spat, was nothing at all. Has someone been telling him this, reinforcing it? Fury, maybe, or even Tony before that?

He knows Fury wants Peter to think he can handle things, but has he also been trying to convince him that what he’s been through so far was small enough Peter should have been able to handle it? Should be able to handle the aftereffects? That he shouldn’t be upset about it, that he’s overreacting?

That’s not good; Quentin doesn’t need Peter doubting he can handle things. He needs Peter to be certain he can’t, and more, that it’s perfectly normal. Acceptable. Not something horribly selfish at all.

“Peter,” he says, “it wasn’t just a fight.”

“It was! It was just one— it wasn’t a war!”

“It wasn’t— Peter,” Quentin says, and sighs. “It was a lot more than that. You’ve been dragged from fight to fight to fight the past couple of years, without anyone helping you after; from what I hear, you really could have used some after that thing upstate.”

He huffs, too sharp to be a real laugh. “And that’s just what I know of,” he adds. “I’m not stupid enough to assume that’s everything.”

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, his hands fisted on his thighs. Blinks, and then looks at Quentin intently, his brow furrowed. “How do you even know about that? About— about other fights?”

“I spent some time talking with Fury,” Quentin says. “He wasn’t big on details, but I got enough that I can fill them in on my own. I’m willing to bet he doesn’t even know every fight you’ve been in, though I’m sure he’d like me to think so.”

He’d been talking with Janice, more like. God, she’d been such a find; seething about having had Tony himself be an ass to her, more than once, but willing to stay where she was to pass things on. She’d had access to so much confidential information, and every time SI and SHIELD decided to bury another thing, shift the blame and throw money at it until it all went away—for them, at least—she’d gotten a little more resentful.

It’s true that they might not have the finer details—it drives him nuts how sparse the info about whatever it was that crashed SI’s plane into the beach is—but he has enough to know that Peter’s been involved time and time again.

“Oh,” Peter says, looking down, losing some of his ire. “You probably didn’t hear much good, I bet. But— it doesn’t matter if it was more than one fight, cause they were all different. All like, spread out and about other stuff. It’s still not war.”

“What do you think war is, then?” Quentin asks, actually curious.

“I don’t, uh. War is… more?” Peter stumbles along, and he’s being incredibly stubborn about this. “More than that, than any of those. Worse. Way worse. You don’t— you weren’t there, you don’t know what it was really like. It wasn’t like that.”

“I think,” Quentin says dryly, “I have a pretty good idea of what war is.”

Peter looks absolutely horrified. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “God, I didn’t mean— I’m sorry, I didn’t think— I just, just meant that you were in a war. In a real, horrible, endless one and this…” He shudders. “These were just fights. It’s not the same, it’s not anywhere near as bad.”

“I’m so sorry,” Peter says. Looks at Quentin and then drops his head into his hands, knees coming up as he curls in on himself. “Fuck, I’m so sorry Quentin, I didn’t mean…”

This is really not what he was going for. Shit, he shouldn’t have said it like that; Peter’s too sensitive for him to be even a little sharp.

Quentin sighs, very softly, though he’s sure Peter still catches it. Pushes himself up onto his feet and walks over to Peter, who doesn’t even look up. “I know you didn’t mean it like that,” Quentin says. “It’s okay, Peter.”

Peter just shakes his head a little; Quentin thinks of sighing again but—somehow—manages to restrain himself. He sits down next to Peter, his back against the tree.

“War doesn’t have to go for a long time to be real,” he says, not looking at Peter. “It doesn’t have to drag on and on for it to still be awful, for it to still affect you,” and Jesus, he’s had to hear shit along those lines so many times. Had to sit there and listen to people be told over and over that what happened to them is worth being fucked up over.

Even if it isn’t. There’s a lot of reasons he never opened his mouth at those meetings, and his disgust at everyone else was the biggest. What a waste of time.

Well. Maybe not. It did give him the material to work Peter over.

“It doesn’t have to be some huge, dramatic battle to qualify,” Quentin says. “It still counts. Pretending it doesn’t doesn’t get it out of your head.” Come on, he thinks, let it be bad, be a nightmare. Admit that there’s a good reason, a real reason, for you to be scared, and then you can back down without shame. Come on, Peter.

“It doesn’t feel like it should count,” Peter says, a bit muffled, head still in his hands. “It wasn’t— lots of people have dealt with so much worse. Something like this, it’s not— it’s not an excuse for, for…”

He doesn’t finish that thought, but Quentin doesn’t need him to. An excuse, hmm? He turns his head toward Peter, just a bit. “Why don’t you want to call it a war?”

Peter lifts his head, arms sliding down to cross across his chest. “Why does it matter to you what I call it?” he asks, and there’s a hint of sharpness in there. Maybe even anger. “Why do you even care if I admit— if I think it’s a war?”

Nice little slip there; isn’t that interesting. Peter does know it was more than a few little fights. He knows, he’s just trying as hard as he can to pretend otherwise. Trying to redirect, as usual, turning the question back on Quentin. Why does it matter, Peter wants to know, and there are so many answers Quentin could give.

It matters because you need to see yourself as badly damaged. Because you need to acknowledge that this is something huge and overwhelming and frightening. Because I need you to start accepting what I say as right, start accepting me as an authority. I need you to not question me.

So many reasons, and he can’t tell Peter any of them. Ugh.

He turns further toward Peter. “Because I think you’re doing yourself a disservice,” Quentin says, tightly, irritation rising up in him. “When you sit there and insist that it’s nothing more than a little fight, when you play it off like it’s nothing— you’re devaluing what you did, and that’s wrong.”

“Don’t act like what you went through, what you did, doesn’t count,” Quentin says, and Peter’s looking over at him, startled. “That it wasn’t brave as hell, and terrifying as hell too.”

Peter stares, his eyes very wide. “I— it’s not like I did more than anyone else there. Than, than anyone else would have.”

“It sounds like you did more than enough,” Quentin says. “And— it doesn’t matter, Peter. It still messes you up. War fucks everyone up. Maybe it didn’t go on long enough for it to really warp your thinking, your morals or empathy or capacity to even feel, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t damage you.”

Peter jerks, sitting up straighter. “I’m not damaged!”

For fuck’s sake.

Quentin has to dig deep for a bit more patience. “Sure you are. Hey, Peter— wait,” he says, watching as Peter shuts down all over again, hurt. “That’s not bad, kid. It’s not an insult. It’s just… you gotta admit that before you can get better.”

Or not, if Quentin gets his way; admitting it might lead to Peter actually getting over his fear and stepping up. But with Quentin around, guiding him along? Peter’s never going to take that admission as anything other than a personal failure.

As just another reason he can’t, and someone else should.

“I don’t know,” Peter mutters. “It doesn’t feel like it should count.”

Quentin watches him for a minute. Leans in, his shoulder bumping against Peter’s. “You’d agree that I’ve been in war, right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“And that I’m able to judge what is and isn’t war. Right?”

Peter can be smart, sometimes. He sees where this is going. Sighs. “Yeah,” he says.

“Will you—” Quentin pauses, waits until Peter is looking at him. “Can you trust me here, and believe that I mean it when I say what you went through was war?”

Peter blinks, his eyes dropping. He’s silent, and Quentin can feel the muscles of his arm moving as Peter fiddles with something out of sight. “I’ll think about it,” Peter says, which is not quite the response Quentin was hoping for. Still, it’s not another denial. Baby steps.

“I’ll— maybe,” Peter says. “I guess you would know, even if you weren’t there.”

“You should listen to me,” Quentin agrees, leaning a little harder against Peter. “I do know!”

You should listen to me, and only me, he thinks. We’ll get you there, kid.

Peter huffs softly, pushing back against Quentin’s shoulder. “Maybe,” but he’s smiling faintly.

Quentin smiles back; he can accept a maybe, for now.

He’ll get a yes soon enough.

[thespianbooks]

A Court of Nightmares and Starlight //Chapter 5//

(Chapter 1) (Chapter 2) (Chapter 3) (Chapter 4) (Chapter 5) (Chapter 6) (Chapter 7) (Chapter 8) (Chapter 9) (Chapter 10)

(Tags: @thron3ofbooks @df3ndyr @courtofjurdan @art-e-mis @herondamnn @the-third-me @im-still-trying-here @emikadreams @paytin77)

It was all I could do to keep from bursting into joyous tears as Madja announced that I was ten weeks along in my pregnancy. Upon revealing that my suspicions were true, she completed a thorough examination. She determined that since I was in the early stages, that was the cause of lingering sickness and fatigue. Unfortunately, those symptoms would continue until I was about halfway along; where most females felt the best and most of the unlikeable symptoms eased a bit. I was also surprised to learn that a fae pregnancy lasts five weeks longer than a human’s, but it made sense on a larger scale. As powerful immortal beings, we needed more time in the womb to develop.

After her examination, she prescribed a few prenatal herbal teas that I would need to drink in order to aid in the baby’s growth. I smiled at the word, brushing my fingertips along my abdomen again—knowing this would become a new habit for me, and for Rhys. A baby, our baby, growing strong inside of me as Madja promised. He would be as strong as his father, the most powerful High Lord in Prythian, and with my powers combined…

My smile faltered as I realized what this meant.

Years ago, Rhys confided in me about his concern over any potential offspring he might have, afraid they would be hunted and sought after by his enemies. If his children inherited his abilities alone, they would be just as powerful. What did that threat mean now with my blood mixed in?

Cursebreaker. Cauldron-blessed. The first ever High Lady in Prythian, who inherited a drop of power from all seven of the High Lords after being resurrected.

What powers would my child inherit from me? Combined with Rhys’s, our child’s strength would surpass both of ours alone; which meant the same for all the other High Lords of Prythian. We had alliances now, but how many of those would change after they learned about my son? After they saw a fraction of their power in him, in combination with Rhysand’s? My mind began to race and breathing became difficult as I looked down at my stomach, my fingers gripping my tunic in panic. Would he be in danger? Who were we close enough with to know that they would never consider such a thing? What if they came after him before he was born? Would they target me? I had to do something, but what if there was nothing I could do?

I had to protect him—my baby.

Protect, protect, protect.

“My lady,” a gentle voice interrupted the rising chaos in my mind, even gentler hands gripping my shoulders and I saw the healer’s dark eyes meet mine as she leveled a look at me.

I became aware of my ragged breathing, hunched back and tense shoulders, trembling. Her delicate, wrinkled hands moved from my shoulders to either side of my face. A blue aura illuminated those hands as they touched my face, and slowly I calmed. Slowly, my shoulders relaxed and I slid my eyes closed as my breaths evened out, a few tears escaping past my lids.

After a few seconds of that peace, Madja slowly let go of my face and straightened, “You mustn’t be afraid, my lady. Your child will be a very powerful high fae, but you are surrounded by friends—family. The uncertainty the future brings may be frightening, but there is also joy in it,” she said gently as she handed me a handkerchief. “That is what you must focus on right now. The joy in a healthy and developing baby.”

I sniffed as I dabbed at my eyes, nodding in agreement “Thank you Madja. I just felt so overwhelmed for a minute,” I lamented.

“Oh, I see this reaction more often than you would believe. First time mothers have many fears, and you will be no different. Just remember the joy in it,” she reassured.

She was right, I couldn’t allow the fear to consume me. I wouldn’t let it control me or take away from this moment of happiness. This baby, our son, was a miracle. Fae children were difficult to conceive, but Rhys and I had done it. We were going to have a baby; over half a millennia later one would be born into the Night Court’s ruling family—my family. He would be cherished by our Inner Circle, and loved by the people of Velaris; just as they loved Rhys. My heart swelled as I pictured what the moment of joy would look like on his face when I told him; how those violet eyes would brighten and sparkle like the stars and how he would grin. I wanted to paint that moment more than anything, and now after a decade of waiting, I finally would.

“Shall I call the High Lord in for the good news?” she asked as she began packing up her bag of supplies.

“Oh no, please don’t tell him yet,” I urged and she raised an amused brow at me as I flushed, “I want to surprise him...tomorrow at Starfall.”

She nodded her understanding, “I see,” she said as she finished packing and grabbed my hands, squeezing them lightly. “The High Lord will be thrilled, my lady,” she said, and the genuine delight in her voice caused my eyes to burn.

She laughed heartily at the silver lining my eyes, “Expect more of that. Your hormones will cause plenty of surges in your emotions,” she explained empathetically.

I grimaced, “In other words, I’ll be an emotional mess.”

She laughed again and patted my hands, “All completely normal. For now, drink that brew of herbs I gave you three times a day, get plenty of rest, and I will be back next week to check your progress.”

I nodded and walked her to the door of my bedroom, “Thank you Madja,” I said.

“You’re welcome my lady,” she said sweetly before leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I touched my stomach tentatively, knowing underneath layers of skin and muscle my child was growing—safely. He was finally real; a manifestation of the love Rhys and I had for each other. So far, only the healer and I knew of his existence, and soon Rhysand would know as well. For the moment, I caressed my still flat stomach and cherished this little time we had alone.

XXX

The hours leading up to our Starfall celebration would be torturous.

Once I emerged from my room and the healer left, everyone was eager to hear her diagnosis of my condition. I did my best to reassure them all that I was perfectly fine, and simply needed more time to recover from my previous illness. Not a complete lie, but I knew they were all unconvinced—especially my mate. I immediately knew that keeping up a façade would be difficult, but luckily, I had plenty of experience with masks of deception. Years in the Night Court with occasional appearances in the Court of Nightmares, and serving as High Lady would certainly assist me in hiding my pregnancy for at least the next twenty-four hours or so.

Later, after we turned in for the night, Rhys begged for a detailed account of Madja’s official diagnosis. I again had to convince him that I was all right, which was technically true. I was pregnant, not sick; so aside from my body working hard to grow a high fae baby, I was fine. An hour into him trying to pry me for more information, I finally managed to silence him by pushing him onto the bed and straddling his hips. This morning however, was more of a struggle. Madja warned me that the fatigue would linger throughout the next several months of my pregnancy, but I soon realized it was going to be an uphill battle to force myself from bed, let alone try and convince my mate that I was still on the road to recovery.

Thankfully, Starfall was finally here; one of our rare days off, and I could use it to my advantage. It had been a while since we spent a day alone together; in the weeks that followed since his return from the Illyrian mountains, we fell back into our regular routine with our schedules as High Lord and Lady. Despite our initial reunion and the brief mating frenzy renewed, which caused us to sneak away from time to time throughout the day, we still attended to our responsibilities. But today was our holiday, and a year from now our child would be here to celebrate his first Starfall. Soon it would no longer be just the two of us, my sisters and our Inner Circle; soon there would be an infant for us to raise and love, so I wanted to continue to take advantage of our time alone while we still had it.

I convinced Rhys to let us spend the morning in bed together, where we took our time worshipping each other's bodies, ate a hearty breakfast and lounged together well into the afternoon. By lunchtime, I felt my energy renew and we enjoyed our lunch in the gardens before we parted to finalize last minute details for the party. Traditionally, that meant Mor and I attended to any directions Elain might have for us and the Illyrians did...well whatever they liked to do before a party.

“They’re probably at Rita’s right now having drinks,” Mor wondered aloud as she and I rearranged the refreshments table in the grand hall.

I stepped back to review my work, and shrugged, “Maybe, but there’s plenty of drinks here, so that doesn’t make much sense,” I reasoned.

“Neither does ‘I’m getting over a cold, I promise,’” she mocked.

I glared at her, but she threw her head back with a laugh, “Don’t look so serious Feyre, whatever secret you have is safe with me.”

I bristled, moving to fuss with a flower arrangement by the table, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said as casually as I could.

“I’ve been keeping a secret for most of my existence, Feyre, I think that makes me an expert,” she said.

I paused and looked her way, “Mor-” I began but she held a hand up to stop me.

“Like I said, it's safe with me,” she said and a look of understanding silently passed between us before she turned to the next task Elain set out for her.

Maybe she did already know, and maybe she didn’t. Either way, I believed that she wouldn’t reveal it to Rhys or anyone else for that matter. I took a step back again to examine the room, happy with the decorations Elain meticulously had installed every year. Sparkling bowls of fae lights lit the room in a warm glow, allowing the white marble floors and moonstone columns to illuminate naturally. The delicate chiffon curtains adorning the windowless arched walls were decorated with tiny sparkles of fae light, a design Elain created herself, and accentuated the varying shades of cream, ivory and silver flower arrangements spread out throughout the room. They framed the horizon perfectly and opened up to the expansive veranda that led right into the gardens, allowing guests to move in and out of the estate easily and a perfect view of the spirits' journey across the night sky as we all danced. It was initially my idea to host the people of Velaris in the grand hall, remembering that these were the kind of memories I wanted to make in our new home.

I touched my stomach briefly when Mor wasn’t looking. What would he look like in a year? He would be too small to run around and try to disturb any decorations, so perhaps I would walk him around the estate and show off all the adornments before Rhys and I would put him to bed. We’d no doubt be exhausted, but happy. Maybe we’d celebrate Starfall privately in our suite, just the three of us. I felt that glimmer in the pit of my stomach and I smiled. Would you like that, little one? I thought to myself, wondering if he could hear me.

“It’s perfect!” Elain cheered as she and Nesta walked into the room.

I quickly moved my hand from my stomach as I turned to face them, but not fast enough for Nesta not to take notice. Thankfully, she only raised a perfectly arched brow at me, “Shouldn’t you be getting ready? Your guests will be arriving shortly,” she reminded me.

I nodded, “I was just about to leave,” I said as I looked over their attire.

Elain wore a delicate soft pink strapless A-line gown with a glitter ombre falling from her bust line down to the floor; a braid crowning the top of her head with the rest of her hair flowing just past her shoulders. Nesta, as conservative as ever, wore a long-sleeved gown in a similar fashion, only in a deep violet with a more subtle glittering effect. Her hair was pulled back in a loosely braided bun, a few loose strands of curls framing her face. Despite her controlled face and aloof attitude, I was glad Nesta still joined us after Cassian all but dragged her here for our first celebration in the estate years ago.

“Nuala and Cerridwen are waiting for you in your suite, Feyre. You go get dressed, and I’ll greet everyone, don’t worry,” Elain said sweetly, brushing her hands over her gown when she realized I was looking, silently asking for my approval.

“Just as she does every year,” Nesta interjected as I offered Elain a nod of assent.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and began walking out, “I’ll be back with Rhys before it starts,” I said and made my way back up to my suite.

As Nuala and Cerridwen began my dressing routine, I began to play different scenarios of the speech I would give Rhys when I announced my pregnancy. Only to realize I didn’t really have a speech at all, and began scrambling for one. As memorable as I wanted this moment to be, I was sincerely lacking in creativity and eloquence. I sighed in defeat as I stood before the mirror, checking over my appearance—the same blue-white liquid starlight gown I adorned every year, and my hair swept away from my face with the same diamond studded combs I wore on my first Starfall. In an attempt to make tonight more memorable for Rhys, I wanted to recreate our first celebration together; I asked the shadowed-twins to style me the same way they had that night.

After dismissing themselves, I ran tentative fingers along my abdomen again before inhaling a deep and anxious breath. “Let’s go tell your father,” I said quietly, resigned with the fact that I would just have to wing whatever speech I would give Rhys for the news.

XXX

An hour into the party, after mingling with our friends and guests, the estate’s lights dimmed naturally and everyone began pooling out into the veranda as the star-spirits began their glittering descent. The sky was soon decorated with the spirits twirling and sparkling forms as the guests cheered with raised champagne glasses.

“Raise a glass, my love,” Rhys purred in my ear as he stepped up behind me, his chest brushing against my back as he offered the glass before me.

I hesitated, knowing it probably wasn’t wise to drink now that I knew I was expecting, but took the glass anyway before turning to face him, “Let’s go to our balcony,” I said as I straightened the collar of his traditional black jacket, tracing over the silver-lined pattern on his lapels lightly.

“Now?” He asked with his smug feline grin, “Usually we stay at least an hour after the dancing’s begun.”

“I know, but,” I paused, chewing over what to say next, “I wanted to ask you something.”

Something you can’t ask me around our guests? He asked through the bond, his feline grin turning into a teasing one

I rolled my eyes before brushing past him and striding down the hall, not bothering to look back to make sure he was coming. Well?

“Oh, I’m right behind you Feyre darling,” he purred in my ear again as his hand brushed over the small of my back, walking in step with me to the hall leading to our balcony.

“As you should be,” I said haughtily.

His dark chuckle reverberated through me, my stomach fluttering as I fought a smile and we stepped onto the balcony together. I walked up to the railing, setting my champagne glass aside and stared up at the sky as the star-spirits continued to sparkle and dance. Rhys’s fingers brushed up and down my spine softly as he watched with me, both of us in a comfortable silence. I watched from the corner of my eye as the stars illuminated his handsome face, a warm smile on his lips and I reached a hand down to hold his.

He turned that smile to me, “What did you want to ask me, my love?”

My heart skipped a beat as a question I was genuinely curious about popped into my mind, “What’s the first memory you have of Starfall?” I asked.

“That’s what you dragged me out here in the cold for?” He asked with a smirk, moving to stand behind me as he slid his arms around my waist and rested his chin atop the crown of my head.

I leaned into his embrace, perching my arms on his. I really do want to know

His sigh was peaceful as he contemplated, searching his memory as we continued to watch the sparkling display. Should I show you or do you want me to tell you?

“Tell me,” I answered quietly. My mind too tangled a mess to allow myself into his without the possibility of revealing my secret prematurely.

His arms tightened around me slightly as he smiled into my hair, “I was five years old. My mother and father brought me to the House of Wind, as they did every year. It was the first I managed to stay awake long enough to actually see the star-spirits,” he explained.

Gentle swells of music began to play behind us, and he swayed us from side to side smoothly. “It was years before they began to drift apart, so their relationship was strong. I remember it was the first time I realized how much they actually loved each other; for a time at least. I used to wonder how honest their love actually was, and my mind would always drift back to the memories of them dancing together on Starfall to remind me. It was also the night my mother announced she was pregnant with my sister.

“We were on the balcony at the House of Wind, watching the star shower. I was sitting on my father's shoulders, pointing out every spirit I saw. I was completely in awe of them. I think seeing my reaction made my mother cry, and when my father asked her what was wrong, she said to him ‘I can’t wait for our next child to look at the stars the way he does.’ The look on his face; the genuine elation in his eyes was enough to convince me that, for at least a part of my childhood, they had real love for each other.”

My eyes burned and my throat thickened as he relayed his memories, holding me close as we continued to sway together as the music continued to play. I moved to squeeze his hands lightly, his arms still wrapped around me from behind.

“That’s a beautiful memory, Rhys,” I whispered, my tears still threatening to spill.

He moved to bury his face in the crook of my neck, planting a kiss there as he breathed a peaceful sigh through his nose; still moving us along to the music, “Beautiful as it may be, my favorite Starfall memory will always be the first we shared together Feyre darling,” he whispered back.

I couldn’t help the few tears that fell as I closed my eyes with a smile, squeezing his hands a little harder. Words failed me in that moment and I opened my eyes again, both of our gazes turning to the sky as a large sprite glittered close to us. I gasped as the star-spirits began vaulting across the sky in greater numbers. They decorated the horizon in an endless dance—like liquid starlight sparkling above us as they danced and twirled. I heard the excited cheers of our guests on the other side of the estate and grinned. Mor was right, this year the spirits returned in vast amounts, unlike I ever imagined or thought possible.

A thought for a thought, Feyre darling?

I smiled and grabbed his hands, moving them from my waist and resting them on my abdomen right as that glimmer pulsed through it. “I’m thinking, I can’t wait for our baby to look at the stars the way you do,” I said.

Rhys stiffened at my words and I turned in his arms, making sure his hands stayed on my stomach as my eyes met his, my eyes burning again “I’m pregnant, Rhys.”

His eyes widened and looked down at where our hands rested, as though he might see the evidence now that I said the words aloud. A second later he dropped to one knee before me, eye level with our joined hands as he caressed my stomach fondly.

His eyes, now lined with silver, met mine again, “You’re pregnant?” He choked out.

I nodded with a sob, my words failing me once again and he sucked in a breath as he looked at my abdomen again. “My son, the son you showed me on your birthday, is growing inside of you...now?” He asked, his throat thick.

I sobbed again, a wet laugh escaping as I nodded, “That’s what pregnant means,” I rasped.

I heard his own strangled sob before he shot up to his feet, pulling me into an embrace and lifting me off the ground as he spun me around, chanting my name over and over again. “FeyreFeyreFeyre,” he sobbed in my hair.

I laughed and sobbed and cried all at once, my arms wrapping around his shoulders as he planted me back onto the ground and held onto my waist. His forehead rested against mine and I brought my hands up to brush his tears away while my own shamelessly poured down my cheeks.

“When I first noticed how different your scent was, I thought it was possible, but I didn’t want to say anything and get our hopes up,” he explained as he brought his hands up to wipe my tears away as well.

“You were suspicious this whole time?” I sniffed with a laugh.

“You’re my mate, I knew something was going on, but you didn’t even seem to realize it so I didn’t say anything,” he said, thumbs running over my cheeks as I held his wrists gently.

I smiled, “To be fair, I didn’t catch on until yesterday, after I fainted. I can’t believe I was so dense,” I laughed in disbelief.

He shook his head, returning his hands and gaze to my stomach “You weren’t...neither of us saw it coming,” he said softly.

“We tried for so long Rhys,” I whispered, my hands coming to rest on his chest.

He caressed my stomach again, “We’re going to have a baby,” he swallowed and his violet eyes met mine. “I love you beyond measure, Feyre. You’ve given me more than I could have ever dreamed of, more than I could possibly deserve, and now,” he dropped to one knee, again surveying my stomach as he continued, “I can’t wait to meet the son you’re blessing me with.”

I sobbed again and wrapped my arms around him as he leaned in to place a kiss on my abdomen. He stayed there for a minute before rising again, slipping his arms around my waist and capturing my lips with his. I kissed him back deeply, holding him close as we resumed moving to the music—dancing slowly as the stars continued their whirling journey beyond the horizon. Our brows pressed together as we swayed, and I draped my arms over his shoulders as his hands held my waist.

After today, this better be your new favorite Starfall memory, I said down the bond.

His answering smile was mischievous. Until next year, when I can dance with you on one arm and my son on the other.

My heart tightened at the thought, and I kissed him again. To the stars who listen, Rhys.

To the dreams that are answered, Feyre.

[magic-bot]

Yikes- the hate wagon is getting a bit crazy- all about adfly ? Smh. I agree adfly is really gross to use because it has the potential to get viruses and people who aren’t technically savvy may not know what to do and accidentally get a virus or something bad for their computer. Also, the creator only gets 5 cents for something that might give a Trojan to a computer. I personally don’t think that’s very nice for creators to use, but that’s just me. I’ve used adfly blockers and I’ve never had a problem though. It’s up to each person though. I think why people are getting upset at you is because you are being a bit rude and defensive. Another anon said that because of language barriers and your native language being Russian, it comes off as rude. I don’t think you mean that, but that’s how it seems to other people. However, I do think you shouldn’t call people stupid or mentally ill- some people are simply a bit ignorant( not knowing much) when it comes to computer protection. Calling people names doesn’t make your side look good. The fault is partially on the downloader and creator. I hope this makes sense! This isn’t an attack on you, just some feedback. I hope the craziness can stop, especially on simblr. It’s toxic and discouraging to be honest. Those are just my two cents :) Hope you enjoy your day

But this is not technical knowledge.. it is basic security knowledge like that you should not give your personal data to strangers on the street. The feeling that people have just entered society not knowing what to do will not leave me for a long time, although in what year do we live there? New tech-legged age? It seems to be said loudly for some of them. The creator deliberately does not infect anyone with Trojans and other viruses, the purpose of adfly for the creator is to get a cent for clicking on the link. It's all. You didn't have a problem because you probably defended yourself enough? What they cannot do because of their ignorance. It's okay to accept the fact that you are a bit dumb and then try to fix the problem and learn something new. This is useful not only for your horizons, but also for your protection. Maybe you think that I myself have never caught viruses? This is not true. When this happened for the first time, I thought about safety, and did not blame everyone around that it was they who infected me (I said the obvious things again, but they will not understand from the 200th time). How can you communicate with such stubborn and incapable of thinking broadly? Try to prove something to them and you will be doused with even more shit, because they misunderstood or their opinion differs from mine. Thank you for your wishes, I wish you the same, stay safe! But something tells me that people will carry shit to the last. So I'm going to make a tag for this page so that you don't see any announcements in your feed if you don't want to.