#( standing in the ashes of who i used to be | musings. )

[sinkuna]

୨୧ — You knelt gently on the cool stone floor of his temple, your delicate hands arranging a bouquet of colorful blooms in a vase. Your soft melodic humming weaved through the air and turned the usually oppressive temple into something almost… domestic.

"Still cluttering my temple with this worthless garbage?" Sukuna growled, though his eyes never left the gentle sway of your movements. "Must you insist on filling every corner with these weeds?"

"They're not garbage, they're flowers!" You held up a bloom for his inspection, completely unfazed by his scowl, "This one kind of reminds me of you- all thorny on the outside…" you smiled sweetly at the flower, a tint of pink dusting your cheeks, "but the petals are so soft."

The mouth on his stomach let out a derisive snort.

"Comparing the King of Curses to a common weed? Your boldness knows no bounds, does it? I could burn them all to ash with a thought," he threatened, multiple hands clenching, "Turn your precious flowers to nothing but dust."

"Buuut you won't," you sang out, struggling slightly to stand with your swollen belly. Before you could wobble and lose balance, his hands were there, steadying you. The moment he realized what he’d done his gentle touch turned into a somewhat harsh grip, the action of tending to you making him bare his teeth in self-disgust.

"Pathetic," he spat, though his hold remained carefully mindful of your condition, "You're as weak as these weeds you love so much." He clicked his tongue, "Tch, and I don’t believe I gave you permission to move, know your place… woman."

"Hmmm~?" You arched your brow at him, "And where is my place?" You asked playfully, leaning into his touch despite his harsh words. Your hand reaching up to caress the curse marks on his arm.

The mouth on his stomach snapped its teeth, "At my feet, where you belong."

"Funny," you mused, "that's not where you kept me last night~."

His grip tightened, just shy of painful, "Watch your tongue, little lamb.." One hand found your throat, thumb pressing against your pulse point in warning, "That tongue of yours grows bolder by the day," Sukuna snarled, another hand tangling in your hair with barely contained violence. "Perhaps I should I finally rid myself of that mouth of yours..." his nails drags across your neck, "rip it out and feed it to-"

You merely tilted your head, exposing more of your neck to his threatening grip, "rip it out with those hands that hold me so carefully?" You pressed closer, fearlessly touching the mouth on his stomach, which immediately ceased its smirk.

"You're nothing but a temporary amusement. A warm body to entertain me. A vessel for my-"

The mouth on his stomach started to add something undoubtedly vicious, but fell traitorously silent when Sukuna heard the next words that slipped from your lips, "Is that why you check on us every night?" You asked, eyes looking at him knowingly, "To inspect your vess-!"

He cut you off by pulling you roughly against him, four hands positioning you exactly where he wanted you, "You talk too much." A vein pulsed dangerously in his temple before The king of curses releases a sound of frustration, "I'm ensuring what belongs to me remains intact. Nothing more."

"And you pretend too much," you whispered, standing on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his clenched jaw, "my fearsome lord who also waters his "vessels" wilting flowers as she sleeps soundly with his growing child."

Sukuna's eyes narrowed dangerously, "I do no such thing..."

He should have pulled away. Should have done what he’s done to others and remind you exactly why he earned the title King Of Curses... Instead, he found himself drawing you closer, allowing your warmth to seep into his cold existence.

"Your weeds are still worthless," he muttered against your hair, but all four of his arms continued to cradle you protectively.

Sukuna Ryomen wanted to destroy you. To erase your existence…

This pure, ridiculous woman who dared to mock his threats with smiles and gentle touches. But as you turned back to look at your arrangement of wee- flowers…, humming contentedly in his embrace, he knew with sickening certainty that he would tear apart anyone who tried to harm you and his unborn brat before he ever laid a violent hand on you himself.

⋆｡˚꒰ঌ 𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ໒꒱˚｡⋆

[flameblessed]

Tags. 2/?

[carnalcrows]

BRAT TAMING - THANOS

pairing: thanos x top male reader

synopsis: There is an uninvited guest at your solo smoking session.

content warnings: 18+, bottom thanos, weed, begging, breeding, creampie, orgasm denial.

word count: 1.1k

A/N: I can't find the req to this 😭😭

The arena was nothing but cold steel, bloodstains, and the constant fear of death looming over you. So, when you finally managed to find a hidden spot away from the cameras, you lit up a blunt that you had managed to somehow sneak in, inhaling deep, letting the tension in your body ease for the first time in days.

You didn't expect company, but then again, of course someone would show up.

"Tch, you’re really bold, huh?" a cocky voice piped up, and you turned to see him—Thanos, the purple-haired loudmouth rapper. His presence was unmistakable, as was that damn grin that screamed trouble.

He plopped down next to you without asking, nodding toward your blunt. "Pass it."

You considered telling him to piss off, but there was something almost amusing about his audacity. With a sigh, you handed him the blunt, watching as he inhaled like a pro.

"Damn," he exhaled, smirking at you. "Didn’t think a guy like you would have good taste."

"And what kind of guy am I?" you asked, raising a brow.

"Boring. Too serious. Probably one of those dudes who thinks he's got everything under control." He chuckled, flicking ash onto the ground. "Bet you're the type who likes to be in charge, huh?"

You side-eyed him. "And what about you?"

"Oh, me?" He grinned, leaning back on his elbows. "I like to piss people off. Keeps things interesting."

He kept running his mouth, going on about how he was the best rapper in Korea, how people worshipped him, and how, if the cameras weren’t watching, he’d probably be throwing the guards around like rag dolls.

You let him talk, dragging slowly on the blunt, waiting for the moment he'd slip up. And, sure enough—

"Bet you’ve never met someone like me, huh?" he teased, his gaze flicking to yours. "A guy who knows he’s hot shit and doesn’t take orders."

You let out a slow, deep breath and turned to face him completely. "You don’t take orders?"

"Nope," he said smugly.

"So what if I told you to shut up?"

His grin widened. "I’d probably talk even more."

You leaned in, closing the distance between you two. His breath hitched for just a second—not enough for anyone else to notice, but you did.

"You talk too much," you murmured, taking the blunt from his hand and pressing it to your lips. His eyes followed your movements, his usual cocky expression faltering just a little.

"And what, you gonna do something about it?" he taunted, but his voice was quieter now, his bravado teetering on the edge.

"Maybe," you mused, tilting your head. "But I don't think you’d last five seconds without running that mouth of yours."

That did it. His smirk twitched. "Tch. You wish."

"Prove it."

He went silent.

The air between you both got heavy. He wasn’t used to someone checking him like this. Every muscle in his body was tense, like he was waiting for you to make a move.

You leaned back slightly, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."

"Tch…" he scoffed, but you could tell—he’d lost the game. The brat had been tamed.

"Maybe I do like to be in charge," you admitted, standing up and stretching. "But it looks like someone likes being put in their place, too."

He huffed, looking away, but the slight flush at the tips of his ears didn’t go unnoticed.

"Shut up," he muttered, but he didn't move away as you stood over him, asserting every ounce of control you had.

"Make me," you challenged.

Without warning, he pulled you in by the front of your tracksuit, crashing his lips onto yours.

You were mildly surprise, but you reciprocated the kiss with a sense of eagerness, you hands gripping onto his waist.

Wary of any guard that might pop up from a corner, you pushed the purple-haired man further into the tight spot, pushing his pants down and lifting his legs up without prior warning.

He gasped– looking up to face you, but you were too busy with you fingers, spitting on your hand and letting it slid onto his naked hole- making him flinch.

Once you felt that your saliva had worked enough, you tugged down your own track pants, revealing your erection.

The other man's eyes widened, he had never seen a cock so– big before.

Without warning, you pressed the tip in his hole– making his head hit the wall with a loud moan– before which you covered his mouth with the hand that wasn't holding him up.

“Fucking brat– can't stay quite even when you're filled to the brim, hm?”

Unable to respond– he merely whimpered, pretty eyes rolling to the back of his head as you sheathed yourself in him all the way to the brim.

You buried your head in the crook of his neck and pulled out almost all the way before slamming back in, groaning at how tight he was.

Your repeated thrusts kept Thanos mumbling incoherently even with your hand covering his mouth. You merely rolled your eyes and pistoned into him even deeper– making his back arch against the wall.

Soon– you felt yourself at the brink of release and didn't bother to pull out, coating the other man's insides a pearly white.

Thanos hadn't come yet– but you slowed down your thrusts, making the man whine.

“You thought I would let you off that easy? Beg for it.”

You removed your hand from his mouth, and the other man immediately began blabbering and begging for you to let him cum.

After listening for a minute or two, you had grown hard again, and began to resume your thrusts– making him let out a loud moan.

Your other hand worked on his cock, slowly jerking him off as compared to the rapid pace you were fucking him at.

Soon, he felt his orgasm wash over him like a waterfall, and came all over your hand.

You kept him upright, and found the blunt discarded on the floor. Thankfully it was still lit.

You picked it up and placed it in Thanos’ mouth, to which he groaned– head falling back as he inhaled deep.

You slowly placed him down, cleaned him up with some cloth that was lying around and sat down next to him, taking the blunt from his mouth and inhaling the smoke.

The silence between you both lingered even after the blunt was long gone.

Thanos didn’t say much after that. For the first time since you met him, he seemed thoughtful—or maybe just trying to figure out why he let you get under his skin so damn easily.

"We're gonna pretend that didn’t just happen?" he finally asked, standing up beside you.

You smirked. "Nope."

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets and muttered, "Next time, bring more. We’re not done."

You watched him walk away, his usual cocky stride slightly stiffer than before. You just chuckled, shaking your head.

"Yeah," you murmured. "We’ll see about that."

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[awritesthings1]

Good Taste

Pairing: Tommy Shelby / Wife reader

Summary: You get made fun of for wearing your sapphire necklace to the foundation dinner. Tommy always finds a way to make things better.

Warnings: swearing, implied smut.

ao3 link

“She was making fun of me!”

“Yeah? And when has that ever bothered you before, my darling?”

“Since all the bloody country wives started debating whether my jewelry was in fashion or not, Tommy,” you huffed at your husband, who was having no luck pinching away the creases between his eyebrows.

Tommy sighed deeply, not really bothered to continue the conversation but irked because the wives down the lane had gotten under your skin, and if you were unhappy, then he was unhappy. He fueled his throbbing head with a cigarette, chain-smoking them back-to-back while he hunched over on the settee.

You were sitting at the vanity, fingers tangled hopelessly at the stubborn latch of your necklace that just wouldn’t let, when you saw how Tommy was beginning to fold in on himself. Guilt consumed you immediately. It wasn’t that you actually cared all that much about what people said, but when you were around Tommy, your guard slipped, and all the things that made you tick during the day would come cluttering out of your mouth like an unwanted clash of symbols and noise. Tommy would sit there and listen, hum, nod, and completely detach himself from the world.

You ran each other around like clockwork. He leaned back, you forward. Lust swelled in his eyes, concern in yours, a tug at your hip, and a gasp from your throat. You smiled sympathetically, apologetically. He kept quiet, forgivingly holding your gaze, until a defeated sigh broke the tension, and you both understood how silly the whole ordeal was. Here was Thomas Shelby, a man of great power, slumped against the settee, utterly exhausted.

“Darling, this is fucking Birmingham. Good taste is for people that can’t afford sapphires.”

That brought a smirk to your lips.

“Oh?” You muse, watching him through your vanity mirror.

Tommy huffs, but it’s more out of amusement than agitation. The cigarette between his lips twitches as a smile graces his face. He hums in affirmation.

You give up on trying to unlatch the sapphire necklace around your neck. You’re far too distracted by the way Tommy leans back on the settee like he knows it’s his damn right, spreading his legs, chain-smoking cigarettes, and blowing the smoke towards the ceiling. He’s completely in the wrong if he thinks you are going to keep your hands tangled up in a necklace when they would be much more useful somewhere else…

When your chair screeches against the wood as you push it back to stand, his head snaps to attention. He has a faraway look to his eye, haunted even, but he swallows when you sink to your knees between his legs, and something else begins to swell other than his pupils.

You run your hands up his knees to his thighs and back again.

“I know it’s stupid. They just get under my skin sometimes,” you resign.

He clears his throat and reaches past your head to set his cigarette on the ash tray. He stays there, bent forward, a breath apart, and begins caressing your face with the back of his fingers. A faint smile softens his features and warms his skin.

You laugh because it really is ridiculous. For marrying someone who spends most of their life buried in their head, you sure have picked up on his tendencies.

“Do you think I’m becoming obsessed?”

He doesn’t even try to hide his amusement. “No.”

You were; he was just treading carefully. Because while he wandered off to speak to god knows who at the foundation dinner, your feathers were being ruffled by stuck-up old women who were too busy being stuck up to notice their husbands’ lingering eyes. However, being able to defend your vanity was another thing compared to dealing with Shelby Company Limited business. And if it came to surviving passive aggressive remarks from old women or being led into another room to talk with Mr. Thomas Shelby, head of the Peaky Blinders, you would sneer rudely at Margaret any day.

You voice the thought at Tommy, “I take it your night wasn’t as successful as mine?”

He exhales and raises his eyebrows playfully, more or less confirming your suspicions.

“And should I ask you about it like a good wife?”

He hums, “no.”

He’s so entranced in running his fingers up and down your jaw, around your chin, and thumbing your lips that you’ll just have to forgive him later.

You pull a face. You’re not mad at him. Far from it. Those fingers of his dancing across your face are your weakness.

“You’re not listening to me.” You lean in closer.

“Yes, I am,” he smiles.

You try to pull back in faux skepticism, but with his hand holding your face so close to his,

“Where are you going, eh?” Tommy leans forward to steal a kiss, and he feels your laughter against his lips, a pleasant sensation.

“Oh, Mr. Shelby,” you jest.

Together, you fall back onto the settee with you astride his lap. Your hair falls over his face like a curtain, keeping him safe from the outside world. He doesn’t want to move; no, he will stay here for the next couple of months, transfixed inside this moment. The gun tucked away in the holster beneath his arm feels less heavy, and the clock ticking above his head slows. He can breathe. He can gingerly stroke your jaw with his thumb in the way you adore. So he does, and the shuttering thoughts that occupy so much of his head stutter in fear because they know they come second to you.

Then there’s that pretty sapphire necklace hanging from your neck. The one that got you both in this position in the first place. Those fucking people, eh? Those fucking people with their fancy palaces and prim and proper manners judging you, his wife, refusing you, his wife? That got him going.

You can tell he is in his head by the way his eyes linger on your sapphire necklace. He looks irked.

“What’s wrong, Tommy?”

He shakes his head lazily.

“Speak to me, love,” you insist.

Fuck em. Fuck the bastards that made his wife feel unworthy. They wouldn’t know taste if it hit them like a fucking train. He won’t let them bring her down.

Tommy clears his throat. “I’m sorry for being in my head, Mrs. Shelby.”

His apology is soothed into your skin with a gentle brush of his thumb at the end of your chin. He tilts it down to lay a kiss on the corner of your mouth. He always knows how to make you smile.

You press more of your weight into him and deepen the kiss, to which he grunts. It stirs a honey warmth in your stomach.

As for Tommy, the need to be closer to you is suffocating; he’d rather just lock you both in this room and throw away the key. He’d rather the stifling walls close in on you both until he can’t even open his lungs, and even then, it wouldn’t be enough. He needs to be in your skin, in your thoughts, but most importantly, right now, in your underwear.

It’s your goddamn nails clawing at his scalp that do it for him. It winds him up like a fucking pocket watch, boils his blood like good whiskey, and fuels the fires.

He urges your name in warning because he’s so strung up he might just rip the seams of your pretty dress, and you make the mistake of swallowing his plea with a huff and a tangle of tongues.

“The necklace, Thomas,” you gasp.

It would really be a pity if he accidentally broke it in the rush to remove your dress. It slows him down momentarily removing it, and his fingers can’t quite function being away from your skin but he knows ever since he gifted it to you, there’s been nothing you loved more. When the latch finally unclasps, he parts from your lips to gently lower it to the coffee table where it remains unscathed for the rest of the night. The same couldn’t be said about your dress.

-

Taglist: (i was drunk when I posted this so I forgot to add it lol).

@maliceofwonderland @fairytale07 @goblinjnr @ilovepeoplesdads @multidimensionalslut @blogforficslol @elenavampire21

[22ayla21]

Hello:3 I've been loving your sick fic with mydei and phainon and I've been wondering if you could write one where their muse got injured in battle?

Injury

The reaction of the men of Amphoreus when their beloved is injured

• No matter how much shock he suffered, Mydei would not let himself lose control. He would instantly assess her condition, determine how serious the wound was, and order her to be taken to safety or to healers. If he had to, he would carry her himself, ignoring everything else.

• Whoever dared to harm her made the biggest mistake of their life. Mydei is not just angry - he becomes a hurricane of destruction. Cold rage gives way to action: enemies will be destroyed quickly, without unnecessary words, without regrets. If anyone else stands in the way, they will suffer the same fate.

• No matter how cruel he is to his enemies, he is different next to her. Even if his hands are still bloody, he gently touches her face, looks into her eyes and says something short but firm: “I am here. Everything will be fine.” These are not just words - this is a promise.

• If he failed to prevent her from getting hurt, deep down he will be tormented by guilt. He will replay the situation over and over again, thinking about what he could have done differently. But he will not say it out loud. Instead, he will be there, will do everything to make her get better, and will not allow it to happen again in the future.

• After this incident, his caution will double. He will become even more attentive, even more in control of the situation. He may even overdo it sometimes, forgetting that she is not just a victim, but his equal. But this is not because of mistrust - it is because of the fear of losing her again. If she tries to convince him that everything is okay, he will grit his teeth, accept her words, but anxiety will still remain inside. Because for Mydei, she is the most precious thing in his life. And if someone risks repeating this mistake... he will not leave even ashes.

• On the outside, he would look absolutely cold-blooded, his voice even, his movements precise, but his eyes would betray hidden rage and anxiety. He did not like to show emotions, but at this moment his mind was working at its limit.

• Even if there is chaos around, he will instantly organize a rescue operation. If there are healers nearby, he will force them to act immediately, if not, he will use all his knowledge to minimize the damage in order to help her, his beloved.

• Sarcasm as a way to cope with emotions. While treating her wound, he can say something like: "Are you seriously considering testing what it is like to be a subject of a survival study? I'm sorry, this is bad methodology."

• If someone dared to harm her, he will not forget. And he will not forgive. Whether he is a knower or not, but he is not a person who allows you to play with what is dear to him. He will take out his rifle without thinking.

• He may stand in front of her even if she insists she can handle it herself. “Even if you can protect yourself, I’d rather you didn’t. Leave it to me.”

• Once she’s better, he’ll make changes to their lives. More threat analysis, more precautions. “You’re smart, but apparently not smart enough to avoid getting hurt. So I have to be smarter for both of us,” but when they’re alone, he’ll look at her with a seriousness that borders on tenderness: “If you ever decide to scare me like that again… at least let me know in advance.”

• He may freeze for the first few seconds, but only for a moment. His eyes will flash with worry, but his face will remain cool. Everything inside him is turning over, but he will not allow himself to panic. He must act. He must help her.

• Phainon acts quickly and precisely - he either provides first aid himself or immediately carries her to the healers, not paying attention to those around him. If someone tries to stop him, he simply ignores them or abruptly pushes them away. Only she is important now.

• If the wound is inflicted by someone, then this becomes their sentence. Phainon may not say anything yet, but his gaze is grimly determined - he will remember the culprit and deal with this issue later. But first - her safety.

• When she is safe, he finally allows himself to relax a little. But instead of relief, he feels anger - at himself, at the situation, at the world that allowed her to suffer. He sits silently next to her, his fingers squeezing her palm, as if he is afraid that she will disappear. He won't say out loud how worried he was, but his fingers gently glide over the bandages, checking how serious the wound is. He doesn't want to press on her, but his touch will give away more than words. In this moment, it's as if he remembers that she is here, that she is alive.

• Even if he understands that he could not have prevented her from being injured, he will still blame himself. Phainon will look for ways to make sure this does not happen again - to strengthen his guard, to teach her protection, to keep her close. He does not want to see her blood anymore. And even after she recovers, he will sleep restlessly. He will dream of the moments when she was injured, and he will feel that cold inside again. Sometimes he will wake up and just look at her, checking that she is near, that she is breathing.

• Phainon will not say it out loud, but deep down he swears: no one will hurt her again. If for this he has to change the course of fate - he will do it. He is the one who rarely shows his emotions, but if his beloved is hurt, his care and concern become almost tangible. He always stays close, and his presence is a promise: he will not allow this to happen again.

[loveinhawkins]

picturing Dustin watching at the trailer park, right after Eddie says, “Hey, Steve? Make him pay.”

And for some reason Dustin’s reminded of ‘84, of his conversation with Steve on the railroad tracks, it’s like before it’s gonna storm, you know? You can’t see it, but you can feel it, like this, uh... electricity, you know?—although he’s grown enough to suspect that Steve might not know everything in that regard.

And it’s not electricity he senses, not exactly, but it’s definitely a storm of some kind: something fragile. Something—someone—that’s very scared.

Dustin’s running before he’s even registered his decision. “Steve!”

Steve turns around, and he already looks like he’s about to ask a question—something practical, like whether Dustin’s forgotten something—and Dustin feels a twist of regret, that that’s where Steve’s mind goes; yeah, they’re all ready for battle, so it makes sense, but…

Feeling suddenly very young, Dustin barrels into Steve and hugs him.

He hears Steve’s surprised inhale, his hesitancy, before he returns the hug in full force.

For a little while, it’s like the world narrows down to only this. No ash in the air, no nightmarish red in the sky. Just the two of them.

Dustin’s about to pull away when he feels Steve’s chin dig into the top of his head. Hears him sniff, very quietly, like he’s trying to hide it; and that makes Dustin think of the tunnels, or afterwards, really, when Steve held onto him with shaking hands, kept saying, “We’re okay, we’re okay.”

So he just keeps hugging back.

Steve’s the one to let go; he’s smiling, but he looks a little sad too, forehead creased with worry.

“I need a ride tomorrow,” Dustin says.

Steve huffs. “Oh, yeah? Where to?”

Dustin taps his nose obnoxiously. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

It’s bullshit, of course; Dustin doesn’t need a ride anywhere.

Steve rolls his eyes, but some tightness in his jaw finally eases. “God, you’re such a dick.”

“Bright and early, Steve!” Dustin adds smugly. “Five am!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, waving him off, and for a moment it’s like they’re just in the school parking lot. He looks as if he’s about to say something else, then thinks better of it—glances back to where Robin and Nancy are waiting. He pulls Dustin in with one arm, a brief but tight hold. Nods, as if to himself. “Go on, scram.”

Dustin runs back to the trailer with a stitch in his side but a smile on his face. He knows it’s naive to think he can fix everything, but in this moment at least some part of the universe has been righted, even while in The Upside Down.

Eddie’s standing right where he left him, like he’s been frozen the whole time.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “is he, uh… is he okay?”

Dustin’s reminded that of course, Steve isn’t the only one who’s scared.

“Yeah, he will be,” he says, which he thinks is a more accurate answer than a simple yes or no.

It’s funny how life works, he muses while gathering supplies for the trailer defences. There’s no way he’d have thought even a week ago that Eddie would be sincerely asking him about Steve’s well-being. Whenever he happened to bring Steve up at Hellfire, Eddie would imitate him in a comedic falsetto, “Oh, Steve this, Steve that.”

For a minute, Eddie remains rooted to the spot, still staring in the direction of where Steve went—like he’d watched helplessly as Steve walked into the eye of a storm or something.

“You just gonna stand there and gawk?” Dustin says.

Eddie snorts. “So rude, Henderson.”

And it’s not like Dustin really knows, not when Steve and Eddie are still barely dancing around it themselves. Still, he can pick up on some things.

Like when they’ve finished setting up everything, waiting for the go-ahead for Eddie to start playing his guitar—to pass the time, they recount the high points of the day, keep it light. It’s a practice Eddie used to implement after campaigns.

And look, Dustin’s damn good at picking up on patterns. Like, he loves Steve, but he’s pretty sure the reality of him driving the hotwired RV doesn’t quite match up to how Eddie’s currently waxing lyrical about it.

He’s making it sound like it was something outta James Bond, Dustin thinks, when he’s sure Steve drove right into several trash cans.

Suddenly he knows exactly what he should do.

“Steve this, Steve that,” he sing-songs.

Eddie flushes; Dustin cackles.

“Fuck off,” Eddie says, but he’s smiling as Dustin keeps laughing, like he knows there’s nothing mean-spirited in it. He keeps going, Steve this, Steve that, talking right over Dustin’s teasing—somehow finding even more moments where Steve truly shines.

And Dustin doesn’t know everything, not even close, but at the very least, he knows that this feels right.

[lanormie]

blipped - mcu crossover au (pt. 1)

what if? the event of Thanos snap happened in the BNHA universe? you're forced to navigate the aftermath of The Blip, where half of the population get thrown back into existence after disappearing for five years. pairing: pro-hero!Shouto x f!pro-hero!reader (ft. slight katsuki x reader) read on AO3 pt. 2

“You’re distracted.”

Shouto’s even tone echoes throughout the training ground. Normally the fake terrains and obstacles would absorb all the sounds uttered within the large underground stadium, but considering the fact that he just wiped the floor with you and knocked everything over, he doesn’t have to raise his voice to remind you that your game has been way off since yesterday.

“I know, I know. Ugh.” You groan out from somewhere under the rubble. “Woah, watch your step, Sho.” You squeak as something starts to press down on the thick layer of debris that is blanketing you. The extremely light material is not a concern, but with the weight of your tall friend added, your spine might file a complaint. 

“Oh. My apology.” Shouto swiftly backs off from his search, opting to wait for you to hurl the rubble aside using your telekinesis instead. Seeing that you are making no effort to stand back up, he sighs and sits down on a nearby fake boulder. “He’ll be back soon, you know.”

“It’s not that.” You shake your head. You are at this point quite used to your boyfriend being on missions that lasted weeks or even months. You would find yourself being on the other end too sometimes – just the bread and butter of being a pro-hero. “Don’t you think it’s weird that the Commission demanded every single agency to send someone on an emergency trip to Wakanda? They were even picked up by a helicarrier.”

“It certainly has something to do with the Avengers.” Shouto quietly muses, mostly to himself. 

“Exactly!” You throw your arms up in exasperation. “Like when’s the last time they weren’t involved in some world ending event?” Your voice goes quiet as well, a million grim scenarios flashing behind your eyes.

Shouto silently watches as you take a breath and slowly sit up, leftover pieces of debris rolling off of you and dropping on the ground in sad little clacks.

He’s never been good at deciphering moods, but oddly enough, you have always been an exception. Perhaps having been close friends since you were both snot-nosed kindergarteners plays a role in helping him read you like an open book. And said book is currently telling him that no amount of training shall be accomplished today. 

“Katsuki is tough,” He pipes up. “He’ll be just fine. Come on.” He stands up and holds his hand out. You take it and start to stand up. “Let’s go get some hot choco–”

You suddenly lose momentum as your hand grasps at nothing but dust. You don’t even feel the impact of falling back down onto the ground as you watch his whole form disintegrate into tiny particles. 

“Sho? Shouto!!”

Shooting back up to reach for the mass of flying ash that hasn't yet disappeared, you immediately fall down again. What is going on? Why are my legs giving out?! You look down and your eyes widen at the sight of your limbs quickly turning into gray dust. There’s a high pitched ringing in your ears for a split second before all sounds are abruptly cut off, and you slip into nothingness.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Static.

.

Light.

.

Air.

.

Weight.

.

Some kind of muffled noise squeezing its way into your ears.

.

You hit the ground hard as the pile of rubble under you is no longer there. It knocks all your senses back into place and immediately you hear yelling and multiple boots running towards you.

“Holy shit?! Y/N! Shouto!”

…huh? Shouto? Shouto!

You snap your head up and let out a relieved exhale when you see your two-toned friend in one piece, slowly pushing himself off the ground before being thrown into a bone-crushing hug from a blur of red.

Before you can make out who it is, you get lifted off the ground by the torso and find yourself in your own bone crushing hug, familiar pink curls tickling your nose. Their owner sobs into your hair, broken strings of repeated ‘you’re alive’ and ‘we missed you’ mumbled between sniffles. You hesitantly run your hand up and down her back to offer comfort as questions start to rise in the back of your head.

“Hey Mina.” You squeak out, trying to figure out what question to ask first. When did she get here? Why is she crying?

Did she get taller?

You look over to Shouto as the blur of red pulls back to reveal someone who scarily resembles Kirishima, though much more massive and with much longer hair that gets tied up in a ponytail. The man struggles between cackling and crying as he reaches for the comms in his ear.

“Anyone copy? They’re back. Guys–” He takes a shaky and congested inhale. “Shouto and Y/N are bac– No I’m not fucking with you. Simulation Dome, right now.”

Mina finally pulls back from you and quickly joins the comms. “Guys wait! Somebody check Denki’s old office please!” 

While they’re going back and forth into their earpiece, you and Shouto exchange a confused glance. Then all of a sudden, you are acutely aware of your surroundings. 

You’re not even sure you’re in the same training ground anymore. What used to look like a giant black box theater is now decked out in highly realistic props, expensive looking crane bots moving about repairing things and dismantling set pieces. The operation booth is no longer off to a corner and is now behind a massive glass wall, hanging above one end of the stadium. How did we afford all this? We’re a scrappy agency run by scrappy 20 year olds!

The entrance to the dome is kicked open and a bunch of familiar faces storm in, including Denki who looks like a lost puppy as he’s being carried in bridal style by a teary Sero. As Mina and Kiri zoom over to further crowd Denki, you zero in on a pair of crimson eyes. 

You both freeze in place.

Your boyfriend looks so, so different. His features are even sharper than before. There are scars on his face that weren’t there when you last saw him. A new but somehow already fading tattoo peeks out from under his shirt collar. He doesn’t seem much taller, but he’s bulkier than the Katsuki you used to know.

And he’s staring at you like he’s seen a ghost.

Just how long have you been gone for?

You felt something resembling time passing while you were stuck in that entropy, but you aren’t sure of the exact amount.

Doesn’t matter, you deduced, the important thing is that he is alive after whatever mission it was with the Avengers. 

Before you know it, your feet take you one, then two steps, then the next dozen steps towards him. Closing the distance by wrapping your arms around his neck, you feel him stiffen as he takes short and stuttered breaths. Trying not to dwell on it, you croak into his chest.

“Hi Kats.” 

He doesn’t reply for a moment and remains impossibly still in your grasp. Anxiety threatens to prickle your throat before you chalk it up to him being in shock, if Mina and Kiri’s reaction a few minutes ago is anything to go by. 

After a few excruciating seconds, his hands finally come up to rest on your back. 

“Hi.” He whispers, breathless.

The hands on your back quickly abandon their hesitant touch and start bunching your shirt in their tight fist as his arms squeeze you in an iron grip. You relish in his comforting sugary scent as he smushes his face into your hair, it becoming damper and damper with each of his deep inhales and exhales. 

“Kats, how long have I–”

“Guys! What’s going on?” An unfamiliar female voice rings out from near the entrance.

Katsuki abruptly untangles from you and drags a hand down his face to roughly wipe the salty trail of tears. The hand stops in front of his mouth as his eyes dart away from your questioning gaze.

“Our blipped friends came back!” Kiri exclaims from the commotion around Denki and Shouto as he lifts a hand to wave the person over. “Come say hi!” He turns back towards the crowd and as soon as you make eye contact, he suddenly seems to realize something and his sunny expression immediately drops.

The owner of the unfamiliar voice treads forward and you’re met with lovely teal eyes and equally lovely teal tresses. She offers Denki and Shouto a bright smile as everyone simultaneously tries to introduce them to each other, resulting in a cacophony of sounds which you could only pick out the word “sidekick” from.

She starts walking over to you and Katsuki visibly gulps. Before you can utter a word of greeting, she gently reaches for Katsuki’s hand and your stomach free falls into the core of the Earth. 

No. There’s no way.

You feel your back ice over as you stare at where their hands connect. You see her uncomfortably shift her weight for a bit until she looks over to Katsuki in question, but you make no effort to look away. After what feels like hours, Katsuki clears his throat.

“Michiko, this is Y/N. Y/N, this– um,” he pauses for something, then decides to go through with it. “This is Michiko, my fiance.”

Your eyes snap up to his, begging the fuck out of his pardon. Fiance? Fiance?!

“I’m sorry what?”

The ringing in your ears returns and it feels like you’re being sucked into nothingness again.

Katsuki opens his mouth to say something, but an alarm blaring from the loudspeakers quickly cuts everyone off. 

“Emergency. All hands on deck. Report to team leader in 60 seconds. Emergency. All hands on deck. Report to team leader in 60 seconds. Emergency.” 

On a normal day the sound would snap you out of any trance and get you to your feet, but this time you can’t bring yourself to move. Numbness has completely taken over.

As everyone rushes out, saved for you and Shouto, Katsuki lingers at the doorway for a moment before he speaks.

“We’ll talk after I get back. Stay here.” He peers at you with an expression that’s almost pleading. “Please?”

He grimaces when you don’t answer, and hurries away.

You don’t stay. You can’t stay.

Ignoring Shouto’s call for you, you head for the other exit and make a run for the only place you can be alone. Home.

this is my 1st fic plz be very gentle 👉👈 (eng is not my 1st language u could probably tell)

[reveriebae]

Roxanne

pairing(s) : Jung Wooyoung x reader

word count : 1834

summary : Wooyoung falls for a woman who only uses him for temporary escape, caught in a toxic, one-sided relationship. Despite his growing feelings, she remains detached, leaving him heartbroken each time. He craves more, but she continues to walk away, unable to return his love. Despite the pain, Wooyoung keeps letting her in, unable to break free from the cycle.

genre : smut, angst

warning(s) : Explicit sexual content, friend with benefits, emotional manipulation, one-sided love, heartbreak, toxic relationship, degradation, physical roughness.

A/N : first time writing like this, might never try it again lmao

part of Songfic

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐smut under the cut🪐

Wooyoung never meant to fall. He swore he wouldn’t. This was supposed to be easy—no strings, no promises, just the raw need between them burning up the nights. But somewhere between the taste of her lips and the way she whispered his name in the dark, he lost himself.

And she? She never felt the same.

For her, this was just another fix, another fleeting moment of escape. Wooyoung was warm, familiar, reliable—but never enough. Not the way he wanted to be.

He knew it the night she pulled him close, her breath hot against his ear as she moaned his name, but her eyes were empty. Detached. Like he was just another body, just another high.

And when it was over—when the heat faded and the silence crept in—she was already slipping out of his bed, reaching for her clothes like nothing had happened. Like he didn’t just give her every piece of himself.

“Where are you going?” His voice cracked, but he didn’t care.

She didn’t even look at him as she zipped up her dress. “You know how this works, Woo.”

His heart clenched. He hated that nickname now. Hated the way it felt like a leash keeping him tied to her, when all she did was walk away.

“Stay,” he whispered, desperate.

She paused, turning to face him. For a second—just a second—he thought he saw something there. But then she smiled, that same unreadable, cruel smile, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Don’t make this harder than it is,” she murmured.

And then she was gone.

Leaving Wooyoung alone, drowning in the love she never returned.

---

Wooyoung knew he was screwed the moment he started craving more.

It started subtly—small things he didn’t even notice at first. The way he’d wait for her texts like some lovesick fool, how he started canceling plans with his friends just in case she called. He told himself it was just about the sex, that he was just addicted to the way she felt beneath him, the way she sighed his name like he was the only thing keeping her grounded.

But then came the nights when he’d catch himself watching her sleep, memorizing the way the moonlight kissed her bare skin. The way his fingers would trace the curve of her hip, desperate to hold onto something fleeting. The way he started to hate the way she always left before morning.

Tonight was no different.

She was standing in front of his window, cigarette between her fingers, eyes staring blankly into the city lights. Her bare back was illuminated by the neon glow, every inch of her carved into his memory like a cruel work of art.

“You don’t have to go,” he murmured from the bed, his voice thick with something he didn’t want to name.

She exhaled smoke slowly, watching it curl into the air. “You know that’s not how this works.”

Wooyoung clenched his jaw. “Then let’s change the rules.”

She turned to him then, her expression unreadable, but her lips curled into that same damn smirk she always wore when he started to crack. Like she could see right through him, see how pathetic he was for wanting her like this.

“You’re getting attached,” she mused, flicking the ash into the tray beside his desk.

He sat up, gripping the sheets. “And you’re not?”

Silence.

She tilted her head, considering, then shrugged. “I need you.”

The words should’ve made his heart race, should’ve been enough. But he knew what she meant. She needed him like a drug—something temporary, something to take the edge off. Not something to love.

His throat felt tight. “I don’t want to be something you just use.”

She walked over to him slowly, her bare legs brushing against the sheets as she climbed onto the bed, straddling his lap. Her fingers slid into his hair, tilting his head back so he had no choice but to look at her.

“But you like it,” she whispered, lips ghosting over his. “Don’t you, Wooyoung?”

His breath hitched.

God, he hated her. Hated the way she knew exactly how to break him, how to make him weak with just a touch. He should’ve pushed her away, should’ve told her to leave if she wasn’t going to give him what he wanted.

But when she kissed him—slow and teasing, her nails scratching lightly down his chest—he forgot how to say no.

Because she was right.

He liked it.

Even if it killed him.

Her lips were poison, and Wooyoung drank every drop like a fool who never learned his lesson.

The second she kissed him, his hands were on her—gripping her waist hard enough to bruise, dragging her down against him, making sure she felt how much she wrecked him. She gasped into his mouth, but it wasn’t a protest. It was a dare. A challenge.

So he took it.

He flipped her onto the bed, pinning her down with his weight, his hands already sliding between her thighs. No teasing, no waiting—just raw, consuming need. He shoved her legs apart, swallowing the little moan she gave, and for a second, he let himself believe she felt something too.

Her nails dug into his back as he pressed against her, grinding his hips in slow, punishing rolls. She was already wet for him—of course she was. She always was. But tonight, it wasn’t enough. He needed more. Needed her to break for him, needed to hear her beg like maybe, just maybe, she needed him the way he needed her.

“Say my name,” he growled against her skin, biting down on her neck hard enough to leave a mark. A reminder.

She arched under him, her breath hitching, but she didn’t say it. Instead, she smirked, her fingers threading through his hair, yanking his head back. “Getting needy, baby?”

Wooyoung saw red.

His hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her gasp, her pupils dilating as she looked up at him. “Say it,” he ordered, voice low, shaking.

She licked her lips, and then, finally— “Wooyoung.”

His control snapped.

He shoved into her in one deep thrust, his name still on her tongue as she gasped, nails raking down his back. He didn’t give her time to adjust, didn’t give her a second to catch her breath—he just took. Pounding into her with a desperation that felt too much like love, chasing the high he knew would never be enough.

She met him stroke for stroke, her legs wrapping around his waist, her moans getting louder, filthier. His grip on her throat tightened, his other hand grabbing her thigh, spreading her open even wider for him. He wanted to ruin her. Wanted to make her remember this—remember him.

But deep down, he knew.

She would leave, just like she always did. And he’d let her.

“Tell me you want me,” he breathed against her lips, his pace brutal, relentless. “Tell me you need me.”

She didn’t answer at first, just gasped as he hit that spot that made her shudder beneath him. And then, finally— “I need you.”

Lies.

But they tasted so fucking sweet.

He fucked her through her release, chasing his own, his body trembling as the pleasure mixed with the ache in his chest. He came with her name on his lips, burying himself deep inside her, hoping—praying—this time, maybe she’d stay.

But when it was over, the silence was deafening.

He didn’t move, his forehead resting against hers, his breath still uneven. He was too scared to open his eyes. Too scared to see that familiar emptiness in hers.

She was the one who pulled away first.

He felt her shift beneath him, the warmth of her body slipping away as she climbed out of bed. The sound of her zipper echoed in the quiet room, each click another crack in his already shattered heart.

Wooyoung clenched his jaw. “Don’t.”

She stilled for a moment, but then— “You know how this works, Woo.”

The nickname made him flinch.

He forced himself to look at her, forced himself to take in the way she stood there, already detached, already halfway gone. She wasn’t his. She never was.

But fuck, he wanted her to be.

His fingers curled into the sheets. “I love you.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

For the first time, she hesitated. Her expression wavered, just for a second, and he thought— maybe.

But then she smiled.

Soft. Pitying.

And walked out the door.

Leaving Wooyoung in the wreckage of everything he was stupid enough to feel.

The door clicked shut, and silence swallowed the room whole.

Wooyoung stayed where he was, lying in the mess of tangled sheets and fading warmth, his body still buzzing from the aftershocks of pleasure. But the second she left, it all turned cold.

He let out a shaky breath, running a hand over his face.

I love you.

He actually said it.

The words hung heavy in the air, mocking him, repeating over and over in his head like a cruel joke. He should’ve never let them slip. Should’ve swallowed them down, buried them deep where they belonged—just like she did.

She didn’t even say anything back.

Not I love you, too. Not even I’m sorry.

Just a smile.

A fucking smile before she walked away.

Wooyoung sat up slowly, his fingers gripping his hair, tugging at the roots in frustration. He could still smell her in his sheets, feel the ghost of her touch on his skin. But it was all temporary.

Just like her.

He forced himself to get up, to walk to the window where she had been standing just minutes ago. The city lights stretched out before him, bright and endless, but all he could see was her.

He imagined her slipping into someone else’s bed tomorrow night, moaning someone else’s name, letting another man touch her the way only he was supposed to.

His stomach twisted.

He should hate her. He should fucking hate her.

But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was the way she looked beneath him—cheeks flushed, lips parted, his name falling from her tongue like it meant something. Even if it never did.

His jaw clenched.

She took everything from him, and he let her. Again. And again. And again.

Wooyoung grabbed the half-finished cigarette she left in the tray, lighting it with shaking hands. The taste was bitter, foreign—but at least it burned. At least it made him feel something.

As he exhaled the smoke, he let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

She was never coming back.

And even if she did—

He’d still let her in.

No matter how much it fucking killed him.

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 131 (The Gold Medallion)

Heather and Spencer were both grateful when the antidote arrived by morning. Spencer met a local merchant near the cantina for the medicine while Heather stayed in bed to rest. Once she drank it she felt better, if still a little nauseous, but after lunch the girls decided to venture to the museum.

They set up a few dig sites and found a few relics, but when the sun got too hot, the women changed into sundresses.

Finally, the sun was so hot they gave up digging and took shelter inside the museum. Walking through different rooms to view the priceless artifacts on display, Heather stopped when her phone beeped with an incoming text.

Suri keeps talking about getting married after her Aunt Elsa's death and I think she's going to propose to me. What should I say?!?

(I know that's not what the pop up says, but if I make these canon, they can't all be the same scenario as a ring in a bag!)

Heather was surprised to learn Hazel and Suri were already thinking about marriage, and she didn't feel equipped to offer advice one way or another.

This is a big decision and you should decide this for yourself, Dandelion. Love you.

She thought her answer more than sufficient, but Hazel was clearly upset and texted back quickly.

I thought I could really rely on you for life advice, sis. If I knew what to do, I wouldn't have to ask.

Heather frowned. That definitely could have gone better.

"Hey Heather, come in here. Come look at this."

She put her phone away and found Spencer in a stone-walled room, standing before a diamond-studded gold medallion inside a glass display. A plaque on the wall revealed the medallion's inscription - found deep inside the Selvadoradian jungle decades earlier, the medallion was inscribed "A gift from Malcom A. Landgraab to Lady Victorine Goth."

Spencer chuckled. "A Lady Goth and a Landgraab? That's a wild combination."

Heather froze. "Lady Victorine Goth and Malcolm A. Landgraab? How old is this necklace?"

"They think it's from the early 20th Century," Spencer read. "Malcolm A. Landgraab was a rancher out west, and Lady Victorine Goth was Lady Ravendancer before her marriage, one of the world's most powerful spellcasters who published a book of spells. But both were married to other people and there's no evidence they ever knew each other."

"Other than this necklace," Heather mused. "I should ask Mortimer Goth about it. Maybe he knows something about them."

"Do you think it'll have something to do with the curse?"

Heather shrugged. "Hopefully there's no curse, but if there is, and it does have something to do with it, I have to know more for Ash's sake."

Despite taking the antidote, Heather still felt feverish and fatigued. They headed back to the rental so she could take a nap, and Spencer took the time to analyze some of her new artifacts.

By dinnertime, Heather was feeling peckish, so they returned to the square for a nice evening in town with the locals. Heather remembered Conrad's fear that they could run into members of Los Tigres de Selva, but she was feeling well enough to really enjoy herself and didn't want to waste the opportunity.

The night was warm, so they both dressed accordingly. On the way into the square, Spencer made an offering to the statue of Madre Cosecha, a Selvadoradian custom.

"She helped settle this place during a time of great famine," explained Spencer. "A true hero. Hopefully she can help keep us safe on our temple dig tomorrow."

Heather smiled. "We should stock up on more supplies, anyway. She would want us to protect ourselves and I don't need another spider bite."

They enjoyed arepas under the lights and chatted proudly about their kids. "Violet gets into everything, and she's got her older brothers wrapped around her grubby little fingers."

"She sounds a lot like Lavender. One minute she's sitting quietly looking through a book, and the next minute she's tearing through the bookshelf. And Ash has me convinced I could design an adventure game featuring stray pets. I even reached out to a philanthropist who loves to help game developers as a hobby named Cal Anthony, Jr. Suri actually recommended him - he's married to her mother's cousin, Olivia - but he said this was totally doable and he'd be happy to mentor me anytime. I think I might actually do it. I even have a name - Furever Friends: Stray Valley. I couldn't decide which I liked better so I added a colon to use both!"

"That sounds amazing, Heather. I'm sure my kids would love to play a game like that! How are things with you and Ash's dad these days?"

"As good as they've ever been, probably. Even when we dated. It's sort of strictly professional between us, but Ash comes home happy from spending time with Malcolm's family, so I can't complain. I guess they just got a new puppy, too."

"The kids won't stop trying to convince us to get another dog," Spencer moaned. "I think we're hoping to change their minds with a hamster, if anything."

When they finished eating, they moved to the cantina, where Heather decided to autonomously mix drinks at the crowded bar. Spencer danced the Selvadoradian rhumba in the courtyard while she talked Omiscan mythology with the locals. She was an expert in Selvadoradian customs after all her time spent in the temples and among the people, and she never tired of talking about the secrets of Selvadorada's past.

Their night continued until Heather began to feel feverish and fatigued again. Though the antidote had seemed to work, the women didn't want to take any chances and called it a night.

As long as Heather was feeling well enough, they had a temple to explore before returning home. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

Landgraab Curse you say?! More on that, here, if you want to know more.

A massive shout out to @opalsimmer and @berrysims-lp, whose sims Lucia, Silas, Neve, and Terrell first saw this medallion inside the Selvadorada museum! I recreated it in my game with @opalsimmer's help and intend to explore this mysterious Landgraab/Goth lore. (Uncovering some family secrets, of course!)

And thank you @oimygiblets for letting me make Calivia Forever canon even though your story takes place about three decades before mine!! And @opalsimmer and @matchalovertrait for naming Heather's video game! 🙌🙌🙌

[bullet-prooflove]

The Golden Notebook - Endeavour Morse x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @caffeinatedwoman @lieutenantcrosby @to-grow-in-and-to-love @gwyn73

Companion piece to:

Next Time - Morse doesn't expect to meet his soulmate on the lawn at Oxford.

La Petit Mort - Morse and you share your first kiss in the rain.

California Dreaming - Morse turns up at your classroom to discuss the night you spent together.

The Detective & The Professor - You and Morse turn heads at a university event.

What’s In A Name - Morse refuses to tell you his first name.

Bruises - You see to Morse's care after a beating.

Every day Morse falls a little bit more in love with you.

Sometimes it’s something as simple as the way you say his name, not Morse, not Endeavour but Ed, the one you gave him.

Today it’s the way you move, the confidence of it, the grace. You’re standing at the front of the lecture hall with your hands tucked into the pockets of those red high waisted trousers as you listen to one of your students discuss The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing.

He’s read it before, pilfering it from your bookshelf when you were heading to one of your morning classes. It’s a powerful account of a woman searching for her personal, political and professional identity amid the trauma of emotional rejection and sexual betrayal. He thinks it could have been about you in another life, if you hadn't had the fortitude or strength to do what you did.

He's drawn out of his thoughts by the sound of your voice, the light assertive tone you use as you describe the main character’s inevitable breakdown. This is the side of the coin he’d never considered before he met you, the constraints that bind women into their roles, the pressure to conform. You’re supposed to play the good wife, the one with the three bairns and a well kept home, pretend the whole thing isn’t driving you quietly mad.

“It’s what my father wanted for me,” You’d told him as you stared at the ceiling, smoking a cigarette in bed. “I was supposed to marry the boy he picked out for me. While everyone was waiting for me at the church, I packed and took the train to Oxford, stayed with my aunt who was librarian at the university before I received a scholarship to read literature.”

“A runaway bride? You do continue to surprise me.” He muses, the edges of his mouth tipping up as he watches the smoke curl in the air. “Did your father ever forgive you?”

“No.” You say as you lean across him, tapping the ash into the ceramic black ashtray on the nightstand. “He disowned me because of the embarrassment. The day the interview  about my role in the new women’s rights movement came out, he bought all of the newspapers in the village and burned them in the back garden. He didn’t want the neighbours knowing that he couldn’t get control of his daughter.”

“He was a fool, thinking that you were anything less than a force of nature.” He says as he steals the cigarette from between your fingers and takes a drag.

“You really do believe that don’t you?” You say in a rare moment of vulnerability. He can see how much it means to you, his words. You’d spent so long alone before him that you’re not used to the affection that comes with loving someone.

“I think you are the most ferocious, beautiful, forthright woman I’ve ever known.” He tells you, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray so he can give you the attention you deserve. “And I am very lucky to have you in my life.”

Your cheeks had coloured then, turning the prettiest shade of apricot he’s ever seen and you bury your face into his chest to hide it.

“You’ve gone all shy on me now.” He'd smiled, his palm soothing over your hair. “That will never do.”

He tickles you then and the sound of your laughter in that moment, it had lit up his entire world.

It’s the stirring of the young women around him that makes him realise the lecture is over. They’re already in the midst of gathering their things, moving onto the next class. He waits until they vacate the room entirely before he raises to his feet and descends down the steps.

“I thought I saw you sneak in the back.” You say, your fingertips chasing over the lapels of his suit jacket when he appears before you. “Come to broaden your mind did you?”

“I did read the source material.” He informs you, his thumb tracing over the apple of your cheek as he looks into your eyes. “One day you’ll convert me to the cause.”

There is no doubt between the two of you that he’s already a feminist, he may tease you or debate the finer points but he believes wholeheartedly in equality. The problem is it’s a battle, a bloody, relentless war and he wonders how long it will take until you’re in the firing line of the same unsavoury characters who don’t want the world to change.

He can’t stand the thought of that, the idea of someone hurting you for your beliefs, of taking you away from him. The loss of you from his life, it would absolutely destroy him.

“You’ve have a very serious expression on your face right now.” You remark, your fingertip smoothing over the space between his brows to ward away the worry line. “Did something happen?”

“No, nothing’s happened.” He says, capturing your hand and clasping it to the side of his face “I just wanted to see you is all. I know it’s been a couple of days with my shifts and everything. I just wanted you to know I was thinking about you.”

“And what Detective Morse have you been thinking about?” You tease, your nose trailing lightly over his so your mouths are barely apart.

“That it’s been too long since I’ve tasted you.” He murmurs, his lips ghosting over yours. “Could we go to your office, lock the door for the next hour?”

“Oh Ed, you going to ruin me aren’t you?”  You whisper, your fingers tangling in his curls and his breath hitches as you tug just hard enough to send a flush of heat ricocheting through his body.

“It’s going to be right here if you’re not careful.” He mumbles and you smile as you take his hands in yours, guiding him back towards the desk with that mischievous look on your face.

“Alright then Ed.” You say as his hips slot perfectly against yours. “Let’s do it right here.”

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[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Aemond listening to the reader? Testing her knowledge and conflict resolution skills? Testing her intelligence and ability to help ? OOF, pussy purring. Hehe, here's another chapter, Enjoy <3

Chapter 95: An Offering 

The intimate Dining Hall was full of the Small Council, but instead of the usual calm and relaxed chatter amongst each other, there was tension and unease that spread like wildfire across the table.

It was something you had not quite seen before.

“The rising rebellions can be seen as just an act of the small folk fighting amongst each other.” Ser Otto Hightower argued, looking at Lord Jasper Wylde across the table with something that couldn’t be described as anything else but exacerbation. 

They had been going at it for quite some time, back and forth, all the while, Aemond and yourself watched on silently with the King. 

“And what could be said for the tradesmen who travelled up the Red Fork, only to be commandeered by a small fleet of fishing boats ‘by order of the King’.” Lord Jasper Wylde snapped, cutlery crossed over his half eaten meal.

“Rhaenyra and her council will have to see reason, and know that there were no orders for such an attack.” Otto replied stiffly, eyes flitting over to you, then back to the Master of Law.

Jasper Wylde gave a mirthless laugh, “You expect her and her rabid husband to accept such a thing? They will see this as an act of war. There will be retaliation!”

You frowned, hands twisting against your cutlery at the insult thrown at your father.

“Then let us go to war.” Aegon said boredly, twirling the goblet of ale in his hand, “We have the largest dragon. It is not as if we aren’t waging a silent one with my half-sister and her bastards. We already have her prized daughter here as a bartering piece.”

The taste of copper filled your mouth as you bit your tongue.

“We cannot afford another war.” Otto sneered at his grandson, “To expect that we can would be a farce.”

Aegon sighed loudly, and leant back in his chair, “Then hang the men responsible.”

Lord Wylde all but spluttered into his cup, “And show our men that we see their loyalty as a crime? Your Grace, we must treat this with the utmost delicacy. We already stand on razors edge, one false dip could send us careening over a side that we cannot come back from. Rhaenyra has more support from noble Houses and the common folk than we do. And as it stands, they have the numbers.”

A throbbing headache began to bloom behind your eyes at the constant bickering of men who, for reasons unknown but the cock between their legs, had more power than you. You rested your elbows on the table and rubbed your face with you hands, sighing.

“And we have Aemond.” Aegon mused, sipping his ale, “Brother, I think it is time you see to the rebellions in Riverrun.”

“Your Grace-“ Aemond began, your eyes snapping up to him as your heart began to thump in your chest.

He was going to be sent away again.

“You will treat with the common people and the Lords of the noble Houses at Riverrun who are loyal to me. See to it that you ease their concerns and answer their questions.”

Aemond's jaw ticked.

Aegon smiled at the table, clapping his hands together, “Right, that settles it then. The Prince will go speak with the people.”

Lord Jasper leant forward on the table, “A great bloody war dragon seen flying atop Rhaenyra’s lands could be seen as a threat or act of defiance. Sending Aemond and having him be seen to be treating-“

“- Hasn't stopped him from flying to Harrenhal to fuck his whore. Dead whore, sorry.” Aegon turned to face Aemond, who was still beside you, “We have trade boats go up the Red Fork, do we not?”

“Yes.” Aemond spat.

“Then make it seem as though you are doing business. Talk about taxes or whatever you spoke to me of the other day.” The King's hand fluttered in the air in irritation and dismissal.

Arrogant Cunt.

Aemond’s jaw clicked audibly, and you did not move to console him with his hand as you usually would. You left him to sit in his anger whilst you sat with yours, hands pressed together in a tight ball atop the table.

“This could take some time to find the men responsible and speak with them.” Aemond began, tone clipped, “If they have travelled back down the Red Fork, who is to know where they may be.”

“Then you best hurry and find them.” Aegon snipped, patience dwindling, and cup of ale empty.

“It may take more than a moons time.” Aemond’s voice came out as a growl.

“Then make quick work of it so it is not.”

Aemond sucked in a sharp breath, adams apple bobbing with the heavy swallow he took, “Might I take my Lady Wife with me for the journey. It would be good for the people to see-“

“-No.” Aegon smiled sweetly, “She is to stay in the Keep.”

“Your Grace-“ Lord Jasper Wylde began, but Aegon’s quick snap of his head to the Master of Law soon silenced him completely.

Your breaths came in short and broken stutters, panic rising inside of you. 

Aegon had been quiet too long. 

Far too long. 

And now, he had shown his hand.

Your palms began to sweat, and so you dropped them into your lap, wiping them against the skirts of your gown nervously.

Aemond was going again.

Perhaps, for a long time.

And although there was no whore to greet him, his absence would come at a cost.

Your safety.

You blinked angrily at the King before standing slowly, holding your smiling uncle’s gaze for a beat more before you turned on your heel, and left the chambers without so much as a word of goodbye.

The walk back to your chambers was a daze, and you did not even register that Aemond was following after you with quick and angry steps.

You moved into the chambers, moving to slam the doors shut, which Aemond caught with his fist, closing it behind him. Your heart raced in your chest as you breathed.

Panic.

Anger.

Fear.

“Don’t go.” You turned to face him, watching as he moved across the chambers angrily, chest rising and falling shallowly.

“Don’t go.” You repeated, voice steady.

Aemond watched you.

“He’s going to have me again. You know this, don’t you?” You breathed, trying to keep your composure, and swallow down the fear that climbed up your throat.

Aemond didn’t respond.

“Don’t you?” You sneered.

Aemond blinked, “I won’t let him.”

You shook your head agitatedly, “And how will you do that? You are leaving for more than a moons time! How in the Seven Hells do you expect to be able to keep him from me.”

"Mother knows-"

"Fuck your mother." You sneered, "She let him have me in the first place. She knew and she let him. Just like she has let him with all the other girls before me. With Helaena. With the maids. The young girls in Flea Bottom. Like how you are to let him."

"You think I want to fucking leave you here with that cunt?"

"You do naught else but obey his command like a fucking dog! You are his pet that he throws a bone to, and you wag your tail and thank him. Will you do jumps for him next?"

Aemond shot across the room, hand grabbing your chin roughly as his fingers pinched your skin, breath fanning across your face, "Do you enjoy pushing me to this? Pushing me to anger? Do you have any idea of what I could do to you?" His voice lowered.

"I know all too well of what you are capable of, and I also know what you are incapable of. Namely, keeping your wife safe from your brother. Standing up to the King who doesn't even do his fucking job. You are a slave to your family, and the only thing of value you have to them is your anger."

Aemond jerked your head away roughly, pain striking in the back of your neck as he sneered in your face, "And what of you? Clever remarks and snarky words with no real power? Do you expect me to kill him?"

"Yes. For I would have for you." You snapped, and Aemond's eye twitched, anger simmering dangerously, "I expect you to fucking do something. Anything! If he comes to me, Aemond, my blood is on your hands."

The One-Eyed Prince stood in the centre of your shared chambers, staring at you with a look you could not decipher. 

"Do you hear me?" You spat.

"Do you realise if I refuse his command, he will lock me away as a traitor, and then you will be left to him. Alone. And no one will be there to help you, or tell him no, or keep his depravity away. You do not know him as I do. You have not seen what he has done to others. His attack on you was nothing in comparison to what Helaena had faced. Do you know he watches his bastards in the fighting pits? Watching as he is pleasured by others. I am doing all I can to protect you."

You swallowed thickly, feeling fear prickle across your skin and in the back of your skull.

"You are not doing enough!"

"It will never be enough."

“Take me with you.” You stepped towards him, knee knocking against his, desperation on your lips, “Take me with you. I will ride with you. Do not leave me here.”

Aemond looked away, jaw tensed, “You know I cannot.”

You moved swiftly, grasping his hand to bring his gaze back to you, “Then let us run away together.”

Aemond’s violet eye locked onto your face, the iris alight with fire.

Your hand gripped his tightly, “Give me Vermithor. We can go where we want. Anywhere. Be who we want to be. Fuck duty. Fuck the Crown. Fuck it all. I only need you. Just you and me. We could go anywhere. Dorne. Essos. We could explore the world that has not yet been discovered. Start a new life together.” 

The Prince looked shocked. 

Shocked by your desperation. 

Shocked by your proposition. 

And shocked that you wished to take him with you.

“What holds us here but pain and misery? We could go anywhere we wanted. We ride the largest dragons in the world. Who could stop us? We could start anew. Start a family that isn’t threatened at every moment. No more war. No more Aegon. Just us.” The words kept tumbling from your lips before you could hold them back, like sand slipping between the cracks of your fingers.

“I promise you, he will not touch you.”

Scoffing you stepped back and away from him, snatching your hands away from his, eyes searching his face.

Anger rose above the fear. 

“And what are you going to do? Lock me in these chambers so that no one can come in nor out? Are my days to be spent in the walls? There is no preventing him from getting me. He is the King! The only way for him to not have me is if he was dead. And he’s not. You’re leaving me to be raped by him once more.”

You spun on your heel, feeling the betrayal of tears begin to prick at your eyes, “What if I become pregnant with his child? I cannot go through that again. My heart feels as though it is going to burst forth from my ribs. I am at the end of my rope, kepus. My blood is already on your hands.” 

You walked towards the bed sensing finalisation of what was to come, the cruelty, the abandonment, all of it. And it was too much to bear. You needed to be away. You needed to feel safe. You needed to breathe, and the gown around your body restricted you from doing so.

You ripped at the laces of your gown, letting it fall to the floor at your feet before climbing into the sheets in a desperate attempt to cover yourself and hide.

"You are condemning me to his will." You whispered, memories of his body atop yours flickering behind your eyelids, the sound of his grunts, the smell of his wine laced breath.

The tide overflowed, and tears began to fall, small broken sobs being ripped from your chest. You curled onto your side, hugging your arms to yourself as you thought of what was to come. 

The inevitable. 

And there was nothing you could do. 

Nothing that he would do.

The bed dipped beneath Aemond’s weight as you cried, and the warmth of his arms surrounded you as he pulled you against him, tucking your head beneath his chin to let you cry. 

“This will be our undoing.” You cried, “It will ruin us.”

Aemond stayed quiet, and held you closer, the steady beat of his heart calming you only just.

Soon, you drifted to sleep, tears staining your cheeks in the arms of the man who would leave you to the cruelty of his brother come the morning.

And when the sun rose, and your eyes blinked open, you felt the grip around you tighten further, and the mumbling of your husbands voice atop your head. 

“…Se vīlībāzmio…Tepagon nyke kustikāne…Tepagon zirȳla… Kustikāne… Kepa… Dohaeragon…” The warrior... Give me strength.... Give her.... strength... Father... help...  

Aemond was praying.

“They won’t listen.” You murmured, “No matter how hard I pray, they won’t listen.”

Aemond’s chest rose beneath you, stilling, before he let out the rough breath.

You turned in his arms, face looking up to his, “Valzȳrys,” Husband, You whispered, “Kostilus.” Please.

Aemond’s lips twitched, the corners pulling down into a subtle frown. 

His answer.

I can't.

The lump you had swallowed in your sleep formed in the back of your throat again, and your eyes began to sting, "Jorrāelagon nyke istin tolī pār.” Love me once more then.

Once more before Aegon.

Once more before I die.

Once more before I throw myself from Maegor's Holdfast.

Once more to feel your love.

Aemond rolled you onto your back, climbing on top, not wasting a single moment after your request. It was rushed, it was raw, and he gripped your chemise and ripped it up and off your body to dive his fingers between your legs. 

And yet, you weren’t wet enough for him, fear and sorrow taking your mind elsewhere, so he took his fingers away and spat into his palm, rubbing his saliva over your cunt before pulling his cock out with the other hand.

You tilted your hips up to meet him, and Aemond slid inside of you in one quick movement. 

The stretch stung, but you revelled in the pain as he began to fuck into you quickly, frustration and anger wound tightly in the movement of his hips. You let the tip of his cock beat against the end of your walls and you clenched around him tightly, gasping in the sheets beneath.

His lips met your neck, kissing and sucking against the skin as he marked you, teeth nipping your throat as he continued to thrust against your walls. 

Aemond sped up, one hand snaking down your body to hike your leg up on his hip to piston himself deeper within you, low whines falling from your lips as you arched up into him, the familiar blooming of warmth settling in your gut.

The chambers were filled with the desperate slapping of his hips meeting yours, the soft slick sounds of your cunt squelching between you. 

“Fuck.” Aemond growled, pushing to the limit, his release coming on suddenly as he filled you up with his seed. 

You panted below him, your own release unattended to, and dwindling as he stilled within. You blinked up at the ceiling, Aemond’s head tucked into your shoulder as he breathed before he slowly slid out of your walls. 

You whimpered beneath him, feeling each ridge of his cock catch against the sensitive walls of your cunt. But instead of Aemond pulling out completely, he stilled, leaving the head of his cock within you before thrusting back inside, slower this time.

Your arms wrapped around his neck as he shuddered above you, pushing into your wet heat, his seed leaking down out of you and onto the bed below with each thrust.

His hips were pressed snug against you as he rolled, pelvis snagging your pearl with each roll, building your release inside.

“Avy jorrāelan.” I love you, He breathed into your neck, pressing wet kisses into the crux of your shoulder, “Shijetra nyke.” Forgive me.

You whined, tilting your hips to meet his with every thrust, feeling your release mount.

“Iksan vaoreznuni.” I’m sorry, "Shijetra nyke. Shijetra nyke.” Forgive me.

Forgive me.

Tears pricked at your eyes as you held him tightly against you, and soon the coil within you snapped, your body pressing up into him as you writhed beneath, his second peak being pulled from him by your fluttering walls.

You lay beneath him, quivering from your release, and feeling the warm glow seep from your body slowly, and coldness seep into your bones.

He was going.

The first tear fell, and then the next. 

They fell until you could not stop them, and they rolled down your cheeks fatly as you blinked up at the ceiling, chest heaving. 

Aemond pulled his neck and looked down at you from above, wiping the tears that fell from your eyes, “Nyke kivio.” I promise, The Prince cooed, letting you sob beneath him, still pressed inside of you,  “Nyke kivio, kesan sagon arlī aderī. Nyke kivio ao. Nyke kivigon naejot ao. Daorys kessa ōdrikagon ao hae bōsa hae iksā ñuhon.” 

I promise, I will be back soon. I promise you. I swear to you. No one shall harm you as long as you are mine.

You shifted beneath him, his softening cock sliding out from inside of you as you turned your head away from him, covering your face. His heat stayed above you for a moment, and then disappeared, the bed dipping as he moved out of it. 

This was it.

Aemond was leaving.

And Aegon would have you again. 

There was no escaping it. 

The sobs that fell from your lips were not hidden, or quiet, but filled the chambers loudly. It was the sorrow of being alone. The sorrow of what was to come. The inability to avoid it. The yearning for him to stay.

Shuffling moved about the chambers, and footsteps came to the side of the bed quickly. A hand pulled yours away from your face, and you blinked up at your husband who sat on the edge of the bed looking at you. 

He was dressed, and looked a blur of black leather from behind your tears. 

He was going to leave. 

He was leaving. 

Aemond whispered your name, twice, waiting for you to truly see him, and see what he was holding out to you. You blinked your eyes, clearing them of the tears as your vision cleared.

There, in the open palm of his wide and pale hand, skin raised beneath by the scar of your union, was a dagger.

Your eyebrows were drawn as you sat up in the bed, looking to your husbands impassive face and then back down to his palm.

“It's yours. Take it.” He whispered to you, “Please.”

The blade itself had the clear markings of Valyrian steel, its metal having its own distinct and cloud like pattern along the blade, a dark silver mottled with even darker flecks.

The handle however, was gold. 

Two dragons curled around each other on the hilt of the blade, their necks and tails almost chasing each other, never quite in reach. And in each claw was a stone.

One of onyx.

One of emerald.

The dragons mouths were opened, sharp pointed teeth bared to the world. 

You looked back up at Aemond.

“Perzys Ānogār.” He whispered.

Fire and Blood.

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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[alteredsilicone]

Reddit Post

"Glast is still Corpus, he still cares about profit, he's not going to turn down a trade when it doesn't directly conflict with his goals. His problem with the Corpus isn't that they are the bad guys, or too greedy...it's that they've become so directly obsessed with greed and ruthlessness that they've stopped being businessmen and have basically just turned into pirates.

For example, in the Glast Gambit, Nef Anyo almost destroys a long standing trade agreement between a colony and the Corpus because he only sees the value in what he can steal...not what the trade agreement itself is worth.

This is what Glast really hates...it's not about morals...it's about good business. Glast tries to push the system back towards stability and order, but it's not altruistic...it's because he believes that is the route to most profit and that Parvos is holding the whole of the Origin System's economy back by constantly sabotaging and stealing."

"Heh as a moral code. it's just one that directs him into believing in a sustainable ecosystem rather than a burn everything down and sell the ashes because after I'm gone fuck you approach"

Direct quote from the game (Nightwave Season 3, The Glassmaker):

Opportunity and Acuity, Protocols of The Perrin Sequence."'Create a problem then sell the solution!' No. To embrace Fraudulence is to embrace Idleness. Idleness creates dull minds. Dull minds fail. No. Opportunity is our watchlord. Opportunity and actuality."

"He is an entity that understands that war is often wasteful and force destroys the things you want."

Anyways, I am glad that once in a blue moon I see actual good analysis and understanding of what Ergo Glast and the Perrin Sequence stand for. He is Corpus, yes, but his whole shtick is that he sees creating artificial scarcity to exploit vulnerable people as a bad thing, unlike Corpus who are basically soft-Orokin in their desire to strip the world of every valuable it offers, consequences be damned. Corpus canonically sell materials to Grineer who then craft weapons to facilitate a never-ending war between the factions.

Ergo Glast believes that peace could be achieved through trade and negotiations, peaceful ones, where both parties benefit. The Perrin Sequence Railjack crewmate even muses that once you understand the language someone else speaks, it becomes much harder to plant an ax in their face. Thus - communication is key to peace.

You can dislike it because you dislike capitalism or whatever, but I still want people to at least try to understand his philosophy and not just dismiss it due to their own prejudices. It also doesn't have to be the Correct solution to the Origin System's problem, but it is a solution. Warframe's universe is the perfect opportunity to see what sort of ideologies might spring up after the fall of the Empire and what ways of life might eventually prosper.

As for his attitude towards Parvos: Glast might like Parvos and see the original Corpus doctrine as something the current era Corpus have strayed away, but I also like that OP writes that Parvos would see Glast as sentimental, which in his eyes is a moral failing. Though Glast stands his ground because he knows what he's about.

When we visit the Mycona colony, the first thing Glast urges us is to not cast judgement on the Myconians for living a lifestyle that might seem bizarre to us. So this sort of tolerance and open-mindedness is something that definitely would stem from a post-Orokin society that no longer values strict hierarchies.

Ps. the "how they would actually talk" is funny because both of these men are very sharp-tongued and quick-witted and they would definitely have some godly banter. I can imagine Ergo even bringing up Nef as a dig at Parvos.

[k-nayee]

CHAPTER 27. ASHES AND HONOR

❝In death, as in life, they inspire us to feats of greatness.❞

Warrior M.List | Act Ⅲ

Previous | Next

˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

The sounds of competition filled the air.

With the breeze of mid-day carrying the scent of sweat, sand, and burnt offerings from the funeral pyre still smoldering in the distance; cheers rose and fell with each event, an energy both celebratory and mournful woven through it all.

You sat atop a grand podium as the golden urn nestled carefully in your lap—its weight both physical and metaphorical. Within it rested the mixed ashes of Achilles and Patroclus, bound together in death as they had been in life.

Your fingers absently traced the edges of the urn, its metal cool beneath your touch despite the warmth of the sun.

Beside you was Thetis.

She sat in solemn grace, her sea-green eyes distant yet filled with something unreadable. Saying little throughout the day, the divine woman merely watched as the games played on before her.

The decision to name you as the overseer of the games had been unanimous. After Patroclus' death, you had been Achilles' closest companion—the one who had stood beside him in battle, who had held his lifeless body as his legend came to an end.

Even the most hardened Greeks knew that if Achilles had lived he would have surely wedded you. And if Fate had been cruel enough to deny that, then at the very least it was right that you be the one to oversee his final honors.

Each event had been a fierce display of strength, skill, and the rivalry that thrived among the Greek forces.

The Chariot Race had been the most exhilarating so far. Dust had barely settled as Diomedes crossed the finish line, his chariot flying past his competitors with Athena’s blessing securing his victory.

Eumelus, who had been favored to win, suffered a misfortunate accident where his chariot broke apart on the course resulting in the battered and bruised warrior a special prize to ease the sting of his loss.

The Boxing Match was nothing short of brutal. Epeius was one of the few you had the pleasure of sparring with over the years. Though the man was built like a mountain, his actions outside of fighting proved him to be a pacifist at heart—tending to the injured in his free time to even mending the rips in the clothing of his fellow troops.

Unfortunately for his opponent in this event, he reminded many why he is known for his strength to begin with, knocking the poor Mycenae soldier out with a single devastating blow.

The Wrestling Match had been an unexpected delight for the crowd as Penelope had stepped forward to challenge. The two had gone toe-to-toe.

Where Ajax relied on his overwhelming strength, Penelope countered with sheer intelligence and strategy. In the end, the match was declared a stalemate that earned them both equal honors.

Now, the fourth event was set to begin—The Footrace. Competitors had already begun stepping forward, standing before you and Thetis in a line of acknowledgment as they did before each event.

You scanned their faces as they bowed their heads in greeting, your mind only half-present as you gave the customary nod of approval. As the competitors made their introductions, a small figure shuffled forward from the line, emerging from behind the much larger warriors.

You blinked in surprise.

A boy.

His reddish-brown hair was shaggy mess as he wore a tunic slightly too large for his slender frame. He was strapped in simple sandals, his small feet barely kicked up dust as he stepped forward.

Realizing all eyes were on him, he stood stiffly in place, his small hands clenched at his sides as he swallowed hard, his starstruck eyes darting between you and Penelope before bravely lifting his chin.

Nestor suddenly stepped forward to place an aged hand on the shoulder of the boy. “I see you’ve noticed our youngest competitor,” he mused warmly. “This is Ajax; Prince and Heir of Locris, Son of Oileus.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. 'Another Ajax?'

You straightened slightly in your seat to get a better look, the weight of attention causing his cheeks to flush further.

Sensing your silent question, Nestor continued. “His father had evaded conscription to the War on Troy for years. But after the death of Patroclus, the Greeks scoured every corner for any remaining fighters who could aid the cause. They sought out King Oileus thinking he would join them.”

A pause.

“But the King…declared himself too old. So, he sent his son in his place.”

You stared at the boy.

His son? The poor Prince looked no older than eight.

This was a child who should have been at home learning to wield wooden swords against practice dummies—not standing before those who had spent the last ten years bathing in blood.

You glanced at Nestor, your expression unreadable. “And what did the Greeks do when they realized who had arrived?”

Nestor sighed, the weight of time heavy in his voice.

“He was—is too young. The generals agreed he was not yet ready for battle, so he was placed under my care to continue his studies and train.”

You nodded in understanding, your eyes flickering toward the boy once more.

Nestor hesitated before adding, “My son, Antilochus, took him under his wing.” His voice softened, grief creeping into the edges of it. “He taught him well. Would have been proud to see him run today.”

That gave you pause.

Antilochus....

A soft, almost apologetic smile tugged at your lips. You knew what that meant.

Antilochus had perished in the same battle that had claimed Achilles—died sacrificing himself to save Nestor when Memnon’s son, Ptolemaeus, had descended upon the old Greek King.

You could almost see him: Antilochus beaming with pride as he guided Ajax, treating him as a little brother. And now? He was gone.

A familiar ache pressed into your chest.

You exhaled quietly before shifting your gaze back to the young boy with a softened gaze. “You wish to compete?” you finally ask.

He hesitates for for only a second before nodding, squaring his shoulders as if to make himself seem taller. "Y-yes my Lady," he said, voice small but steady.

A quiet hum left your lips as you studied him. There was fire in his eyes; a hunger for recognition, for a chance to prove himself despite his age.

You glanced at Nestor who gave you a patient look. Then, your gaze drifted to Penelope, who watched with faint amusement and crossed arms as if she already knew what you were about to say.

A slow smile pulled at your lips.

"Then you shall run," you said simply.

A flash of delight spread across the boy’s face. He bowed his head quickly, stepping back into the line of competitors with a barely-contained grin.

Your gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before shifting back to Nestor.

"I suppose it wouldn’t be fair to simply call him Ajax when we already have one." You tilted your head toward the much larger Ajax standing a few paces away. "We’ll need to differentiate them somehow."

At that, the older Ajax lets out a small scoff. "Shouldn't be difficult to tell the difference with his size," he mused, arms crossed over his broad chest.

A thoughtful hum left you.

"Then let it be known," you said, voice carrying over, "that from this day forth, he shall be called Ajax the Less. And you? Ajax the Great."

Murmurs of approval rippled through the crowd. Even older Ajax gave an approving nod as if acknowledging the names to be fitting.

Young Ajax perked up in excitement, his lips parting slightly before he quickly bowed his head. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

You inclined your head in response before motioning toward the runners. “Let the race begin!”

The boy was fast.

Surprisingly so.

As soon as the footrace commenced, Ajax the Less darted forward with an agility that shocked many. He was quick—his light frame allowing him to weave through his competitors with ease, feet seeming to barely touch the ground.

His pace was matched only by Penelope whose longer strides carried her forward effortlessly. The two of them ran neck and neck, kicking up dust as they sprinted, neither willing to relent.

Your lips twitched in amusement as you watched the spectacle unfold.

Thetis, seated beside you, leaned in slightly. "Your Captain is quite skilled," she murmured, watching Penelope with a hint of approval.

You exhaled a quiet laugh. "She is Ithaca’s Queen for a reason."

Down on the field the race was reaching its climax. The men roared in excitement as Ajax the Less pushed himself harder, his arms pumping as he ran, determination written across his face.

But then just as victory seemed within his grasp—

A loose strap on his sandal caught his foot.

He tumbled forward, sand and dust kicking up around him as he fell.

The boy scrambled, trying to push himself up, but it was too late—Penelope had already crossed the finish line. Disappointment flashed across his face as his small hands clenched into fists against the ground.

To his surprise Penelope turned back. A hush settled over the field as she walked over, kneeling down to offer her hand.

“Come now,” she with an easy grin, voice light with amusement. “I had to use every ounce of my energy just to keep up with you. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

Ajax blinked up at her with stunned admiration. "You really mean that?" his voice was hushed as if afraid to believe it.

Penelope chuckled. "Of course."

A grin slowly stretched across his face as he took her hand. She helped him to his feet, brushing some of the dirt off his shoulders.

The sight of the young boy standing beside one of Greece’s most formidable warriors—one towering over the other—earned a round of applause and laughter.

Up on the podium Thetis sighed. "Most would have left him in his despair."

You smiled faintly, watching as the boy beamed, standing a little taller now despite his loss.

"Yes," you murmured, "but Penelope is not most."

You suddenly gestured for Ajax to come forward. “Come. Sit with us.”

He stood frozen, eyes darting between you, the podium, and the imposing figure of Thetis beside you. Then, with all the excitement of a child barely containing himself, he rushed forward, nearly tripping over his own feet as he hurried up the steps.

He dropped into the other seat beside you, his hands gripping the armrests as he tried to compose himself, his wide snaggle-toothed smile a welcome sight.

And so, the games continued.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

Diomedes and Ajax the Great had just finished stepping forward to greet you with a respectful nod, turning their attention to the temporary arena for the next event—Armed Combat.

"Pay attention," you offer little Ajax a slight smirk. "There is much to learn, even when it is just a contest for recognition and prizes."

The boy nodded so fervently his curls bounced.

As the contenders prepared for the dual a familiar voice called your name.

Briseis.

She weaved through the gathered men and up the steps, sliding into the space beside you with an easy grace.

“I thought you’d want an update,” she whisper. “Mostly just small things; the men are still drinking and a few fights broke out, the usual.” Then her lips curled slightly in amusement. “And of course you know I just had to find some...gossip.”

You snorted. "What have you heard now?"

Briseis grinned. "Oh nothing too scandalous this time—though I did hear that some of the older generals are grumbling about how unfairly young and beautiful their Ithaca's Commander is."

You rolled your eyes while Thetis outright laughed.

Before you could respond the teen gaze trailed over to Ajax the Less, seeming to finally register his presence.

“Oh?” Briseis quirked a brow, folding her arms as she studied the wide-eyed child sitting stiff as a board. “And who is this?”

He visibly short-circuited.

The poor boy turned the color of a ripe pomegranate. His mouth opened but no words escaped, only a choked sound somewhere between a squeak and a cough. He stared at Briseis as though she had descended from Olympus itself.

An unimpressed but amused look sat on the eighteen year old's face. “Charming. And what is your name little one?"

Ajax the Less swallowed thickly.

"I—uh—y-you—" He squeezed his eyes shut in frustration before blurting, "Ajax! Ajax the Less!"

Thetis nudges you lightly, her amusement clear as she whispered, "Your new little shadow might be in love."

You hummed in agreement as the horn sounded across the camp. The has match started.

Diomedes and Ajax the Great was fierce; both showcasing raw strength and years of skill honed in battle. The clash of metal rang out as the two men circled each other, their movements calculated and sharp.

Even from your vantage point you could see the tension behind each swing and parry. Diomedes was quick and precise; a man blessed by Athena herself. Ajax had sheer power; each of his swings carried enough weight to cleave a man in two if landed properly.

The dual stretched longer than expected—neither willing to surrender an inch of ground. Blades met time and time again, sweat beginning to glisten on their brows.

But in the end there would be no victor. Before either could be seriously wounded the fight was halted and both men were awarded prizes in honor of their prowess.

Penelope, deciding to sit out the rest of the games and joined the podium, leans back in her seat. "Finally," she mutters. "I was beginning to think they'd die of exhaustion before admitting defeat."

You smirked. "You sound disappointed."

"I would have won in half the time."

Briseis laughed from the space beside you she had squeezed into, pressing close in the already cramped chair. "Oh? Then perhaps you should have competed."

"Perhaps I should have."

The next few events passed quickly.

Sixth event—Discus Throw—ended with Polypoetes securing victory. Penelope scoffed at the result.

"You could have bested him easily," she commented, shooting you a sideways glance.

You grinned at her praise. "How fortunate for them I chose not to participate..."

Archery was the seventh event. An event that proved to be frustrating for the Queen of Ithaca.

Penelope let out a long-suffering sigh as she watched the competitors fumble with their shots. "You or Odysseus could have won this blindfolded. To be frank it's pathetic. Gods! How are they this bad?!"

"They're trying their best," Briseis says, though her amused smirk betrayed her true feelings.

"Well their best is dreadful," Penelope huffs. "I should go down there and teach them myself." She points toward a competitor who loosed an arrow that barely grazed the target. “Look at that! It’s as if he’s afraid the bowstring will bite him.”

You had to bite back laughter.

The eighth and final event was the Spear Throw.

And honestly? It was less a competition and more a formality. As Commander of the Greek forces, Agamemnon was given the victory out of respect for his position.

You, Briseis, and Penelope were less than thrilled.

Briseis wrinkled her nose while Penelope scoffed. "How convenient."

You merely exhaled, choosing to remain silent rather than indulge your irritation.

[superconductivebean]

#1522: The Boards from Fig's Classroom

Welcome back to my usual ramblings about the in-game trivia, art and other visual curiosities scattered throughout the game. Today I found few things regarding the boards found in Fig's classroom and want to muse about them a little.

tags: @the-magiarcheologist @ozunafieldguide @endeavour12345 @girl-named-matty @storkteller

First image, the right board, from left to right:

The alchemical symbol for copper and Venus. Strangely resembles the version of it used by the band Soundgarden for the King Animal album. It's also been rotated at 90 degrees.

Omnia unus est, taken from the original poster or the derivative works; misshapen. Reddit user Voxx418 provided very detailed overview of the symbols seen on the poster, but the poster itself first appeared in 2013 and doesn't have a lot to do with the old manuscripts.

Unsure, as of now, what exactly this is, but it reminds me of the Robert Fudd's artwork Diagram of consciousness and this page from Giordano Bruno's book The Ash Wednesday Supper. Has to do with cosmology and mind, I suppose.

Second image, from right to left:

A bunch of astrological and alchemical symbols (from right to left; note that it's not obvious if the symbol corresponds with, let's say, mercury as quicksilver and mercury as planet): ? || metal / caput draconis || mercury? || ? || mercury ? ? ? || venus || chi rho? || ? ? || mars || steel || ? ? jupiter || ? ? || tin / jupiter || ? saturn || ? || pisces || lead / saturn || lead / saturn

A kelpie.

Third image (I'm ignoring the symbols this time; they're astrology and alchemy; similar block of symbols can be found everywhere else in the castle):

A sigil! Tabula Saturni, to be precise. It originates from Athanasius Kircher's monumental work Oedipi Aegyptaci. However, the tabula was likely taken from this image; the photo of the chalkboard from the Transfiguration classroom from the HP movies. Anyway. This particular tabula can be found here, page 72, along with the rest of the planets in their classical order (also known as Chaldean order, planetary order, Babylonian, and many more; it's ancient and if it sounded a little off—as in, why is Saturn 3?—that's probably why). What do they mean though? It's… complicated and I'm not sure I'm able to explain but briefly so: you'd want these magic squares to summon divine powers to aid you. I understand sending directly to Agrippa is setting forth for an adventure but the man knew tenfold better than I ever would. So, the chapter of the Occult Philosophy where he explains it plus a humongous book about magic squares with hundreds of them calculated for different deities and planets.

The monogram of the emperor Justinian (the lower) and… Holy Trinity (the upper).

Forth image:

A moonstone sitting in the centre of a circle that's been cut in half… Doesn't make a lot of sense, likely a bug caused the cut. Next.

Fifth image:

The long scroll's imagery is inspired by this frame (the images are identical bar the movie's version wasn't flipped back):

But then, these symbols again:

Not sure what they mean nor how to identify them yet. I recall seeing them in the Alchemy classroom. For now, I'll call them a WIP.

This is the Chaldean order diagram (rather distorted):

What's the symbol on the left?

That's an interesting question and a very silly story. Sit back, it's too much silliness for one standing.

How am I able to snipe all these things, might had you wondered? It's an intricate question. Evidently I'm busying myself with occult texts and imagery; lack of interest in practice of occultism slows me down as well as lack of interest in theology — the two are linked — but still. There is a certain corpus of text, famous and influential authors, and most importantly: the sense of continuity. I'm not nearly as erudite as I could be but navigating via learning the basics of who came up with what helps to determine, let's say, if certain symbology have been a recent development. Anyway and howevor. Magic, or magick, had become a very interesting subject to me and worst of all, it's logical. RIgidly, excruciatingly logical—after had been made familiar with the references it uses and refers to just to explain itself. Science of today left it all behind but should it mean we should or must abandon so much intricate, funny, cruel history and call it simply a whimsy.

Besides, I think I have cracked the artists' logic in how they picked all these images.

The answer is bluntly simple: they know magic is closely associated with certain symbology but they don't think it has an ounce of sense; or maybe they didn't have enough time to think how to weave with it because hermetic magic — Western magic — is an amalgamation of philosophy, theology and alchemy (and a lot more). Whichever was the case, I'm not satisfied with it for a reason as simple: if you absolutely have to work with something you have barely an idea about and you are not going to commit to it, perhaps it would be a wise decision not to put the result on the character's and hence the player's eye level. Especially when you did few visual quips here and there ( 1) at Falbarton castle, on the message board hangs a decree issued by the Ministry of Magic declaring the area unsafe for travels—and just underneath it, a letter, that reads "This isn't funny"; 2) if you doff everything and run around, all NPCs will have a line or two to remind you to change; 3) you can navigate the roads outside of the castle by going where signpost tell, and you'd often see Ministry's decrees and warnings for dangers in the area; 4) the entire mechanic of Ancient Magic is to be able to see the otherwise unseeable). Yet, the most obvious place everyone just might get stuck to—the boards at a school, at a place where you're certainly expecting at least some degree of systematisation—are riddled with drivel and or nonsense.

I'm harsh about this, yes. You'll understand why in just a few seconds.

During my excursions to the occult I commonly saw the same motif. A circle, something is drawn inside of it, especially in demonology. This is usually referred to as being Solomonic magic or its influences. So, when I saw this sigil, my immediate reaction was — Goetia!

Goetia demons are in great plenty but no sigil matched this drawing. The circle also looked strange, as if taken from some place else, but so scarce a detail only leaves you wonder if you'd be able to find any thing at all related to this drawing. Which you know for certain had been taken from somewhere — it must had been.

And I was correct.

But my search wasn't originally intended to lead me to find where this sigil is from. I tried to determine what were the symbols etched on the Harlow's wand. Few grimoires leafed through, all interesting in their own sense, and then, accidentally, without a call, this page just loaded and stared at me:

That's it, I thought, found it. Weird, that they had to flip it. To write a post about it I only ever needed to find the original manuscript, but I was only able to find its translation. The manuscript is called The Cambridge Book Of Magic, or CUL MS Add. 3544, and delves into the forbidden art of necromancy besides the topics of medicine, herb gathering, and apotropaic magic. I found the aforementioned page on an obscure forum where it was uploaded in the low resolution, so I thought, I needed the bigger resolution; I like to look at the details and trying to read the text without hurting my eyes too much; and you see, the original manuscript seems to remain undigitalised to this day, only the translation made in 2015 is available for viewing online. Which is, I'll say, is a tad bit sad, but ultimately, fine.

I did try to find the manuscript, though. Besides my own curiosity, it's better to have a clear source as it's clear the artists didn't take in the translation: that particular sigil doesn't appear there where you'd expect it to be. In the end, all links led to this article:

Understood I wasn't given any other choice, I clicked on the image, in hopes it would be of higher resolution. I encourage you to do the same right now, if you are able or can.

It's flipped. The website returns the image flipped 180 degrees. Here how it looks like:

I hope that now you understand why I am rather… upset about this, pun not intended. It's beyond lazy yet the approach simply befuddles me: instead of buying from shutterstock kind of asset stores, they chose the struggle of selecting and finding real manuscripts and on the internet of all places only to barely bother about its contents. Unnecessary efforts, unwarranted butchering.

Sixth image (from the same website):

The translations for the aforementioned spells and sigils can be found here.

Seventh image:

The symbol of copper / Venus scorches the Chaldean order and Theorem XVIII of Monas Hierogliphica:

I think there were more but these images were kind of specific to Fig's class and I wanted to see what they meant or referenced.

Given that Theory for Magic is taught to 1st years (Hogwarts Legacy does not comment on it at all; in Harry's time, he had this subject in his 1st year but not in any subsequent year), they're in for a crash.

[experi-sketches]

Rowan and Ash - Chapter Seven

Onto chapter seven, in which Ash finally gets that haircut. I should probably make a masterpost for this story...I'll do that soon

This story is also being posted on my A03

(If you're wondering what the deal with this story is, or what's going on with An Iron Blood Tale, check out my notes in chapter one.)

This is whumpy slavefic so please mind the content warnings. Enjoy!

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Content warnings: whump, slavefic, m/m master/slave dynamics, captivity, off-screen but implied physical punishment, mentions of past sexual assault/rape (not explicit) Rating: Mature Word Count: 2,544

Chapter Six // Chapter Eight

_____

"There we are," Jules said with satisfaction, using the duster to brush loose hair from Ash's shoulders. "What do you think, sir?"

Ash blinked at his reflection. They were back in the slave quarter's small washroom, Ash standing naked before the large mirror with Jules smiling at him in the glass. Clumps of snipped hair scattered the tiles around their feet. 

Banks smiled from the doorway, where he leaned against the frame with Ash's white shift draped over his crossed arms. "I think that's perfect," he said. "No shorter. Another masterpiece, Jules."

Jules grinned. "Thank you, sir. I do live to serve." He set the duster onto the counter and began fussing with stray curls, arranging them just so, eyeing Ash in the mirror. "And how about you? What do you think?"

Ash didn't know what he thought, surprised at the difference a simple haircut could make. Sefton, like most of his previous owners, had preferred a certain amount of length to Ash's hair—all the better to drag him around by, he supposed—and Ash couldn't remember the last time it'd been this short. Rather than the wild mass of curls he'd seen that morning, the mirror now revealed a pretty face unobscured by rogue tendrils, his boyish features neatly framed in a tidy chestnut halo. The style was still longer than a free man might wear, but not so long that Ash could tie it back. It made him look older, somehow. More his age.

Jules' hands stilled. "Oh, dear. You don't hate it, do you?"

Ash's heart skipped. "No! No, I like it. Thank you, si…Jules."

"Thank goodness. You had me worried there, a moment."

Banks watched the exchange and then moved away from the door, reaching for Jules to lightly brush his cheek, and then combed his hand back through Jules' dark hair to scoop up the low ponytail and let the glossy strands flow through his fingers like water. Jules made a faint noise and tilted his head into the touch. "Yours is getting quite long, too," Banks mused, repeating the motion, and this time Jules nearly purred. "I should take you for a cut."

"Take me however you like, sir," Jules said. Banks smirked and tapped him on the cheek, a parody of a slap. 

"Cheeky brat," he mumbled.

Ash watched in the mirror, once again stunned by their strange rapport. It was odd that Banks not only tolerated Jules' back-talk, but seemed to indulge it; most masters hardly spared their domestic slaves a glance, much less treated them with affection. The fact was, if someone was rich enough to own slaves and wanted to fuck them, they could just buy a slave who was trained to fuck, rather than repurpose one who wasn't. It was considered unsophisticated to do otherwise. Then again, Jules had said last night that he'd been bought and reformed by Master Rowan. Perhaps part of that reformation had been a change in occupation. 

Banks turned and caught Ash's curious gaze in the mirror. Ash flushed and quickly dropped his eyes.

Banks chuckled. "It's all right. I can't help but stare at him, too." Ash kept his eyes down and managed not to jump when a large hand buried itself in his hair, closing around a fistful of curls and tugging, ever so gently, at the scalp. "Perfect. Well done, Jules. Look up now, Ash. Let's have a proper look at you." The hand moved to his jaw and lifted his face to the mirror.  

Two keen gazes stared back at him, one deep blue and the other piercing dark, and under the weight of their attention Ash was suddenly, starkly aware of his nakedness, of the faint flush that still lingered on his chest from Banks' ministrations in the bedroom, and of the ugly, grotesque cuts on his front. They seemed especially hideous now, as he saw himself standing before the composed men behind him. Compared to Banks' calm control and Jules' sleek beauty, he felt small and damaged, second-hand. 

The cuts really would leave terrible scars. Once the Banks brothers were done with him, no one would want him. Or rather, no one kind. The only people who bought damaged goods where those who planned to break their playthings from the start.

Ash shuddered. Stupid, he thought again.

Banks was watching him, a small crease growing between his eyebrows. "Saints, we've really got to teach you to guard your face. What are you thinking about, Ash?"

Ash swallowed. He couldn't ignore a direct question. "Just that I'm thankful for your generosity, sir," he tried.

"Liar," Banks shot back, and Ash's stomach went through he floor. "You weren't. But I'll allow it for now."

"You're making his point about generosity," Jules noted.

Banks cast him a sidelong glance and looked back to Ash. "Well, let me tell you what I was thinking about. I was thinking that you're beautiful, and that I hadn't thought it possible for you to become more beautiful, and that I was very glad to be wrong." The hand on Ash's jaw brushed his cheek, thumb skimming the prickling flush. "What were you thinking, Jules?"

"I was thinking that Ash must be glad to have all that hair out of his face." Jules smiled into the mirror. "Oh, and also that he's beautiful, sir." 

"There, you see? Arms up." Ash raised his arms slowly, wincing as the cuts pulled tight, and the world briefly vanished as Banks pulled the white shift over his head. "And down again. Very good, darling. Do you remember what I said before? About trusting me?" He settled his hands onto Ash's shoulders.

"Yes, sir."

"I know that will take time, but here's an easy thing to start with: trust me when I tell you that you're a pretty boy with a bright future, even if it doesn't feel like it now. Time will do you wonders. You'll see." He turned to Jules. "Lunch soon, I think?"

"Of course, sir. I'll just clean this up first." 

"Thank you, darling." He turned back to Ash. "Take some time to relax, and feel free to go where you please. This is your home now. You're not a prisoner here, and I'd rather not keep you behind locked doors if I don't have to. You'll be a good boy?"

Ash nodded. "Yes, sir," he said.

"Very good. Don't make me regret that." He gave Ash's shoulder a gentle pat. "Now, there's a mountain of letters sitting on my desk I've been putting off for weeks. I'll be in the office if I'm needed." Banks smiled at Jules' respectful little bow and strolled out, leaving them alone. 

~*~

Ash took Master Rowan's words to heart and quickly excused himself, abandoning Jules to sweep the washroom floor alone. 

He left the slave quarters and padded toward the main living area, bare feet quiet on the hallway's cold hardwood and then completely silent on the lounge's carpeted floor. There was no one in here now, everyone busy in other parts of the home, and Ash paused in front of the great windows to look out at the sweeping view of Templhead's hazy skyline, the lower city's distant smog a low, sooty smudge on the horizon which gradually faded up to a bright, clear blue sky. He looked down and saw the residents of Dower's Point scurrying like ants on the street below, coming and going freely and breathing the city's exhaust-and-brine scented air, living as they pleased. Ash wondered if they thought at all about the feeling of wind and sunlight on their faces, or if they took those things for granted, as he once had. 

He backed away from the window and turned to face the lounge. 

The end table by the sofa was clean, Banks' morning tea and newspaper gone, no doubt whisked away by Jules while they were busy in the bedroom. The bedroom…now that they were over with, Ash considered the morning's events. Truthfully, servicing Banks hadn't been as awful as he'd feared. Pleasing a new master was always a frightening, tenuous balance of trying to learn his preferences without frustrating him—or worse, angering him—but luckily Banks had given instruction, which made things much easier. And he hadn't been rough with Ash, either. He hadn't fucked his throat raw as Sefton liked to do, or held Ash down and violated him like the camp handlers, or tied Ash up with ropes or chains, like Priest. No, Banks had been very calm, very clear, and had not indicated violence in any way. 

At least for now, Ash thought, and wondered if that would last.

Banks had even used his own hand and allowed Ash to come, which Sefton had never permitted. Sometimes, as a means of torment, Sefton would paw at Ash until he was hard and then leave him tied up and untouched for hours, but that had been vastly preferable to some of Sefton's other tortures, and besides, getting hard had never been particularly enjoyable for Ash. He'd always viewed it as an unpleasant but necessary survival skill. That was Crowle's doing—while training in the Malderrian whorehouse before pimping him, Crowle had made sure to teach Ash's body to respond, even when he was terrified. Last thing I need is for you to piss off the wrong john by not stiffing up for his cock. Spent too much toff on this face to have it bashed in. It had saved Ash's skin more than once.

But Banks had been kind. He'd handled Ash carefully and been mindful of his wounds, and it hadn't been difficult at all for Ash to finish, which seemed to please Banks. Ash couldn't say he'd enjoyed it, exactly, but he'd been thrilled not to be hurt. Not to mention he'd learned at least one easy way to appease his master: act like he wanted it. It was a defense tactic that might come in handy later.

For now, there was something he wanted to see.  

There were two tall, narrow bookcases against the wall on either side of the lounge's massive sofa, stuffed with thick volumes. Ash went to the one conveniently located closer to the entryway of the foyer, and pretended to study the titles on the shelves as he listened. The home was utterly silent around him. No sign of anyone close by. 

Darting a quick glance toward the hallway to make sure Jules wasn't on his way back from the slave quarters, Ash slipped into the foyer and went to the front door. 

It was pointless, he knew. He'd seen yesterday that a key was needed to operate the elevator, so even if he managed to get out of the penthouse he'd still be trapped on the floor, but his compulsive need to try was overwhelming. He went to the door. 

There was a keyhole below the doorknob, but no visible lock. Ash recalled the click of the automatic lock as Jules had closed the door behind them, and wondered if the penthouse's front door had been designed that way, or if the Banks brothers had added it on their own. 

He reached for the knob, the metal cool against his sweating palm, and turned it. It stuck, locked. He wrapped both hands around and gave a few good, firm tugs, careful not to rattle the heavy door in its frame too loudly, but to no avail. Ash let his arms fall. It was as much as he'd expected, but the reflexive, cold drop in the pit of his stomach still made him feel queasy. 

He turned and headed for the slave quarters, leaving the foyer before he got caught.

~*~

On his way back to his room, Ash noticed the workshop door was open. It stood ajar in the plain, windowless hallway, the sounds of leather striking flesh no longer coming from within. Instead there were different sounds, softer ones, and Ash slowed as he neared the doorway, hearing a low voice drift from inside.

"It's all right, sweetheart," it was saying, once Ash was close enough to make out the words. "That was perfect. You did so well. So brave. My brave boy."

It wasn't Master Rowan's voice. It was Master Carver's. Ash hesitated, pulse quickening, and then stepped closer to peer inside. 

A sharp chill shot down his spine as he saw the room beyond. The workshop was a large, windowless space with a tiled floor and sterile white walls, one of which was lined end to end with torture implements. Every tool made for the purpose of misery that Ash had ever known was there, as well as several more he'd never seen before. A few benches and pillories were speckled throughout the room, obviously meant to restrain a slave while he was being subjugated. They looked old and well-used. There was even a set of manacles bolted to the wall by chains and a whipping post in the corner. Ash went a bit dizzy.

Master Carver was sitting on a low bench in the center of the room, the sort with straps at the corners to hold a bondslave down, and huddled in his lap was a small figure that Ash recognized as Will, the red-haired boy. He was naked, his back to Ash, and Ash saw angry, raised red welts glowing on his pale skin, marring his back in a crosshatch pattern. Will was softly crying, little bitten-off hiccups that seemed loud in the workshop's cool air, and Master Carver was holding him, one arm curled around his hip to avoid the welts, the other stroking gently through his bright hair. As Ash watched Will wrapped his shaking arms around Master Carver's neck and clung to him tightly, burying his face against his master's broad shoulder. Master Carver turned to press a kiss against his temple and murmur more soft words against his ear. 

"I'm sorry," Will was whimpering, barely audible. "I tried, I c-couldn't…"

"You did incredibly well, sweetheart. I'm so very happy."

Ash's heart was in his throat. It seemed an oddly fragile moment, and one he shouldn't be witnessing. He slowly stepped away from the door, holding his breath to try and keep quiet, but to his dismay a floorboard squeaked and Master Carver raised his head to glance over top of Will's hair and spotted him, dark eyes locking onto Ash.

Ash froze.

Master's Carver's stern face slammed shut. "Can I help you?" he snapped, the gentleness of a moment ago gone from his voice. Will went still in his arms, rigid and silent.

Ash's mouth was suddenly dry. "I, uh, I'm sorr—"

"Leave," Master Carver barked, and Ash jumped, lurching back from the door. "Now! Before I remove you."

Ash didn't need to be told twice. He went, hurrying to his room and closing the door behind him. He half-stumbled to the bed and folded himself onto it, shaking, and waited for the awful, inevitable sound of angry footsteps in the hall or the clatter of his door bursting open on its hinges, but neither came. Master Carver didn't chase him, and Ash was left to tremble in the oppressive silence of his room alone.

_____

Thanks so much for reading! lmk if you liked or if you want to be added to the tag list for future posts. I would be happy to add you 😁

tag list: @definiteberry @emanresus-blog @mantrasong @hellodecisionparalysis @alexmundaythrufriday @3-2-whump @there-will-always-be-blood @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @whumplicity @vampirewithouttheblood

[fenharel-apologist94]

WIP Whenever

I was working on some drafts so I decided I'd get one rollin'. Tagging @rosella-writes @idolsgf @greypetrel and @theheartmold if you feel like it ofc!

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He needed coffee.

Kieran trudged across the cobblestone courtyard, thanking whatever deities left in this damn universe that it never rained at the Lighthouse. He’d probably just lie down in front of the ferryman until Neve found him there. There must be something about Tevenes, he tiredly mused. Something that gave them a six-fucking-sense to his particular dismay.

He shoved away that line of thought with a push against the large doors of the dining hall, leaning with some of his weight to open them. The stern rumble of Taash’s voice sounded from within the walk-in cupboard. Kieran frowned and padded forward with caution.

"Demon’s back,” Taash drawled when he poked his head into the walk-in pantry.

No shit, Kieran wanted to shoot back. Beyond them, Lucanis was seated upright, as if waiting, his feet planted squarely on the ground. Sweeping arcs of ash painted the visage of wings on the stone behind him, the scent of burnt magic sharp in the air.

“I don’t think he ever leaves, actually,” Kieran rasped instead. He moved to stand beside Taash, who snorted, wrinkling their nose.

“Then he’s acting weird.”

Was he? Kieran turned his attention back forward. He supposed Spite was sitting still. As if sensing his assessment, Spite’s electric, violet gaze narrowed back at Kieran.

“Smells like melon…” Spite hissed. He inhaled, then added, “and woodsmoke.”

Smells like espresso and depresso. The corner of Kieran’s mouth twitched in suppressed amusement before he could catch himself. Spite growled, rising to his feet.

“Hey! No! No. Sit your ass back down.” Taash snarled. Bitter irritation punctuated the air, as sharp as a dagger. Kieran instantly pivoted in front of Taash. Placing a gentle hand on their shoulder, he began nudging them gently towards the exit with a what he hoped passed for a smile.

“I’ll handle this.” Fendhis, he hoped Taash was their usual oblivious self today. They were getting unusually perceptive recently. “Maybe make sure the eluvian room is blocked?”

With a wordless huff of acknowledgment, Taash departed, a sense of purpose in their steps. Kieran couldn’t stop a sigh from escaping from between his lips.

Gratitude. You wish to hide.

A muscle in Kieran’s jaw tightened.

“Now. We get to talk.” Spite purred, obviously pleased by the turn of events.

“When demons say they want to talk, that usually means they want to bargain. How about this,” Kieran gestured a hand towards Lucanis’ coffee station. “You make us both some coffee, and then we get to talk.”

Spite hesitated, glancing black and forth between the coffee station and Kieran’s hand as if trying to find the answer in the space between. Finding none, he nodded. Kieran smiled and settled himself onto the edge of Lucanis’ bed while Spite set to work.