#CAST DOWN EVERY TYRANT

[drumlincountry]

uhmmm it's so hard to come up with new years resolutions b/c my two basic desires are "find peace" and "go to war"

[blasphemousclaw]

Ranni has every reason to hate Marika. She is the figurehead of an order that has caused her and her family so much misery… and yet, in the Age of the Stars ending cutscene, Ranni holds Marika’s head with such gentleness. It feels less like Ranni is putting down a tyrant, and more like she’s laying her to rest, after many long years of torment. 

Ranni could have been Marika’s successor, but she rejected the guidance of the Two Fingers, slaying her own flesh in order to be rid of their influence: 

“But I would not acquiesce to the Two Fingers. I stole the Rune of Death, slew mine own Empyrean flesh, casting it away. I would not be controlled by that thing.”

Ranni goes to such drastic lengths because the most intolerable thing possible to her is to be a pawn; her will not being her own, but being at the mercy of a higher power. Ranni’s quest is above all about free will – it culminates with Ranni using the Fingerslayer Blade to tear her Two Fingers into bloody ribbons, at long last giving her full control over her own destiny.

Marika in the present day is a prisoner held in perpetual torment. According to Enia and the Two Fingers,

"Queen Marika is the vessel of the Elden Ring, carrier of its vision. A god, in truth. But after the Elden Ring's shattering, she was imprisoned in the Erdtree. A grim punishment for shattering the Order, despite her godhood. The Fingers speak... "Marika's trespass demanded a heavy sentence. But even in shackles, she remains a god, and the vision's vessel.”

Marika shattered the Order, going against the will of the Two Fingers, and was punished for it gravely. In many ways, Marika’s fate is Ranni’s absolute worst nightmare. This is exactly the fate she took such drastic lengths to escape… serving a higher power with her entire being, her will not her own, but the will of the Fingers, with any attempt at change met with violent suppression, her body essentially being used as a puppet to defend the last vestiges of the Order.

“I would not be controlled by that thing.”

I think that Ranni, seeing Marika’s broken body at the end of it all, felt nothing but pity for her in that moment, despite everything she’d done. To me, the act of Ranni holding Marika’s head in her hands feels like she’s saying, “you were my enemy. But there is no worse fate in this world than what you suffered. Now, you can be truly free."

[oceandolores]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | series

Dbf! Joel Miller x female reader

"𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 ��𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦."

summary: In the small town near Austin, Texas, you are trapped in a life of rigid expectations and silent suffering. As the preacher's daughter, you endure the mental and physical abuse of your father while your mother, bound by obedience, offers quiet love. Your longing for a father's warmth finds an unexpected solace in Joel Miller, your father's best friend and neighbor. In Joel's presence, you discover a forbidden sanctuary, where your yearning heart is met with a gentle strength you've never known.

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, ped0ph!l1a, cann1bal!sm, human traff1ck1ng, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 1

masterlist of the series!

next | chapter 2

The Texas sun had a way of casting long, dramatic shadows across the sprawling landscape, painting the world in hues of gold and amber. In small town near Austin, the heat clung to everything, wrapping the town in a sweltering embrace that seemed to slow time itself. You, a preacher's daughter on the cusp of graduation, trapped in the rigid confines of a life dictated by faith and fear.

Your father, Reverend Gibson, was a towering figure in the community, his voice booming from the pulpit every Sunday, filling the church with sermons about sin and salvation. To the congregation, he was a man of God, a beacon of righteousness. But within the walls of your home, he was a tyrant. His heavy hand and harsh words left marks not just on your skin, but deep within your soul. Your mother, ever the obedient wife, offered what little comfort she could, but her love was a quiet, subdued thing, overshadowed by her fear of defying your father.

The Millers lived just a few houses down, their home a testament to both prosperity and tragedy. Joel Miller was your father’s best friend from high school, a bond forged in the fires of youth but strained by the paths they had chosen. While your father found his calling in the church, Joel built a successful construction business with his younger brother, Tommy.

Joel and Tommy not live far from each other, while your house is just one house away from Joel, Tommy is a few houses down from Joel's.

The Miller brothers were well-known and respected in the community, their work evident in the many buildings that dotted the town.

Joel’s life had been forever altered by a single, devastating moment. He had lost his wife and daughter in a car accident, an accident where he had been behind the wheel. The guilt of their deaths weighed heavily on him, a burden he carried in the lines of his face and the shadows in his eyes.

Since that tragic day, he had distanced himself from the church, finding solace instead in his work and in raising his adopted daughter, Ellie. Joel has adopted Ellie when she was only 10 years old with the help of Tommy.

At 16, Ellie was a spirited girl, one of your juniors at school. She attended church every Sunday with her uncle Tommy, her presence a reminder of the Millers’ lingering faith.

Tommy, married to Maria, had recently welcomed a baby boy into their family. The joy of new life was a stark contrast to the sorrow that had marked Joel’s existence. The Millers were a close-knit family, their bonds of loyalty and love a stark contrast to the fractured and tense environment of your own home.

You had known the Millers your entire life, their presence a constant thread in the fabric of your existence. Yet, as you stood on the brink of adulthood, your interactions with them took on a new significance. Your father’s sermons about the dangers of straying from the path of righteousness echoed in your mind, but so did your longing for something more, something real and tangible.

It was just another Sunday, and you were helping your dad with the after-service fellowship. The congregation mingled in the church hall, sharing coffee and pastries, their voices a low hum of conversation and laughter. You moved through the crowd with a tray of refreshments, offering smiles and polite nods, your mind elsewhere.

The Sunday service had been like any other, filled with hymns, prayers, and your father’s booming voice delivering his sermon. Today, he had spoken about temptation and the perils of straying from God’s path, his words heavy with the weight of his own fervent belief. As always, you felt the eyes of the congregation on you, the preacher’s daughter, the living example of his teachings.

You couldn’t help but glance towards the back of the room, where Tommy and Ellie stood, their presence a rare but welcome sight. Joel, as expected, was absent, his appearances in church growing increasingly sporadic since the accident.

Your thoughts kept drifting to Joel Miller. It had been years since the tragedy that had claimed his wife and daughter, leaving an indelible mark on him, transforming a once regular churchgoer into a haunted, reclusive figure.

You didn't really know or remember Joel's wife and daughter. Sarah Miller had been much older than you, and she passed away when you were only five. The memories you had of them were hazy at best, a blur of faces and voices that you couldn’t quite place.

Ellie caught your eye and waved, her smile bright and genuine. You waved back, feeling a pang of longing for the carefree spirit she embodied. She was one of the few people in your life who treated you like a normal person, not just the preacher’s daughter.

After the service, as the crowd began to thin, you found yourself gravitating towards Tommy and Ellie. Tommy, ever the warm and approachable figure, greeted you with a smile. “Hey, kiddo. How’ve you been?”

You returned his smile, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. “I’m good, Tommy. How’s Maria and the baby?”

Tommy’s face lit up with pride. “They’re great. Little Luke’s growing like a weed. Maria’s over the moon, of course.”

Ellie nudged you playfully. “You should come over and meet him sometime. He’s the cutest.”

You laughed softly. “I’d love that.”

Tommy’s expression grew more serious as he glanced around the room. “How’s your dad doing with all the church activities? Keeping busy?”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, he’s always got something going on. Keeps him out of trouble, I guess.”

Tommy chuckled. “Good to hear. Your family always looks so put together. It’s impressive, really.”

You shrugged, trying to brush off the compliment. “We just try to do our best.”

As you continued chatting, the weight on your shoulders seemed to lighten, if only for a moment. Ellie shared stories about school, her infectious laughter bringing a smile to your face.

“So, any plans after graduation?” Ellie asked, her eyes twinkling with curiosity.

You hesitated, the uncertainty of your future looming large. “I’m not sure yet. I’ve been thinking about college, but it’s complicated.”

Tommy’s expression grew serious again. “You should follow your dreams, kid. Don’t let anything hold you back.”

You nodded, grateful for their support. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Tommy.”

As you chatted with Tommy and Ellie, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Glancing around, you caught your father’s stern gaze from across the room. His eyes were a silent warning, a reminder of your place and the expectations that came with it.

Excusing yourself, you slipped out of the church hall, needing a moment of solitude. Your dad won't notice you are gone a little, your job has been taken by your mom.

The Texas heat hit you as soon as you stepped outside, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the gravel parking lot. You decided to walk, the streets feeling empty because everyone was still in church. As you walked aimlessly, your mind whirled with conflicting thoughts and emotions.

You found yourself drawn towards the lake behind the church and the town, a place far enough to avoid everyone. The lake and the surrounding forest were comforting, a sanctuary from the oppressive atmosphere of your home.

Looking around to ensure you were alone, you carefully pulled out your cigarettes and lit one, taking a long drag. Your parents never knew you were quite a smoker, especially your father. If he ever found out, the repercussions would be severe, his wrath swift and unrelenting. The thought of his anger made you shudder.

You decided to sit by the old fallen tree near the lake. It was very quiet, the only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the gentle lapping of water against the shore. You loved to come here every chance you got, a hidden escape from the prying eyes and harsh judgments of your daily life. As you exhaled a cloud of smoke, you heard a rustling sound in the underbrush.

Startled, you quickly put out your cigarette and looked up. Emerging from the trees was Joel, a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. Your heart pounded in your chest as you met his gaze. "Joel?" you stammered, hoping he hadn’t noticed the cigarette.

He looked at you, then at the still-smoking cigarette butt near your feet. His expression was unreadable, but you felt a wave of fear. What if he told your father?

Joel approached, his steps slow and deliberate. "Didn’t expect to see you out here," he said, his voice as gruff as ever.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. "I… I just needed some air."

Joel’s eyes flicked to the cigarette again. "That why you’re hiding out here? To smoke?"

You bit your lip, the truth hanging heavily between you. "Please don’t tell my dad," you whispered, the desperation clear in your voice.

Joel sighed, his expression softening slightly. "Your secret’s safe with me," he said finally, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Relief flooded through you, and you nodded gratefully. "Thank you,"

As you stood up, brushing off the dirt and bits of wood that had stained your dress, you noticed Joel's gaze lingering on the rifle in his hand and the heavy boots caked with mud.

"You didn’t come to church today," you said, your curiosity overcoming your apprehension. You had noticed his absence with the frequency that had become almost routine over the years.

He glanced at you, the stern lines of his face softening slightly. “Yeah, I’ve been... busy,” he replied, his tone clipped and noncommittal.

You took in the sight of him, his rugged appearance a stark contrast to the tidy, polished look of the other churchgoers. The rifle and the muddy boots seemed to tell a story of their own, a story that was far removed from the neat rows of pews and the polished wooden floors of the church.

“You know, Father always says that you used to come every Sunday,” you said, trying to sound casual. “He misses you at church. Everyone does.”

Joel’s expression hardened again, the hint of vulnerability disappearing behind his usual reserve. “Yeah, well, things change,” he said tersely, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “People change.”

You wanted to press further, to understand what had driven him away, but you knew better than to push too hard. Joel was a man of few words, his emotional landscape a guarded territory. You had seen it in the way he interacted with Ellie, the way he kept his distance, the way he seemed to be perpetually battling some invisible storm.

"Are you okay?" you asked quietly, your concern slipping through despite your efforts to remain detached.

Joel’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something raw and unspoken. He shook his head, as if to clear the thoughts from his mind. "Just trying to get by, same as anyone," he said gruffly. “Out here, it’s a little easier to do that.”

You nodded, accepting his answer even if it left many questions unanswered. The silence between you stretched, filled only with the distant chirping of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves.

Joel shifted, breaking the silence. “What are you doing out here anyway? It’s quite a trek from town. This place isn’t exactly safe, you know.” His tone was a mixture of concern and curiosity, revealing a sliver of his protective nature.

You sighed, glancing around the lake and forest. “I needed a break. Just... needed to be away from everything for a bit. It’s peaceful here." You looked at Joel, your eyes subtly asking if it was okay to continue smoking.

Joel noticed your look but chose not to comment immediately. Instead, he took a few steps closer, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. You took that as an invitation and sat down under a large tree near the lake, patting the grass beside you.

“Feel free to join me if you want,” you offered, your voice light despite the heaviness of the situation.

Joel hesitated for a moment before sitting down next to you. His presence was a grounding force, even if he wasn’t the most expressive. He glanced at the cigarette pack you had placed on the grass between you.

“Want one?” you offered, extending the pack towards him.

Joel shook his head with a faint, rueful smile. “Nah, I’m good. I’m not sure it’s right to be smoking in front of you.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I thought you of all people wouldn’t judge me for it.”

Joel chuckled, a rare, genuine sound. “Yeah, well, I guess I’m a bit of a hypocrite when it comes to that. I’ve had my share of bad habits.”

You nodded, accepting his refusal. “How are you, Joel? I don’t see you much,” you said, your curiosity evident. It was true; Joel had been increasingly distant from the people in your town, retreating into a shell of his own making.

He met your gaze briefly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his features. “Just... getting by. Working hard, dealing with stuff. Not much else to it.”

There was a weariness in his voice that spoke of battles fought silently and wounds healed only with time. It was clear that the years had not been kind to Joel, even if he tried to mask it behind a facade of rugged determination.

You sensed that pushing further wouldn’t get you anywhere. Joel was not one to open up easily, and you could see that the topic of his feelings was closed off. You decided to shift the conversation, sensing that it was best to focus on something lighter.

"How’s school?” he asked, his tone shifting to something slightly more personal but still restrained. “Almost done, right?”

You nodded, a smile touching your lips despite the lingering tension. “Yeah, I’m just a few months away from graduating. It’s been a whirlwind, but I’m looking forward to it.”

“That’s good to hear,” Joel replied, giving a slight nod. “High school’s a big deal. A lot changes after that.”

You shifted slightly, tucking your legs beneath you as you sat on the grass. “It is. It feels like the end of one chapter and the start of another.” You took a deep drag from your cigarette, the smoke curling around you in the still air. Exhaling slowly, you continued, “I just want to get out of here.”

Joel’s gaze, always direct, fixed on you. He didn’t speak immediately, allowing the weight of your words to settle between you. He shifted his weight, leaning slightly on the rifle, his hands still coated in the grime of the day’s work. “Yeah?” he finally said, his tone soft but edged with curiosity. “Where do you want to go?”

You looked out over the lake, its calm surface reflecting the last rays of the sun. “Anywhere but here,” you said with a sigh. “I want to leave this town, start fresh somewhere new. I’ve been dreaming about it for a long time.”

Joel watched you silently for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes getting out can seem like the only way to find something better,” he said slowly. “But it ain’t always as simple as it sounds.”

You took another drag from your cigarette, the ember glowing brightly as you exhaled. “I know it’s not that simple,” you said quietly. “But it feels like I’m suffocating here. I just need... something different. Something real.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze not unkind but keenly observant. There was a protective instinct in him that had always been there, even when you were much younger. He sensed there was more to your words than just a desire to leave town. The carefully constructed façade of normalcy that your family projected wasn’t lost on him, though he had never delved into the specifics of your home life.

“You know,” Joel began, his voice taking on a slightly softer tone, “sometimes people want to leave for reasons that go beyond what they’re willing to say. It’s one thing to want a new place, but it’s another to be running from something.”

You stiffened slightly, the cigarette now nothing more than a stub between your fingers. You were careful not to let your emotions betray you. “It’s not just about running away,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s about finding a place where I can breathe.”

Joel nodded, his gaze steady. “And you think you’ll find that out there?”

“I hope so,” you said. “I just need to get out and find out for myself. It’s been hard to see beyond this place.”

Joel shifted his weight, leaning on his rifle. His rugged face, often set in lines of stoicism, now bore a hint of concern. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of folks runnin’ away from what they don’t want to face. Sometimes they find what they’re lookin’ for, sometimes they don’t. But it’s dangerous out there for someone who’s not ready.”

You looked at him, sensing the genuine concern behind his words. “I’m ready,” you said softly. “I’ve been ready for a long time.”

Joel studied you for a moment longer, his fatherly instincts kicking in. He could see the innocence in your eyes, the quiet strength that belied your troubled soul. He had been a father before, and he knew what it was like to want to protect someone from the harsh realities of the world.

But then, with a shift in his demeanor, Joel decided it wasn’t his business to involve himself further. He cared for you, that much was clear, but he also knew his boundaries. His expression hardened slightly, a testament to his tendency to keep people at a distance. 

“Look,” he said gruffly, his Southern accent thickening his words, “it’s not my place to get too involved in this. You’re gonna have to handle things your way.” His tone was direct, carrying the weight of a man who had learned to let his actions speak louder than his words.

Despite the coldness in his voice, there was a flicker of tenderness in his eyes, a brief glimpse of the protective instincts that lingered beneath his guarded exterior. Joel operated in a morally gray area, making decisions that were often difficult and controversial, and he understood the complexities of navigating a world where right and wrong were not always clear.

He wanted to help, but his experience had taught him that sometimes the best way to show care was to step back and allow others to find their own way.

“You know,” Joel said, shifting the topic slightly, “Ellie talks about you sometimes. Says you’re smart, and she admires you for stickin’ it out. She’s got a good head on her shoulders, but she looks up to you. So, if there’s ever a time you need someone to talk to, or if you just need a friend, don’t hesitate to reach out. I may not be the best at this whole ‘talkin’’ thing, but I’m here if you need me.”

You appreciated his attempt to offer support, even if it came in a roundabout way. “Thanks, Joel. It’s nice to know that someone cares,” you said, smiling as you put out the cigarette.

Joel watched you with a mixture of concern and curiosity, as if weighing whether to press further. You could see that he was struggling with how much to say, his usual reserve at odds with the genuine warmth he was trying to convey.

“Well,” you said, glancing at the fading light, “I should head back to the church before Dad notices I’m gone.”

Joel shifted his stance, a hint of hesitation in his eyes. “You sure you don’t want a ride back? It’s a long walk, and it’s gettin’ dark.”

You shook your head, feeling a pang of guilt for declining his offer. “I appreciate it, Joel, but I don’t want to trouble you. I can manage the walk.”

Joel’s brow furrowed, and he gave a firm nod. “It ain’t no trouble. It’s just a ride. Besides, I’d rather make sure you get back safely.”

His insistence made you feel slightly uncomfortable, but you also recognized his sincerity. Raised to be polite and considerate, you found it difficult to refuse when someone was being genuinely helpful.

“Alright,” you said reluctantly, “if you insist. Thank you.”

Joel nodded, his face softening a bit as he walked over to his truck. The vehicle was old but reliable, with a rugged appearance that matched Joel’s own. He opened the passenger side door for you, gesturing for you to get in.

As you climbed into the truck, Joel got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The interior was a mix of practical and worn, with a faint smell of leather and earth. Joel drove with a steady, practiced hand, the truck rumbling over the uneven terrain as he navigated the path back to town.

The silence in the truck was comfortable, with only the sound of the engine and the occasional rustle of the trees breaking it. You stared out the window, the fading sunlight casting a warm glow over the landscape. You could feel the weight of the day’s conversations settling in, and the quiet offered a moment of reflection.

After a few minutes, the truck rolled into town, the familiar sights coming into view. Joel slowed as he approached the church, where you could see the remaining congregants beginning to disperse.

Joel pulled up to the curb and stopped the truck. "We're here."

"Thank you once again, Joel. It’s good catching up with you," you said, giving him a grateful smile. Just as you were about to step out of the truck, you spotted your father from a distance. A sinking feeling washed over you as you realized he had seen you.

“Oh no,” you muttered, catching Joel’s eye. He turned to see your father walking towards the truck, a determined look on his face.

Joel, ever the gentleman, exited the truck as well. You followed suit, feeling a knot tighten in your stomach. Your father, who had been conversing with some church members, excused himself and made his way towards you and Joel.

“Evening, Reverend,” Joel greeted, extending a hand.

“Evening, Joel,” your father said with his usual charming demeanor, shaking Joel’s hand firmly. “It’s been a while. I hope you’ve been well.”

Joel’s expression was polite but reserved. “Can’t complain. Been keeping busy.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” your father replied smoothly. “You know, we’ve missed you at church. It would be good to see you back.”

Joel gave a noncommittal nod, his discomfort barely masked. “Maybe sometime.”

As your father turned his attention to you, his smile faltered slightly. “And where have you been, young lady? You were supposed to help with the service.”

You flinched at the stern tone, feeling his grip tighten around your arm as he spoke. “I was just taking a walk, Dad. Joel gave me a ride back.”

Your father’s grip was rough and unyielding, his fingers digging into your arm with a strength that was both painful and controlling. Joel noticed, his gaze briefly flicking to your father’s hand before returning to his face.

“Is that right?” your father said, his voice carrying a hint of disapproval. “Well, I hope you weren’t gone too long. We have responsibilities.”

"Yes, I'm sorry, father." You said smile a little to hide the pain he's causing you.

Joel cleared his throat, attempting to steer the conversation away from the tension. “I’m just making sure she gets back safe."

“Of course,” your father said, releasing your arm but maintaining a veneer of politeness. “We have a dinner invitation from Tommy and Maria next Saturday. I trust you’ll be joining us?”

Joel looked momentarily surprised. “Well, I'm supposed I am,"

Your father’s smile widened, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Yes, they extended the invitation to our family. It will be good to catch up.”

Joel nodded, his expression neutral. “I’ll have to check with Ellie, but I’m sure we’ll make it.”

“Excellent,” your father said, still maintaining his charming facade. “It’ll be good for everyone to reconnect.”

As the conversation continued, Joel’s discomfort grew. He noticed the strain in your father’s demeanor and the way he seemed to be masking a more sinister undertone behind his polite words. Joel had been out of the social loop for a while, but he was perceptive enough to sense when something was off, even if he chose not to probe further.

“Well,” Joel said, his tone shifting to one of finality, “I better be on my way. Got some things to take care of. It was good seeing you again, Reverend. And you too,” he added, offering you a brief, reassuring smile.

You gave him a grateful nod, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. “Thank you, Joel."

Joel, giving one last nod before turning to leave. As he walked away, you could feel the weight of the evening’s encounters settling heavily on your shoulders. The brief respite you’d found in Joel’s company had been overshadowed by the return of your father’s control and the unsettling realization that your escape from this small town and its complexities might be more challenging than you had hoped.

After the Sunday service, you returned home with a heavy heart. The warmth of the day had turned cold, and the familiar feeling of dread settled over you as you approached the house. Inside, the tension was palpable, and the moment you walked through the door, you knew there would be consequences for your absence during the service.

Your father’s voice was stern and unforgiving as he called you into the living room. “You’ve abandoned your duties. Do you have any idea what that means?”

You tried to explain, but his anger cut you off. “I was just trying to get some fresh air, Dad. I didn’t mean—”

Before you could finish, he was on you, grabbing your arm with a grip that left no room for argument. He dragged you to the center of the room, his face a mask of fury. “You’ve abandoned your duty. It’s about respect and responsibility. You know how important this is.”

“No, please, Dad, don’t. I’m so sorry. I will not do it again,” you pleaded, your voice trembling.

The fear in your voice only seemed to fuel his anger. He disappeared into the hallway, returning with his belt in hand. The leather looked menacing, and your heart raced as you saw it.

“Please, Dad, I’m sorry,” you continued to beg. “I didn’t mean to disobey. I’ll make it right. Just please—”

Your father’s face was a mask of cold determination. “Take off your dress and face the wall,” he ordered, his voice steely. “You needs to be taught a lesson.”

You could barely keep your composure as you undressed, your body shaking with fear and dread. The scars on your back from a previous punishment throbbed with anticipation. When you were finally positioned with your back to him, every nerve in your body was on edge.

The first crack of the belt was sharp and painfully immediate. The sound echoed through the room, followed by a searing pain that made you flinch. You cried out, tears streaming down your face. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” you sobbed, your voice breaking with each cry of pain.

You could feel the belt cutting into your already tender skin, the sensation of bleeding mixing with the agony of the blows. Each strike felt like a betrayal of your trust, a reminder of the harsh world you were trapped in.

Your mother stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her face pale and tear-streaked. She wanted to intervene, but fear held her back. She could only watch helplessly as you were punished, her own sobs mingling with your cries of pain.

In a desperate attempt to mask the sounds of the abuse from the neighbors, she turned the gospel music up loud, hoping the noise would cover your screams and your father’s harsh words.

The music blared in the background, a twisted contrast to the suffering in the room. It felt like a cruel mockery, the joyous hymns clashing with the reality of your punishment. Your mother’s tears fell silently as she stood by, unable to offer more than the muted comfort of her presence.

As the beating continued, your strength waned. The pain was overwhelming, a relentless reminder of the control your father exerted over every aspect of your life. You could only endure, hoping for it to end soon, each moment stretching out painfully as you clung to the hope that this would be the last of such torment.

When he finally stopped, you were left huddled on the floor, your body aching and your spirit broken. Your father’s anger subsided, leaving him with a cold, resolute expression. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” he said gruffly, his voice devoid of empathy. “Disobedience won’t be tolerated.”

Your mother rushed to your side as soon as your father left the room, her hands trembling, “I’m so sorry,” she whispered through her tears, her voice filled with sorrow and helplessness.

You looked at her through blurred vision, your own tears mingling with hers. “I—It's okay, mama." you said weakly, your voice strained and shaky. “It’s my fault."

She helped you put your dress back on, her fingers brushing gently over the raw marks on your skin, causing you to wince. Each movement was a reminder of the pain you were enduring.

As you slowly gathered your strength, your mother helped you to a nearby chair, her hands still shaking. She sat beside you, her presence a small but comforting anchor in the storm of your emotions. The music from the kitchen blared on, a cruel backdrop to the quiet moments of shared sorrow between mother and daughter.

In the midst of the pain and turmoil, there was a flicker of hope that someday, somehow, you might find a way out of the darkness. For now, though, you could only cling to the small comforts and the hope that things might one day be different.

[deliciousangelfestival]

I Hate It When You're Drunk - 2

Character: bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Princess!Reader

Summary: A forbidden love between a princess and her bodyguard. They love each other deeply, but their relationship is threatened by the tyrant king's oppressive rule and their differing social statuses.

I Hate It When You're Drunk Series Masterlist

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Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

"Good morning, Your Highness." One of your servants opened the heavy curtains of your bedroom.

"Morning." You groggily rubbed your eyes, slowly sitting up in bed. Your head pounded from the remnants of last night's alcohol. "What's my schedule today?" you asked, wincing as the bright light from the open curtains hit your eyes. Every movement felt like a struggle, your limbs heavy and your mind foggy from the overindulgence.

"We've made sure to clear it until noon because you're not in the best condition." Even the servants were used to your drunken state.

"Perfect." You sighed. With some effort, you got out of bed and started getting ready.

Your head still felt dizzy from last night's drinking. You shouldn't have drunk so much. What had triggered you to drink until blackout was seeing another of your friends getting married. You felt happy for her, but deep down, you were jealous because they could marry without any objections.

But your father is the king. And to make it worse, he's a tyrant king. He controls every aspect of your life, dictating whom you can and cannot love.

As you finished dressing and stepped out of your room, Bucky was waiting for you, as always. His eyes softened with concern as he saw you.

"Headache?" Bucky asked, his voice gentle.

"A little bit." You pinched the bridge of your nose. "I went overboard again last night, didn't I? I'm sorry." You leaned your head against his chest, seeking comfort.

His fingers gently brushed your hair, soothing you. "Don't drink like that anymore," he said, his voice filled with a quiet pain. He hated seeing you hurt yourself like this.

You nodded, feeling a pang of guilt. Then, you took his hands in yours. "Let's go. We can't waste more time."

Bucky followed you, his grip firm yet tender. Walking hand in hand through the hallway was the longest moment you could be together like a real couple. This short walk was your favorite part of the day, a fleeting taste of the life you both wished you could have.

As you moved through the palace, the sun streamed through the tall windows, casting long shadows on the marble floors. The silence between you was filled with unspoken words and shared glances. Bucky's presence was a steady anchor in your tumultuous life, and these stolen moments were your refuge from the storm of royal duties and impossible expectations.

You squeezed his hand a little tighter, silently promising each other that, no matter what, you would always find a way to be together, even if only in these brief, precious moments.

But the moment ended when you entered the dining room. Bucky couldn’t join you; only royalty or invited guests were allowed. He had to stand outside. It was always difficult to let go of his hand.

"You need to eat," Bucky reminded you gently.

"Can’t we eat together?" you whined, a pout forming on your lips.

"I'm sorry, Your Highness." He chuckled lightly.

You rolled your eyes, sighing in defeat. "Fine."

Suddenly, one of the guards interrupted, causing you to release Bucky’s hand. The guard greeted you and announced, "The king has returned."

"Okay," you replied. Then you realized the gravity of the situation and looked at Bucky, "Fuck. Wasn't he supposed to come back next week?"

Bucky immediately switched into professional mode. He spoke through his earpiece, issuing commands, "Prepare for the entrance."

The king had been on a world tour for conferences and the Olympics. While he was away, you had used the opportunity to be close to Bucky. But now, that had to end since your father was back.

After two hours, the entourage and the king arrived. As the princess, you had to welcome him at the grand entrance along with the ministers. While waiting, you kept glancing at Bucky, who stood far to your left. He looked strong and imposing, like a knight straight out of a storybook, his posture radiating vigilance and strength.

The horns blew, signaling the king's arrival.

"King Leonard Damon II has arrived!"

When the announcement was made, everyone bowed. The large doors opened, and the most important figure in the country stepped into the castle.

King Leonard Damon II was a man in his 50s. He looked dignified and confident, his presence commanding respect. His eyes, however, seemed lifeless, devoid of any warmth or feeling. It was understandable; he was known as the tyrant king.

Leonard acknowledged everyone with a curt nod, but his gaze lingered on Bucky for a brief moment before returning to you. It made your heart race.

"Continue with today's agenda," the king commanded as he walked, not pausing for rest despite just arriving.

You felt a sense of foreboding. Glancing at Bucky, you saw your worry reflected in his eyes.

As the king walked past, you couldn't help but feel the tension in the air. His return meant a return to strict protocols and the end of the small freedoms you had enjoyed. Your mind raced with possibilities, wondering what his sudden return would bring.

Bucky stood tall, his eyes following the king while staying alert to potential threats. His presence was a silent reassurance, yet you couldn't shake the unease in your chest. The king's glance at Bucky had been brief, but it carried a weight that made you anxious.

You straightened your posture, preparing to follow the day's agenda, but your thoughts were still with Bucky. You managed a small, reassuring smile in his direction before turning to follow your father.

👑👑👑👑

The meeting primarily involved discussing the results of the king’s world tour. The Veridian Economic Minister, Hugo, who had accompanied the king on the journey, excitedly explained, "Many foreign investors are interested in investing in our beloved country. It will boost the economy significantly."

"They won’t be taxed?" you interjected.

"Ahem, that’s right, Your Highness." Hugo was always startled whenever you spoke up. He glanced nervously at King Leonard, but the king didn't seem to mind his daughter interrupting the presentation.

"That's great," you continued. "But I hope that as Veridian's GDP rises, we will also support the younger generation who want to start their own businesses. We should offer small loans and assistance because they are the future pillars of our country."

As you spoke, everyone listened intently.

"I agree, Your Highness. I see that you've met with young entrepreneurs during our absence," Hugo remarked.

"It's good to see you engaging with them," King Leonard added.

Everyone nodded in agreement. "She’s perfect as the next ruler," Hugo commented.

"She only needs one thing: a spouse," someone interjected. The room filled with murmurs of agreement, but you flinched at the mention.

"I already have candidates in mind," King Leonard announced.

After his declaration, the room fell silent, followed by applause. "That’s wonderful. If it's King Leonard's choice, the person must be the best," the ministers echoed their support.

You sat there, your nails digging into your thighs, looking at your father with a mixture of anger and frustration, your eyes burning with unshed tears.

👑👑👑👑

Everyone left after the meeting was over except you and the king.

You fixed your gaze on Leonard, who appeared unruffled, as he always did in moments of confrontation. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, as he lounged back in his ornate chair, fingers steepled in front of him.

His eyes, cold and calculating, never wavered from your face as if he could read every thought passing through your mind.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice cutting through the tense silence like a knife.

You swallowed hard, feeling the pressure of his gaze bearing down on you. Slowly, deliberately, you spoke, your voice steady despite the turmoil. "I already said that I won’t get married unless it’s Bucky."

A flicker of something unreadable crossed Leonard's face, gone as quickly as it appeared. His lips curled into a half-smile, devoid of warmth or amusement. "Over my dead body," he replied coolly, the threat underlying his words unmistakable.

"Should I take your life first so I can be with the man I love?" you retorted, your voice shaking with emotion.

"My child," he said, leaning back in his chair with a casual air, the leather creaking softly under his weight. He studied you with a cold, almost amused detachment, his fingers lightly drumming on the armrest.

"You’re not a killer like me," he continued, his voice smooth and unyielding.

The word 'killer' sent a shiver down your spine. Because it was true, you were different from him. The reason why King Leonard Damon II was called the tyrant king was because he was a cold-blooded killer.

Leonard had killed his own siblings to secure the throne. He felt no remorse after taking their lives. Not just relatives, but also anyone who objected to him being king. This included the family of the queen, his own wife, your mother.

"Do you hate Bucky because of what happened to my mother?" you asked, your voice trembling.

Leonard fell silent, then hurled his glass of wine across the room. "Never mention that woman."

"There’s no evidence that she ran away with her bodyguard," you insisted. This was the kingdom's biggest secret. Outside the castle walls, everyone believed the queen had died of illness. But the truth was, she was missing. You didn’t know if your mother was alive or dead.

You understood why your mother might have run away from your father. He never acted violently towards her, but his actions against her family made her hate him. She had never wanted to be a queen. One day, she vanished, and her guard also went missing a few days later.

Leonard became obsessed with finding his wife. He spared no expense, sending out the kingdom’s most skilled trackers and investigators to scour the land. Despite their efforts, every lead turned cold, and every trail went nowhere.

You rubbed your forehead, feeling the weight of your family's complex dynamics. "If I’m not married, will you still pass the throne to me?"

The lack of an immediate answer gnawed at you, amplifying the uncertainty of your future. You knew your father’s mind was a labyrinth of ambitions and schemes, where even the most straightforward question could hide layers of strategy. His silence spoke volumes, a testament to his unwillingness to relinquish control or reveal his true intentions.

"Father?" you prompted.

Finally, Leonard spoke, his voice measured and devoid of warmth. "Maybe. Perhaps after 10, 15 years," he said, his tone betraying no hint of reassurance.

You hadn’t expected this. "I should’ve known. You never planned to make me a queen," you said, feeling a surge of despair. Without becoming queen, you couldn’t marry the man you loved.

Leonard's face remained expressionless, his eyes cold and unyielding. The tension in the room was palpable, and you felt a mix of anger and hopelessness. Your dreams of a future with Bucky seemed to slip further away with each passing second.

Your father’s silence spoke volumes. He had always been calculating and ruthless, willing to sacrifice anything and anyone for his own power. The realization that he never intended for you to rule cut deep.

You clenched your fists, trying to steady your breathing. "So, my fate is to remain a pawn in your game?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Leonard stood up, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the room. "You will do as you are told, for the good of the kingdom," he declared, turning to leave.

As he walked away, you felt a tear slip down your cheek. You were trapped in a gilded cage with no way out. Your love for Bucky seemed destined to remain unfulfilled, crushed under the weight of your father's tyranny.

When Leonard reached the door, he paused and looked back at Bucky, who had been waiting outside. "Remember your place," he said coldly before exiting the room, leaving you alone with your tumultuous thoughts and fears.

Bucky’s grip tightened as he watched the king leave. Once Leonard was out of sight, he rushed to your side. As he entered, his eyes immediately found you already on the ground, knees pressed against the cold stone.

Shock mingled with concern in his eyes as he took in your tear-streaked face, your eyes red and puffy from crying. Seeing you in such distress tore at his soul. He wished he could shield you from the pain, protect you from the harsh realities that surrounded your life.

"Hey," he murmured softly, his voice a soothing balm amidst the chaos. "I'm here." His words were simple but carried a world of comfort and unwavering support. He brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his touch tender and gentle.

Seeing your pain, Bucky's heart ached. What had the king said to you?

Without a word, you collapsed into his arms, your body trembling. He held you close, his strong arms enveloping you in a protective embrace. You buried your face in his shoulder, your sobs muffled against his uniform.

"Oh, Bucky, what should I do?" you cried, your voice breaking.

Bucky gently stroked your hair, his hand moving in soothing circles. "Shh, it's going to be alright," he whispered, though he knew the words felt hollow. His own heart was heavy with the knowledge of the king's cruelty.

A/N: Did you enjoy Chapter 2? What would you like to see in the next chapter?

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[yanderefarm]

Now I need us “pretending” to forget about Emil, only to actully forget about it him.

Like, as a punishment we lock him in the basement and forget about him as a joke, send a maid down there once a day to feed him, but then we genuinely forget about with him, because we didn’t realize how much work Emil does.

He gets feed once a day from a maid, but that’s the only interaction he has. (Need some more angst before it gets fluffy🙏🙏)

part 3 of this & 2

i don't know why i love this series so much i want to break emil so bad. i have so much fun writing pathetic emil whump.

cw;; domestic abuse, drugging, unsanitary, manipulation, dehumanization

things had been relatively peaceful since starting the divorce process. a process you had paid the information guild to purposely obstruct and delay while also leaking all the information about. at this point you met the guild master more than your own husband, in spite of emil's attempts. every day you would wake up to find some kind of expensive gift and your maids would inform you that emil was there to see you, to which you would dismiss both. but emil kept trying.

he wasn't even being drugged anymore but the effects had clearly taken their toll on his mind. according to the servants of the main house he wasn't doing his work, he would spend all his time wandering or sitting like he was the living dead, and they even heard him crying. your name and even mention of the queen title had been all but banned by his advisors in an attempt to get him to pull himself together. he wasn't.

the first time you saw him in 6 months was shortly after a meeting with the guild master discussing your next steps to take over the kingdom. you had decided with everything squared away you would go out for a walk by the fountain.

the moon was the only light on the usually vibrant garden, casting it in a somber darkness. the air was cold and heavy with the chilling change of seasons on the horizon so you were wrapped in a shawl. it was the perfect night to find him. your husband was standing on the bridge overlooking the fountain, he was staring down into the water longingly. you could see from his reflection in the water his eyes were sunken and there were bags under them, his hair was messy and uncombed, and he was paler than normal. he looked sickly and the cold blank look in his eyes didn't help.

he didn't even seem to notice as you approached when usually he would be on high alert or draw his sword. or he did notice.

"if you're going to kill me please make it quick." he must have thought you were some kind of assassin but more notably his voice was so soft and weak unlike anything you'd ever heard from him.

"i have no intention of killing you." your voice made his head shoot up with all the speed his weakened state could allow.

fresh tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. "(y/n)..? are you... real..?"

he stumbled towards you his feet struggling to carry him. you reached out and caught his surprisingly light body.

"you're re-"

"what's wrong with you? do you think dying will make things better?"

he flinched and his head fell to the ground.

"i thought you would break eventually and just admit you were wrong. but you'd rather die, hm?"

"i- you- i tried-"

"i don't want your excuses, emil."

he swallowed hard as tears began falling freely from his eyes. he opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. you couldn't help but take some kind of pity on the poor man, your hand running under his chin and forcing him to look back at your face.

"you're so pathetic... this is what the terrible tyrant becomes?"

you ran your thumb along his bottom lip before you leaned in close enough to feel his ragged breath against your lips.

"give up your pathetic life. give everything to me. everything ends when you give it to me."

he tried to lean forward enough to catch your lips but you kept out of his reach. instead of letting him kiss you, you pulled away from him completely. you stood up straight and pulled your arms away from his body causing the pathetic man to drop onto his knees. his body hit the cobble like you'd dropped a corpse but you decided not to care, choosing to turn away instead.

you started to walk away when you heard scratching and clawing at the stone under your feet.

"-ing please. please!" his voice clearly strained to try get your attention.

you stopped in your tracks waiting for him to speak but instead you heard more clawing and shuffling. eventually you felt his head bump into your leg like a cat greeting its owner. his bloody hands grabbed your leg and he held onto you as tight as he could while rubbing his head against your leg.

"emil. let me go."

"please take it... please take everything..."

"let me go."

"you want everything its yours. please."

"emil."

you finally dared to look down at him. he was so pathetic, his tears and blood were staining your pants. you let out a heavy sigh and reached down, your hand running through his tangled mess of hair.

"if you mean that then tomorrow concede your kingdom to me."

his peachy pink eyes looked up at you.

"do you understand?"

he nodded.

"then let go. you're getting me dirty."

he hesitated but he slowly let go of your leg.

———

of course your husband came through. he did as you ordered him, meaning you ascended to the title of king ahead of your schedule. while it certainly had its benefits it did leave a few things unfinished specifically on the guild master's end. so after everything settled into place you used your new found power to help staple in the final touches.

your husband who had been so happy to have you next to him again the past few months had to resume the drugs just so your hard work wouldn't completely slip away. he was still walking around like a corpse just a better maintained one. but no one seemed to have the time to pay much mind in the chaos of making you king. no one had the time to wonder where he went near the end of the chaos as you took over. and it was only when it was too late did his advisors even notice he wasn't anywhere to be found in the castle. you had to reassure them that he was currently tucked away from the public receiving the utmost medical care for his poor condition.

you ran a hand through your hair as you descended the dungeon steps, you were currently complaining to your maid about all the tedious parts of your job. there was an undeniable smile on your face though, the pride of having the most powerful kingdom in your hands made even the tedium valuable. your smile only widened twisting into a sick smirk as your torch caught onto the dirty form of your caged husband. he was on his knees clinging to the bars of his cell with tearful dead eyes.

"how long has it been, emil...?"

you walked over and crouched in front of him, he immediately went to push his head against your hand.

"your highness it's been 6 months since your last visit." your maid hung the torch nearby.

"really...? it's been over a year since i started this..."

your maid set about preparing emil's food while you pet him gently.

"i didn't mean to forget you down here."

the poor man didn't even seem to realize as he rubbed his head against your hand.

"oh emil... to think it only took a little over a year to break the mad king. to take everything away from you. to trap you in a little cage like you did my family."

the maid returned with some fresh water and a bowl of porridge. you pulled away from emil as she gave him his food. you watched his pathetic eyes look up at you desperately and you cocked your head to the side.

"your highness he's asking permission to eat."

your eyes lit up as you looked over at your maid. "oh my goodness!! you're incredible! i remember telling you i wanted to train him but to think you really went the extra mile..."

"thank you, sir. it's an absolute honor to break the man who destroyed my home."

your smile didn't fade as you looked down at the pleading former tyrant. "go ahead. but you can't use your hands."

emil hesitated before he finally shoved his face down into the bowl, eating like a pig with slop. it was a disgusting but amusing site, you and your maid had a good laugh at his expense.

once he was done you decided to give him a reward for good behavior. you crouched down in front of him and gently cleaned the mess off his face with a warm wash cloth. it was the closest thing he'd had to a real bath in the past 6 months. he was sobbing as he leaned into your hands.

it didn't last as long as he'd liked and you pulled away again.

"continue training him. id like to parade him around eventually so we should work with that goal in mind."

"you'll have his complete obedience. he won't even think to breathe without your permission."

"wonderful." you ran a hand down through his tangled mess of hair. "... I'll give you a budget so you can properly turn this area into the perfect training facility and our private friend can help you with the details."

"i look forward to it, your highness."

"i do too. when we're done with you you'll finally tell me you love me. you'll thank me for all of this, emi."

all you got was a whimper in response. you left your precious husband down in the dungeon, a forgotten and disgraced king.

[morgaseus]

Thinking about slow dancing with sunday…

Contains slight spoilers for the Penacony quest. Set before the nameless arrived in Penacony.

“Do you know how to dance?”

The scratching of a pen suddenly stopped, he lifted his head, pen hovering above the parchment for a moment, before finally being laid down beside it. Your voice echoed throughout his study, breaking the silence between you two.

“Oh? Where did that suddenly come from?" His gaze drifted towards you. Moonlight spilled through the windows, tracing silver lines across your face. You were always beautiful but basked in the moonlight's glow, you looked absolutely breathtaking, as delicate as the forget-me-not's in his garden.

“I was thinking” you trailed off, slowly walking towards the gramophone resting beside the bookshelf. Your fingers trailed along the smooth brass surface of the gramophone, before finally reaching for the record tucked beside it. And with a click, a slow, but familiar melody filled in the air. “How about a dance?” You turned to him with a smile.

You needn't say anymore. He rose from his chair, his leather shoes creating a soft thud along the carpet as he walked towards you. The moonlight that filtered through the window bathed him in an ethereal glow. It danced across his features, casting a faint glow to his golden halo. His dull gray hair shimmered, the moonlight painting it silver. It emphasized the sharp, yet, soft angles of his face. His feathery soft wings, pierced with golden studs. You wonder how he got that, whenever you asked, he’d always changed the subject. You let out a faint smile. Everything about him was captivating but it was his eyes that drew you in. His golden eyes, full of secrets, held a warmth that enveloped you. You could get lost in them forever. Ahhh. truly, he looked like a being that fell from the heavens. Befitting his title as “the most handsome man in Penacony.” 

As he reached you, his hand extended, palm open and inviting. A soft smile present in his face, his gaze never leaving yours. “Well, then, would you care for a dance, m’lady?”

You gladly took his hand and slipped into his embrace, swaying together to the rhythm of the melody. In this moment, he could lose himself entirely. Whenever you’re with him, time seems to slow down, the world fading into a blur.

The weight of the Oak family’s legacy - the 106,366 oak family members - loomed over him like a dark cloud. And with the Charmony Festival looming, a single misstep could shatter generations of aspirations. He'd been preparing for this ever since the dreammaster whispered words of promises in his ear. Every moment led to that one, final performance. 

No longer would Robin have the need to go on a “tour” and risk her life to bring harmony. No longer would everyone have to suffer and endure mortal pain. No longer would everyone have to tear down each other's throat for a mere sliver of gold. He will bring order and utopia to everyone. Yes, he will be their salvation, not a tyrant, not a conqueror, but a shepherd ushering his flock to a new dawn. 

Yet, for a moment, under the soft glow of the moon, he allowed himself to forget. In your arms, the crushing weight seemed to ease.

For now, it was just you and him.

[unadulteratedsoulsweets]

A DC X DP IDEA #22

Back in my day.

Imagine dis…

Alfred is a whole mystery to the Batfam that whenever he pulls out his shotgun we are in awe at this kickass badass British butler, on the other hand, we are always in the shadows of his past endeavors. We all knew he was a S.A.S. Armed Services, fighting in 15 different operations between ages 18 and 20. A skilled medical and front liner soldier who was decorated. He later joined MI5, as well as the secret forces of the Queen and later being knighted by Her Majesty.

He is silent as he comes by, he can out Batman the Batman despite Bruce learning from the greatest assassin of all time. He is calm, too calm for any situation to the point your subconscious asks if he had seen something wilder, more insane to consider an alien attack, a mutant crocodile attack every Tuesday is considered somewhat tame, or even the rise of global or universal threats that Alfred seemed to brush it off.

So, who is he?

…

Alfred Pennyworth had always been a mysterious figure. He had dedicated his life to serving the Wayne family and their caped crusader alter-egos as Bruce Wayne's loyal butler and the revered keeper of Wayne Manor. But Alfred had held a secret for decades, one that would finally come to light most unexpectedly.

Alfred was a teenager called Danny Fenton long before he donned the perfect suit and tie. He lived in the small town of Amity Park, which was riddled with secrets of its own. Danny was not your typical adolescent; he had a strange encounter with a ghostly gateway that had bestowed upon him unusual and otherworldly skills. He had protected Amity Park from vengeful ghosts and spectral threats thanks to his power to shift into a phantom hero known as Danny Phantom.

Danny had just recently been crowned as the crowned prince of the Infinite Realm a week after he had defeated the tyrant Pariah Dark who had attempted to rip off a space in the fabric of in-between just to suck in his little quaint town. It was determined by both the ancient and the Observants that it was better for him to finish his mortal life before he dawns on the crown, as he was still growing, he was still considered a baby ghost younger than Young Blood as his death was still recent.

But slowly the thoughts that he had kept behind his head are coming back to him. Jazz his beloved sister as well as the one who had raised her despite being a child herself who had no idea of raising a child, may analyze her all she wants but she could never sympathize nor connect with his inner thoughts of being one of the halfas. He died, he never really had the time to process it because he had to face the Lunch Lady just a few days after the accident. 

His friends, now looking at them closely, have seen that they both have some sort of guilt in their eyes. They both have seen him die amid the electrician, he can’t help but feel some sort of longing at the cemetery the north of Amity Park, he is too alive to have a grave yet too dead to be alive.

He thought he was getting there, changing the views of the people. To show the world that his kind is sentient but the people kept whispering. Shadows cast long by the looming specters sent chills down their spines. Every eerie wail or flicker of a ghostly presence filled them with dread. Their eyes widened in terror as the ethereal figures materialized before them. A hushed silence fell over the town when ghostly battles raged in the skies. Parents warned their children to stay indoors when the ghost alarms rang. Fearful whispers of the "Ghost Boy" circulated, both a hero and a phantom menace. 

The ghostly encounters left scars of fear etched in the minds of Amity Park's residents.

In the end, he was forced to leave his home dimension, why? It’s because the GIW have become more vicious more brutal at their hunting, With the sacrifice of both his friends and family they have shoved him into the portal, never to be seen again.

…

All bloodied and still injured he had landed in a period in the early 1900. He thought that he may have accidentally traveled back in time but when he saw too many conflicting events that he had learned during his high school days that didn’t happen during this time led him to believe that he had traveled a different dimension. Small ripples in the water created a tsunami of change in what he previously known as the past, when he was still in the streets gathering information, he had noticed that he landed in the middle of London during the early 1900s. Good enough that child labor laws are still not a thing so he can work with practically anyone without questions asked. The bad news is that his supposed great-grandfather's version in this dimension had already died, according to his family tree history during his science project in 4th grade his great-grandfather went to London to earn a few bucks before traveling back to America where he would meet his supposed great grandmother and have children. Since he died before he even went back to America the Nightgale-Fenton line died with him.

Luckily a barren couple took pity on him and took him in, since Danny can’t no longer bear his original last name, he embraced the new name from this nice couple who had taken him in. Danny may have felt guilty at the prospect or even the idea of replacing his family but he can’t help but think of it as a new beginning of his life. No one to hunt down his ghostly half, No GIW, and No fruit loop trying to turn him into his heir.

Alfred Pennyworth

During this time he did a lot of odd jobs, cleaning the inside of a chimney, mining, selling newspapers… etc. Sure, it was hard work and he can’t help but look at the children far younger than him taking in jobs far more dangerous just so they can shave something to eat. He can’t help but feel too blessed when he was back in his timeline. Warn food to eat under a sturdy roof to keep out the elements as well as education. Things that were too mundane, too common, that he now feels like a luxury. 

Over time he developed an accent as well as new mannerisms and vocabulary. 

So, when war broke out on the horizon his core ached at the notion of protection thus signed up in the military. 

Sure, he became the most feared soldier in the fields due to his using some of his ghostly abilities subtly. His enemies who stand in front of him call him The Vengeful Orphan, due to his avenging every soldier who seems to die at the hands of their enemies. 

Between the ages of 18 and 20, he served in the S.A.S. Armed Services, engaging in 15 different actions. A decorated medical specialist and front-line soldier. He then joined MI5, as well as the Queen's secret forces, and was knighted by Her Majesty.

…

As time passes by the ages, slowly but surely. He had already outlived his adoptive parents and friends of his. He still held the authority of being the officially crowned prince of the Infinite Realms. He had already explored the world experiencing the culture and history of this world.

At this time, he had already recovered enough ectoplasm to turn back to his ghostly prime and create a portal to the Infinite Realms. But something in him nagged, his core kept trying to tell him something when he was about to take a step inside the portal, but he didn’t seem to know why. His years as Phantom and Alfred Pennyworth taught him to listen to his guts, and it saved him multiple times, without looking back he stayed in this dimension until his mortal life perished.

It seemed that he didn’t have to find it for too long as he was approached by none other than Thomas Wayne with the preposition to be Wayne’s butler.

So, when little Bruce Wayne was born he couldn’t help but feel a little fond of the tyke. He reminded Bruce of himself when he was just a simple young boy before everything. When the fated, night came he tried to shield Bruce from everything, to have him resemble a somewhat normal life. 

That night he tucked in a teary-eyed Bruce into bed who had just witnessed his parent’s murder. He faced the ghosts of both Martha and Thomas who had been with the young master since the incident a few hours ago and tearfully promised the two ghostly couple that he would take care of Bruce. Both couples seemed to be in shock at their butler who had seen them but felt relief that their boy was in safe hands.

…

When his ward Bruce Wayne turned into a crime-fighting vigilante, he can’t help but softly snort at his outfit. Sure, he admits he had a worse outfit when he started as Phantom when he was just a young lad but he is willing to take anything other than a furry suit that fights crime at night. He has no right to criticize either since his alter ego is just him with an inverted color without a mask yet people seem to make no connection between him and Phantom, in his defense he is a young teen whereas Bruce is in his 20s. He just raised an eyebrow at his outfit and Bruce immediately changed the design to be a bit more sophisticated than just a Halloween costume of a bat.

…

So when Bruce starts to bring in orphans he can’t help but smile fondly as the manor is slowly filled with such joy from each child that seems to find a home in the large manor. He can't help but reminisce if this could have been his life if Vlad had learned to forgive Jack or if his parents and Amity Park just accepted him if the GIW didn’t exist. He thought one day when he was drinking tea with Jason, Jason who died and came back different, never broken. His grandchild who experienced his death in a slow yet painful way died and came back later. He knew there was something different with his grave but he chalked it up in being his ghostly sense sensing the ectoplasm around Gotham. He just wished he checked the grave even though it holds so much sentimental value to the dead. 

Don’t get him wrong the moment Jason came back to enact his revenge on B he was already aware something was in Gotham he just didn’t know at the time that it was Jason. He is more than happy to kill the Joker as he had taken mortal lives when he was serving the army but Bruce might notice and he still held fear at the idea of Dan.

After the entire revelation between his son and grandchild, he just welcomed back Jason into the manor as if nothing was wrong with the boy and prepared his favorite dish and snacks in the library whenever he visited.

…

Now it had been a long way since he entered this dimension, now the long table at the manor is filled with guests and children alike. His grandchildren are full of life despite what had life thrown at them. Dick was the first one to arrive and started, Barbara followed, Jason who took off the wheel, Tim with his brilliant mind with his worrying caffeine intake, Stephanie who fought with his father, Cassandra who started just to atone for the sin of killing her father yet became loyal and caring young lady and Damian who started to learn what humanity is like. Sure others had been emotionally adopted but all of them all have places in the manor.

…

His grandchildren as well as his pseudo son kept throwing him curious glances every time, He managed to seemingly appear behind them to notify them of dinner. He can also feel the envy of walking silently from the assassin-trained children. He can feel Bruce’s stare whenever he raises an eyebrow at some classified cases that are supposedly secured. He can hear their whispers as they exclaim to one another that he supposedly knew everything, of course, he knew everything the manor became his new haunt after a few years.

…

He already raised an eyebrow at the simultaneous alarm from every vigilante at the dinner table but imagine his surprise when he joined in looking over the Bat computer as Oracle barked out orders and instructions, as a familiar opponent showed itself.

A green glowing monster is wreaking havoc throughout Gotham it came from Central City and marched its way here to Gotham which became even more powerful due to the ectoplasm in the air. There is already notable damage from both cities as the rest of the heroes seem to work together to evacuate and stop the creature. The JLD attacks seem to have some effect but it was useless due to its minions that kept them occupied. Oracle is so focused on the situation and doesn’t notify their pseudo grandfather to disappear from behind her.

…

The entire JL is starting to feel hopeless as the green creature seems to raze Gotham as if the stone road is made out of water. Every magician and heavy hitter have been called but no one was able to put damage to the creature.

When all hopes seemed lost, they all heard a loud bang from a shotgun.

Alfred Pennyworth is standing on top of a rubble of concrete and metal, the butler of Batman, the pseudo father, and grandfather of the entire bat clan, also known as Agent A. Carrying his signature shotgun and a thermos that seems to strap to his hip like a belt. 

He kept firing round after round from his trusty old shotgun and pausing for a second to reload. He glanced at the heroes around and seemed to raise an eyebrow at the absolute massacre that he had just done to the creature’s minions.

As he paused to take another reload, he paused at movement and looked at the space in front of him and waited. The creature appeared roaring out in fury but seemed to pause the moment it laid eyes on Alfred. The creature seems to shake with uncertainty and fear. Every vigilante and hero present could see its eyes growing wide from shock and fear as well the cold sweat as Alfred raised an eyebrow at the creature as he slowly walked towards the creature with annoyance with every step.

Some heroes who had enhanced hearing could hear Alfred muttering about, back in his day blob ghosts were these cute and harmless things but now some up-start wannabe newly formed one seems to think he is all hot shot. 

He proceeds to scold the creature as if he had just caught one of his grandchildren sneaking their hands on the cookie jar and proceeds to take out the thermos and effectively catch the creature. As if the one responsible for the mess never existed in the first place.

Now the bat clan has rules when they are in the manor or the presence of Alfred and one of those rules is that there will be no swearing when he is around, but there is one word that seems to resound from each hero's mind.

What the fuck just happened?!?!

…

Now as you know I started to post less, now it is both from writer’s block and class being in the way.

PS: If someone out there wanted to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

[haunted-xander]

tbh one of, if not my absolute favorite part about ffxiv, is the small little moments/sections where nothing super big or like. Plot Important happens, but that give both the characters and us, the players, some much appreciated down-time to just. Feel things. And to process what's happened and what's going on or to just. Let us exist, in the moment. In a much more grounded and human way than when there's Big And Important Things happening.

The biggest(imo) and earliest example of this is right after the Waking Sands get raided in ARR, and WoL turns to the church for guidance. The entire section of us helping them gather and bury our fallen comrades, and especially bringing Noraxia home to Little Solace so she can be laid to rest in her homeland, by her own people and in their own cultural ways, was so so important to me.

Because it wasn't just replacable allies cast aside for shock value anymore, it was real. These deaths were real and meant something. I got to actually process what just happened, and I got to watch Banana go through it right with me. And not only did it make it feel real, it also gave me a sense of closure. These people, these friends, are dead, but they also got to be treated with the respect they deserve and laid to rest properly.

And that, more than anything else, made me want to save the world. It's grounded and grounding. This world, and these people, meant something to me, the player.

And there's tons of stuff like that throughout the game, especially in shadowbringers and endwalker.

In shb we have, for example, Lyna venting her anger and frustration after the sin eater attack in Lakeland. She's on her knees yelling on the verge of tears while punching the ground, so furious at her helplessness and powerlessness, at everyone having come so far yet set back because some megalomaniacal tyrant deemed it so.

In ew we have Urianger being approached by Moenbryda's parents, who confront him about not confiding in them about his grief. When Bloewyda starts to scold him, he of course reacts guiltily, believing they blame him, only for him to be completely caught off guard when she instead goes in to hug him, telling him he should have let them grieve with him. And he just. Breaks down. He's been holding these feelings, this grief inside him all this time, and now that he is not only told it's okay to let it out, but by her very own parents at that, he just can't keep it in anymore. He cries for Moenbryda, right then and there, being held lovingly by her family.

And the thing is, these scenes aren't necessary, strictly speaking. The plot at large could go on without them, the events that happen around them are not changed by these moments in any way.

But still, they are so so important, to the world, to the characters, to the players. Everything feels real and impactful now, every death means something, every tragedy, every person, feels real.

And that, to me, is what makes this story so special.

[cloudshuffle]

unmasked. yan!childe

index / prev / next / beta reader @lupikekee

warnings: explicit nsfw

You break the surface of the cold waters face first. There’s still a tightness in your chest, but you find it’s just the blanket, all twisted up with your legs and tugging at you. You grumble, still trying to shake off the sticky cobwebs of sleep, and struggle out of bed. 

Apart from the ticking of the clock, you realise that a silence has fallen and that you’re alone. A peek out the window reveals that you’ve made it to open sea, which means that everyone can now relax - an occasion for drinking to any Snezhnayan.

You leave your mask, knowing that the others would have done the same, and make your way onto the deck.

Nadia’s the first to greet you, grabbing onto your arms and whirling you into the ring of people grouped loosely around a fire burning in a barrel. “You’re up! We missed you!”

Judging by the way one of the women casts her an unimpressed glance, “we” more accurately means “I”. But you’re grateful for her induction into the celebrations otherwise.

She pulls you down to sit with her on an overturned, oversized bucket. She looks like a wild fae of the forest, her eyes alight from both drink and joy, and her cheeks flushed rosy. 

“Your hair’s a mess,” you comment, helping her settle the unruly curls.

She giggles, kicking her feet like a child, and dive right back into whatever conversation they were having earlier. 

You feel yourself fading comfortably into the background, smiling and laughing whenever appropriate. Someone passes you a shot of fire water. It goes down like, well, liquid fire, burning down your throat and stomach from the inside, warmth slowly spreading to every part of your body. Another one finds its way into your hand soon after, but this one you refrain from tossing back.

Your gaze wanders out over the deck. The sails flap every so often in a steady wind, the ship cutting through the calm waters like a hot knife through butter. At this pace, you’ll be reaching Liyue the next morning. 

The faces around the fire are familiar and friendly, but only a handful of names come to mind. Surely the captain of the ship wouldn’t be excluded from the activities of his own crew…?

A chorus of cheers rises from the men facing me. “El capitan!” one of them cries in a horrible accent, raising his glass and tilting so far back the other men have to catch him. We all turn back in unison.

“Markus!” Ajax calls back, raising a fist in return. He’s lost the red cape, usually draped around his neck and over his back, and his red harbinger mask is also nowhere to be seen. Without it, you think he looks… younger. More normal. Less like a tyrant and more like a boy. “Sorry my business took so long.”

The ring shifts reverently, allowing their leader in amongst their midst. Tartaglia takes a seat on a barrel to your right, heaving a satisfied sigh. A glass is delivered into his hand immediately, and he inhales it just as you had. “Finally. I’ve been on my feet all day.”

The conversation resumes, still cheerful and light-hearted, but it’s hard to ignore the undercurrent that tows you all towards his presence. Drinking or not, a harbinger is still a harbinger, the closest person to the Tsaritsa you’ll ever get to see, someone who can order your execution at the flick of a hand. Some seem to be trying to take advantage of that. Others shy away.

You watch him closely, taking back your second shot. Funny enough, the expression he wears is closer to a mask than it was on the archery field, though he doesn’t have his mask around him now. He laughs and chats with his soldiers just the same, but you can tell that he feels the undercurrent too, like a black hole swallowing a galaxy.

Too much thinking. You pour yourself a third, then a fourth shot.

Now the edges of your vision begin to spark with a mystical light, and the warmth from the alcohol coils in your body like a serpent. The conversation thrums in your temples like a tribal drum, and the pendant of your necklace pricks at the pads of your fingers as you fiddle with it. It doesn’t help. 

“I’m going to step away for a bit,” you murmur to Nadia. 

She giggles, nodding enthusiastically. She’s had nearly twice as many drinks as you and is likely on the edge of hysteria, but you know someone’ll help her if she passes out. 

The front of the ship feels like a world away from the chatter, the wind cutting through your coat and helping to take the edge off the heat inside you. The stars are quiet and calm, twinkling peacefully a million miles away, a soothing sight to your still-unsettled nerves. 

You had no fear of the water, but enclosed spaces made you feel like you couldn’t breathe. The ocean felt like your friend. Your cabin… felt like the mouth of a lion, maybe. It was a curious fear, but you’d never been able to figure it out.

You’re toying with your necklace again. The string begins to chafe at the back of your neck, so you pull it up over your head.

It’s a crude thing, a sundial shell wrapped up in a twist of rusty metal and strung up on a piece of cotton rope, but beautiful too. Moonlight shows faintly through its translucent surface, making the shell glow blue. 

He had brought it to your bedside as a good luck charm, the same ‘he’ who’d dove into the lake and hauled you out. 

Ajax had been kind, and cheerful, and popular amongst the other children because there wasn’t a dare he wouldn’t do. You’d never gotten along particularly before the incident. But afterwards, when grandmothers muttered that the lake had taken your spirit if not your soul, and the other children refused to play with you, Ajax would still spend time sitting in windows and reading fairy tales with you.

“Here you are. I was looking for you.”

You lower the pendant. There’s no need to turn around to see who it is - his slow, measured strides across the deck are telling enough.

“I just needed to clear my head.” You lower your head to tie the necklace back on, avoiding his discerning gaze, his easy smile. “I hope my lord wasn’t too concerned about me.”

The corner of his lips quirks up. “Let me help.” His cool gloves brush against yours. 

You hesitate, then lower your hands. He knots the string together deftly, then sighs and takes up a place next to you, leaning on the railing of the ship.

You glance back. Behind you, you can hear the festivities breaking up. Most are returning to their cabins, though a small knot of men remain, drunkenly carolling an old Snezhnayan lullaby to the stars.

“Are you afraid? That people might talk?”

“I might, if there was anything to talk about, my lord.” You allow yourself a small smile as he furrows his brows, evidently displeased.

“Since when did you call me ‘my lord’?”

“Since we were a part of the Fatui, and you became a harbinger.” You nod towards his belt. “Since you wielded a Vision, and I didn’t. We’re not part of the same world anymore.”

Ajax sighs, running a hand through his hair and turning his gaze out to sea. “Won’t you at least call me Childe?”

The drink emboldens you. “It’s a silly name. You could’ve chosen something better.”

The corners of his mouth raise, seemingly against his will. The moon casts the bridge of his nose in silver, turns the blue of his eyes into clear, unfrozen pools, illuminates the lovely flush spread across his cheeks from the fire water. This is Ajax, you think to yourself. The Ajax you knew.

You gradually become aware that he’s giving you a similar appraisal, lips slightly parted as if he wants to say something, and you know - whatever you choose to do now will forever alter the course of your life.

Ajax reaches out and pulls you towards him, and you choose to let it happen.

His sweetness envelops you first, a gentle scent entirely at odds with the rough calluses on his hands. He folds you into his embrace and you tilt your head back, accepting the shy kiss he ghosts across your lips.

“Are you afraid?” you tease softly. “That people might talk?”

His eyes glint dangerously. He kisses you again, but this time urgent, hard, adjusting his grip so he clasps both your wrists. A surprised sound escapes you, and Ajax takes the opportunity to have a taste of you, pressing you backwards into the railing.

He tastes like the sweet aftertaste of hard liquor and fresh spring water, breath shuddering with desire, a low groan rumbling in his chest. No, you think. Not the exact same Ajax you'd known.

You pull back. “Ajax,” you murmur.

There’s no turning back now.

“Come on.” He doesn’t let go of you, tucking you into his side and guiding you to his cabin, set apart from everyone else’s. 

It’s warmly lit with a number of wax candles burning low in their holders, parchment and maps scattered across the small but functional desk. Best of all, there are multiple windows, and the moonlight throws a grid of light onto the floor. 

Your observing is interrupted when Ajax kisses you again, this time allowing himself a purr of pleasure, kneading his fingers into your sides. He fumbles with the lock behind you, then leads you step by step to the bed, not once allowing you to pull away.

“Since when did you get strong?” you gasp, finally surfacing for air. He cages you in with all four limbs, and you finally understand what that glint is. Hunger. Desire. Desperation, even.

“Since I was a part of the Fatui.” A kiss, on the corner of your lips. “Since I became a harbinger.” On the jaw. “Since I received my Vision.” A trembling, reverent kiss on your pulse. “Since I left Morepesok, and I’ve been thinking of what I left behind since.” 

He nudges aside the pendant he gave you, and this time the kiss comes with teeth.

You bite back a whine as his hands paw at your shirt, undoing the buttons with trembling fingers. He blows cool air over the mark, peeling your clothes aside.

“The good thing about the uniform,” he pants, pupils blown so wide his blue eyes look almost dark. “Is that it covers up a lot of skin.”

Before you can protest, he ducks his head, working inward from your shoulder to your collarbone. Each bite feels like an electrical shock. He kisses each bruise gently to soothe the pain, but you're still shaking by the end of it, chest heaving.

You're not sure when he got rid of your clothes, but as he leans back to take a look at his handiwork, your skin prickles under the intensity of his gaze. 

“I'm glad you weren't my first,” he mutters, moving down to your chest. “Then I wouldn't know how to make you feel… this good.”

His mouth closes on a pert nipple, and a thumb strokes gently along your slit.

He groans into your soft flesh when he earns himself nothing short of a whimper of his name. 

“Ajax,” you plea, your nails scraping against his back. It's too hot, too restrictive, and he rids himself of his clothes too. 

He can feel your hole, already clenching and unclenching with want, leaking arousal onto his fingers. He releases your boob, inhaling your scent deeply.

It's sweet and salty and everything he's imagined your love to be. His dick jumps in his pants. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, and slides one finger in.

The moan you let out has him painfully hard, but Childe doesn't want to hurt you. He curls his finger inside of you, massaging gently, then pushes in another. 

You're trembling now, the pressure in your lower stomach mounting. The cool roughness of his glove against the hotness within you draws moan after moan from you. 

“Patience, darling.” You squeeze around him, fast and desperate… and he removes his finger, leaving you teetering on the edge. 

“Ajax,” you cry. Smiling, he bites into the softness of your stomach, and this time he catches your hips when they jerk up to collide with his chest.

“I imagined every one was you. I hoped I could fall in love with another,” he confides quietly. Your legs fold up your chest obediently. “But they were just… not enough. They just weren't you.”

“Is this a confession?” you manage to gasp. He's so large, larger than the few you've seen, his hot weight resting on your pussy. You can feel yourself throb, your slit weeping just for him.

“It's a declaration.”

His hands pin your wrists above your head, and he pushes past your entrance.

You make a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan. “Big,” you whimper.

He shushes you, leaning in for a kiss as he inches deeper, bit by bit. You squirm underneath him both in pleasure and pain.

“Tell me if it's too much.” His voice sounds strained. His veins scrape against every inch of your ribbed walls, pulsing and twitching as you swallow him whole. “Oh, baby, so tight, so warm… Baby, baby.” One hand clasps your chin. “Look at me. Don't look away.”

You whine assent. Your whole body alights with sparks, but you can feel him approaching somewhere dangerous.

His tip massages against a sensitive spot, your hips jump up of their own accord, and he slams into that sweet gummy area deep within you.

You throw your head back with a cry of his name, your hips shuddering, grinding you into him as you cum so hard you see stars.

“Shit,” he hisses, and starts thrusting into you.

You fit him so perfectly, it feels like your pussy was already moulded into the shape of his dick. Your walls flutter frantically around him, drawing him deeper, deeper, until he knows his tip is kissing your cervix because you moan with every thrust.

“C'mon baby, one more time, you can cum for me,” he mutters, beginning to lose himself in the obscene squelching of your cum all over him. “Inside, ah, gonna fill you up, gonna cum inside…”

He picks up the pace, and the pressure in your tummy begins to build again. Your back is arching, your hips shuddering, and still Ajax fucks you relentlessly.

“Look at me, baby, c’mon, cum for me, cum together, ngh, together, cumming, cumming, cumming-”

He moans loudly, and you swear you can see heart in his eyes, his hips still pistoning into you as hot, heavy ropes of cum spill into you where you never knew you were empty.

“One more time, yeah?” he pants.

— word count: 2506. thank you for reading!

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Swallowed Whole by The Flame (Messmer the Impaler x Tarnished! Reader) 5

MASTERLIST

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Summary: You go on a hunt to find Redmane Freyja.

A/N: Oh boy, another fight scene that I cannot write. This chapter mentions scenes of violence: blood, gore, swearing - all the fun things.

A03 link

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Chapter 5: Challenge

"If thee dare betray me, I shall maketh sure thou art never blessed by mine own mother's grace again."

It haunts you his exact words, whispered as if death was watching your every move.

It's a challenge, though one where he can judge you for how foolish you are. If he really wanted you to do all this for his loyalty, you would've rather faced the golden hippopotamus again.

You tell yourself you'll prove him wrong, and wipe that smug attitude away when you return. That is if you do it in time. There is a sense of doom to your mission, one you think could go wrong. Redmane Freyja - someone you didn't get the chance to speak to - is a warrior through and through. Capable of standing for herself, and impressive in her prowess. 

Having followed the Moorth Highway south, avoiding furnace golems and trolls that sit by ransacked carriages. By the time you see the ruins on the second night, darkness has fallen, and rain slashes in front of you. You decide it's best to take a rest.

You sit by the closest site of grace, and rain shields your vision, giving less visibility, but it is only the grace you look upon, watching intensely.

Torrent nudges you out of your thoughts momentarily, bringing a gentle hand out to feed him berries you gathered, whilst you rip at the bark-like cured meat. "What have I gotten myself into, Torrent?" You whisper to him tentatively, as your stead munches happily on the treats you provide. A flash of lightning casts the tree behind you to look like a mighty beast, yet you do not jump. Instead, you sigh, your body aches and your mind wishes for rest. "Doom follows me, and I can only welcome it."

Sleep does not come easy, not that it has for many nights.

When morning comes, you dismount from Torrent, and the stead disappears out of sight, back into the whistle for when you need him next. The ruins are a large formidable mess, crumbling from age with the heat of the stone burnt from eternal flames. You're aware of its underground structures, but it is not that you're interested in.

For in the centre, stands the person you've been looking for.

"Tarnished, I am pleased to see you made it out alive from the Shadow Keep." Freyja greets you smoothly, turning to face you, "Is the deed done? Is the tyrant dead?"

"No Lady Freyja, he is not." 

The woman only gives a hum to your answer, "That is a shame. I will have no doubt when I tell Lady Leda, she will not be too pleased either. 

"She will not hear of this news, Freyja," There was a sense of acceptance to your words. You pull forth your nagakiba, bending your knees as you hold a defensive stance, "For I have come for your life instead."

She is silent for what feels like forever until you hear the absurd thing. Laughter. She is laughing at you. "Did your new lord ask of you to do this? Ah, you foolish girl, what have you done?"

You don't answer her, but you feel something boil inside you. Fight me. Fight me now. "Do you believe Lady Leda will not hear of this? The news of my death will trigger my allies to come find you. Do you not hear yourself, who will stand with you? Miquella will not take lightly hearing of your deception."

It is only with a heavy sigh that eases you. She unsheathes her great sword, flashing like a giant sun. "Very well, Tarnished. May your foolishness be your undoing."

"May it be then." You say, and before you in a flash, she charges.

Metal hisses against metal as the great sword hits the side of your armour on your chest, caught mostly by your nagakiba, thankful that it does not slice through. It does, however, leave a long scratch down the steel.

You grunt. Freyja is a mighty warrior you admit, but she sweeps with her great sword with the intent of hacking your head off rather than trying to whittle you down. A foolish mistake, you note, rolling out of the way as her great sword swings down, hitting the very spot you just stood on.

You land a quick slash towards her, having almost no effect as she dodges easily, grabbing you tightly by the forearm and headbutting you with a crack that you think has split your skull. She tosses you backwards, her laughter raucous and vexing.

You continue to circle her, darting back and forth, slicing, which makes her have to try looking out for you. She makes for a big target, swinging her great sword around as she huffs and grunts like a beast not wanting to surrender. A true warrior of Radahn, you wonder why she chose to leave him. For what feels like ages, you both jab at one another, taking turns with neither gaining a hit or dodging the last second. Only one of your slashes with your nagakiba gets her on the back of her leg and you smile in victory underneath your helm, only to dodge out the way clumsily from another one of her heavy-hitting attacks.

"You're slow, Tarnished." Freyja mocks. "Is this the warrior Messmer fought? I feel sorry for him."

You hiss, slashing at her most vulnerable areas, legs, arms, twice at the shoulders in an attempt to get her to become sluggish. Freyja would not slow though, grunting from time to time, but overall seemingly not injured.

You wonder if Messmer did all of this as a cruel joke- to have you face the largest and most formidable of Miquella's followers. It would be easy to laugh too, for you were indeed the fool who accepted. 

You continued, earning a slash to your shoulder at one point that has you promptly rummaging for a healing flask, dodging another attack as you down it. Your shoulder feels stiff, but it has healed the wound quickly enough for you to keep going for her. Circling, slashing, rolling. On and on, this dance goes on until you do begin to notice she is becoming slower.

You stagger her with a parry, going up behind her in a flash to stab her through the rib, getting through the gap in her armour as you kick her forward. Blood ruptures out as she gives a loud grunt, cursing you loudly as she lands on her feet before you can attack her again.

"I will not die today, Tarnished." You can hear her gritting her teeth, leaping like a cat into the air, her sword and herself swinging in time before she lands on the ground right in front of you. Debris and dirt hit you, rocks scrapping your exposed areas not covered by armour and you're flung backwards, landing not so gracefully on your back from the force of her landing. She strides towards you, thinking victory is ahead.

You roll to stand, thinking swiftly as you pull forth a perfume bottle, throwing it her way. It casts pockets of fire in her way, and she stumbles through it, patting herself as you can hear the sound of her blood bubbling and boiling from her cuts.

The next foolish thing you could do whilst she was occupied with the perfumed flames was charge towards her, running through the flames you cast as you scream, leaping onto her, kicking her in the gut that she is winded enough to have her great sword knocked from her hand. Now with her unarmed, you raise your nagakiba over your head, thinking it would be enough to strike the exposed part of her neck to give her a quick death, only to find she is slamming her fist into your gut too, not once, twice, knocking your sword from hand as she lands a punch to the side of your face, knocking you off her and onto the ground.

You scrabble, as she gets up, wheezing and whimpering as you pull forth another weapon. Small and delicate, the knife from your pocket would need to do a lot of damage, only she laughs at the measly size of it, charging you once more.

You dodge another punch to the side of your head, fear coursing through you, feeling more afraid than ever before. To be classed a traitor to all was not what you wanted, but you could feel yourself needing another flask immediately.

Freyja caught sight of it as you tried to reach for it, grabbing your wrist and twisting, releasing the bottles as they flew overhead you both, crashing with a shatter against some debris, clearly broken.

You can taste blood in your throat, coughing some up the more you move. Everything burns, pain that moves from one part of your body to the next part, screaming for rest, mercy. Freyja cries, raising her hands over her head as if ready to slam her fists down upon you when you see an opening. The exposed part of her armpit is uncovered, the blood seeping is her own. You miss the fists to your head, gripping the knife and using your other hand to drive it upwards, screaming with the force.

Freyja only hisses when you're face to face with her now. Her golden-masked face is all you can see, but you wish to believe her face has written on it either fear or approval. You don't think it's been driven hard enough into her chest, driving it deeper which earns a louder cry from her, followed by shallow, deep breathing.

"You fought well, Tarnished." She wheezes, "I pray Kindly Miquella will think the same."

With a final curse, she bends, falling to her back, her breathing ceasing with the blade poking out between her skin and armour. 

It was only when you felt the sense of victory wash over that you felt something was off. Pain kicks in, replacing the adrenaline with a stinging sensation that begins to burn between your ribs. Horror rushed over you, catching you off guard. A cold sweat washes over. Crying out, you jump back away from Freyja's crumpled body, running shaky hands over your body to find what was sticking out of you. Oh Gods. You dread, crying out as a blade you hadn't noticed she had pulled forth, with a handle as thick as your forearm was now protruding in your side.

You had felt many deaths before and suffered great injuries, but none had been so foul as the feeling of torture before death came. You needed to find a site of grace before you lost everything. Gritting your teeth, your hands gripped the handle to the blade, reeling back from the pain of it so far lodged into you. One, two, three! You didn't want to give yourself any time to react as you pulled it out from you, screaming from both the alleviation and fear bubbling in your mind. 

Immediately, your legs gave way and you fell backwards, limbs numb as you still held the bloody knife in your grip. You groaned in disgust, throwing it away as you remembered through it all that you couldn't just leave without the proof Messmer asked for.

"He better be fucking grateful." You spat, clutching your bleeding side as you tried your best to even kneel. With only the knife on you to use, it would be better for hacking than the thinner blade of your nagakiba. You knew what you had to do. Staring down at Freyja's corpse, you kicked off her helm, revealing a mass of unruly hair. 

"Forgive me." You whispered, revealing her neck as you pressed the knife into her flesh, the sounds of hacking and sawing could be heard through the ruins.

Once off, you threw the head into a bag, tying it to your belt as you whistled for Torrent. It was hard not to stop yourself from gagging, the thick smell of blood wafted in the air, creating an even fouler stench in the ruins. You had been through worse, you reminded yourself, dying is now as familiar to you as waking up in the morning, but even on the verge of death, it was the worst feeling to experience. It was not the same as just suffering a quick and easy one, waking up by grace fully healed. 

Once here, Torrent stands solemnly beside you, warily swaying as his beady eyes access you. It takes some effort to mount him, for the beast is patient, and you can only silently thank him for not bucking you off for how many times you try getting your leg over. Finally atop, your skin feels both hot and cold, your armour was sticking to your skin as if it was boiling you alive from the inside. The soft fur of Torrent was all you had to concentrate on, despite the feeling that your brain wanted to switch off. You fight it for as long as you can, hoping Torrent can guide you the way you came. 

You didn't know how long you had been travelling back when the pain was ebbing away at your consciousness, your body was weakened and struggling to stay atop Torrent. Your skin had paled, hands were jittery as you lost the strength in your fingers to hold the reins. Your vision was spiralling, swaying like the waves of the shoreline, not certain what was up and what was down, but the feeling of your body swaying, and finally, falling and falling in slow motion.

You thudded to the ground, Torrent halting as he inspected you with a muzzle to your face, coaxing you to stay awake. 

"Torrent." Breathing noisily, you would apologise to him when you found yourself at a site of grace. You dreaded knowing you would fail at Messmer's quest in his mind, but before you could think further of it, darkness swarmed your vision, and you thanked whoever was watching over you finally gave you comfort.

From the darkness, came distant, cold dreams, filling your mind with doubt:

..."They are incredible, are they not?" There is a sense of dread and awe as you stare up at the sky, bright and bold with the sounds of dragons. The creatures, large in age, sweep and dive down, creating rushes of wind to almost knock back the men who stand on the ground. Some are still wary, when the dragons came once, it had been to destroy towns and wage wars. Now, having them as allies was an unseen miracle. "It is your friendship with them that is outstanding." You marvel, turning to the man beside you, as regal and charming as those with royal blood. He carries himself with a way of understanding all, a calming presence that all could admire. He smiles at you, resting a hand on your shoulder. "I am certain they would love to meet thee. I have told them much and more." "Me? I am just a mere knight, here to serve, my Lord." "Yes, but my most trusted ally and loyal friend." The man chuckles, leading you down as if now is the right time to introduce you to the winged creatures.

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

... "Mother is to remarry again." The regal man says, this time you don't know how much time has passed. There is a slight tinge of disappointment in his words. He has his back towards you, the parchment thrown across his apartments. "I received her message when I broke my fast." "You know to whom?" You ask. "The Carian Queen's former husband, Radagon." "And of your father? What becomes of him?" "He is to begin his long march with many of his armies, my mother has decreed." He turns to you, sorrow that was not just in his voice but in his eyes. "She asks that thee join." You don't wish to, you want to plead and beg, but this sadness is not just felt in him but yourself, something you cannot understand nor explain. You think this man is unknown to you, so why do you feel such disgrace? All you can do is nod, acceptance heavy in your chest. "Very well, my Lord."

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

... A half bottle of wine is now neglected, and large calloused hands dance along your hips and thighs, lips pressed to the pulse point of your neck. "Let me speak to my mother," the man uttered, pulling you closer on his lap, "she will let thee stay." "I can't," you say, his hands felt so realistic in the fogginess of your mind, fingers stroking his jawline, "it is my duty not just to serve you, but your family as well." "I know, my sweet knight." He murmurs in understanding, a sense of despair consumes him, and when he tries to pick you up to continue things in the bedroom, you stop him. "Not yet, my Lord. I only wish to be in your arms tonight. One final night before I must leave." He smiles, kissing you with the need to remember the outline of your lips. "Anything for thee."

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

... A battlefield of blood and bone, ash and carnage. Men in golden armour surround you, in the dying, groaning for mercy and death, their voices dying down in numbers. You clutch your bleeding chest, holding a grand ornate sword in hand, and sweet tears drip from your eyes. You cough, spluttering crimson blood that dribbles down your chin. You stare up at the endless sky, with a man's name being muttered from your lips as you die. 

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

Your lungs burn when you wake from a death-like sleep, coughing up the air and drinking it in as if you can still somehow feel the cold blade deep in your chest. You go to touch it, only to remember that it was all a dream.

"Easy, milady," a voice pulls you back to reality, and when you look at your surroundings, you're not staring into the golden strips of grace, but the roaring flames of a fire. Opposite you, sits a nomadic merchant, plucking at the strings of his instrument, "your wounds are still open."

Messmer. Is your first thought, and you dread to wonder if he thinks you've betrayed him. You're careless in the way you try to stand, running a hand over where the blade stuck through you, only to find heavy bindings that have been kept to stop the bleeding. You hiss softly, guilt pouring through at the attempt this merchant has made to keep you alive.

"It shall be enough to get you to find a proper healer if you're quick." He says in a soft tone, watching you through clouded eyes, his face half covered. 

"Torrent... where is Torrent?" You're blinking back from the intensity of the fire in front of you, blinking back tears you're certain to have come from the cinders, not your life-like dreams. 

"Ah, your stead," the merchant points, and through the bushes, you spot Torrent, munching on berries with no care in the world. "We found you in the nick of time, milady. If we had been any later, well... you would've been a goner."

You try to laugh at that, but you're unsure if he knows you're Tarnished. "Thank you," you stand shakily to your feet, throwing a coin his way that he accepts with some surprise, "I must be going now."

"I must warn you, Messmer's soldiers lurk on the roads. Best to keep to the woods." The merchant speaks with uncertainty as you coax Torrent to come to you. He does, stroking his snout before climbing atop. You feel just about better now that you've had time to rest, but you need to head back to Aldwin so he can stitch you back up. You've been gone so long without a site of grace that you fear you will begin to wither.

"It is alright," you speak earnestly. "He is looking for me."

-

A/N: I am aware that it's recommended not to pull sharp objects out of you unless you wish to bleed to death, but I guess Tarnished thinks it's the smartest plan. I do wonder who this mysterious man is-- oh well, I guess we'll never know *wink wink*

[izunias-meme-hole]

It's been a day since I've seen Transformers One, and I'm still so fckin' amazed by how this movie gave us two actually phenomenal villains cut from two different threads without feeling too cluttered in the slightest.

On one hand we have the main antagonist, Sentinel Prime. Anyone who's familiar with any post-G1 content knows that Sentinel Prime is usually portrayed as a scumbag in some capacity, be it as a Frank Burns inspired jackass, or a backstabbing boomer. This iteration of him though actually seemed kinda cool at first, though as the film would continue we'd see just how scummy he actually is. He sold out the 13 Primes to the Quintessons, unintentionally caused the energy reserves to dry up while doing so, ripped the transformation cogs from newborn cybertronians so he could have mining bots, and happily established the current caste system that cybertron is built on, just so he could live like a king. It's actually fckin' impressive how much of the awful shit that happens film happens in the film links back to Sentinel's past actions, and even some of his current current actions, though what's even more impressive is what his corruption resulted in.

When I think of Megatron I either think of the charismatic and legendary war criminal from Animated, the egomaniacal predacon successor from Beast Wars, or the miner turned tyrant from the IDW comics, though all three of these characterizations have a lot in common. They're self-proclaimed "revolutionaries", they worship power and desire to dominate, and most importantly they're fueled by anger. That is who Megatron has been in his best appearances, and surprisingly enough D-16 is within the same league as those other characterizations I mentioned.

D-16 was a miner, a seemingly meek and optimistic one at that compared to his fellow miner and friend, Orion Pax. He had faith in the system, but only because he didn't exactly have many options. His life sucked and he didn't have many options other than to hope Sentinel Prime would fine the Matrix of Leadership and bring back the rivers of energy that once flowed freely. So when he discovered that not only did Sentinel kill his idol Megatronus, but also made him live one big fat lie ever since he was born, he lets out his true feelings, his bottled up rage. Those exact same feelings that only got worse when he finally got the means to fight back against anyone who would have the gall to bark orders at him... even if that someone was a bot he once considered a brother.

Megatron in this had every reason to rip Sentinel in half and burn down the system. He's one of the victims of the injustices committed by that dictator, but as we'd see when he literally lets Orion fall to his supposed death, he's pretty much lost himself. It's a similar villain arc to what Simon Laurent from Infinity Train and Koba from Planet of The Apes went through, and it's a type of arc that works well for the type of Megatron origin that this film needed.

[ask-the-koopa-family]

AGAIN A STORY (it happened in the past...) about Mario and Bowser's relationship...

Art/OC/story are mine dont copy/repost!

#bowser

#supermariobros

#supermariobrosoc

#mario

In the grand throne room, Bowser stands near his throne, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon as he wrestles with thoughts from his past. Cherry enters, her face glowing with excitement, clutching a golden envelope in her hands. She walks up to him, gently nudging him from his reverie.

Cherry:

Bowser, look at what we've received! An invitation to a royal ball at Peach's castle!

Bowser: (raising an eyebrow, his suspicion obvious)

A ball? At Peach's castle? Why would she invite me to one of her events? And you know very well who will be there...

Cherry: (reassuring, placing a gentle hand on his arm)

I know you don’t want to see Mario, especially after what happened with... Betty. But maybe this is an opportunity to show everyone that we can move forward, that we’re not defined by our past.

Bowser: (clenching his fists, his voice filled with a rough edge of pain)

Move forward? You know what he did! How can I forget that, Cherry? Every time I see him, I relive that moment. It's not something you easily forget.

Cherry: (taking his hand, her gaze tender but steady)

I know... I’m sorry. I’m not asking you to forget, but maybe it’s time to show that we’re stronger than our grudges. Peach invited us; she might also want to ease the tensions. And we can’t live in the past forever... Betty wouldn’t want that. I’m not asking you to forgive, but to show the kingdom that you are no longer the tyrant king. That you are capable of nobility and greatness. Do it for us, do it for Betty... to show that nothing can bring us down, not even Mario.

Bowser: (looking down at their intertwined hands, his voice softening)

Do you really think that’s possible? That this ball could change anything?

Cherry: (smiling gently, her confidence unwavering)

I believe it can, yes. And even if it doesn’t, at least we would have tried. We’re together, and as long as we are, anything is possible.

Bowser: (sighing heavily, then meeting her gaze)

Alright. For you, Cherry. But I warn you, if he causes any trouble, I won’t hold back. Don’t expect me to be friendly with that plumber.

Cherry: (kissing him lightly on the cheek)

Thank you, Bowser. I know everything will be fine.

Later, at the Royal Ball at Peach's Castle

The castle is alive with color and light, flowers draping from every corner. Cherry, glowing in an elegant dress, enters the ballroom arm in arm with Bowser. The guests whisper in surprise, some even gasping as they look upon them. Peach approaches them with a genuine, welcoming smile.

Peach: (extending her hands warmly)

Cherry, Bowser, I’m so glad you could come. It means a lot to me.

Cherry: (smiling brightly)

Thank you for the invitation, Peach. The castle looks beautiful tonight.

Bowser: (nodding, his voice gruff but sincere)

Yes. Thank you very much, Peach.

Peach: (gesturing with a slight smile)

I’m delighted that you’re able to enjoy the evening. Cherry, I have something to show you in the greenhouse; you’re going to love it. Bowser, you’re welcome to join us if you wish.

Bowser: (giving a slight shake of his head)

No, I’ll... explore a bit on my own. Go ahead, have fun.

Cherry:

Alright, dear, see you later!

Cherry and Peach disappear into the greenhouse, leaving Bowser behind. He slowly makes his way to a balcony, seeking a moment of peace from the chatter and music.

The night air is crisp, the moon casting a gentle glow over the kingdom. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, as if letting the silence calm his thoughts.

A hesitant footstep breaks the quiet. Bowser’s eyes open slowly, and he doesn’t turn as Mario approaches.

Mario:

Good evening, Bowser...

Bowser: (without turning around, gripping the balcony rail, his voice cold)

Mario. What do you want?

Mario: (keeping a respectful distance, his tone sincere)

I just wanted... to talk. I know it’s not easy for you to be here. I didn’t expect you to come.

Bowser: (scoffing, his sarcasm biting)

Yes, being surrounded by people who’ve always seen me as an enemy, it’s a perfect evening for me.

Mario: (with a quiet sigh)

I’m not here to provoke you, Bowser. I know how you feel... about Betty. I know you blame me, and you have every reason to. What happened... was tragic. But I didn’t want it to happen.

Bowser: (turning to face him, his eyes blazing with anger)

Tragic? It was your fault, Mario! You... killed her!

Mario: (bowing his head, his voice calm but heavy with regret)

I know. And I live with that every day. But I’m here tonight to try and ease this hatred between us. It was an accident. I didn’t want her... to die. I know you may not believe me, but it’s weighed on my conscience too. I... I’m sorry.

Bowser: (staring at him, his expression conflicted)

And you think a simple ball will fix all of this? That I’ll just forget? Do you think simple apologies will erase what you did?

Mario: (shaking his head, his gaze steady and resolute)

No, I don’t expect you to forget. I know nothing can ever bring Betty back. But we need to find a way to coexist. For Cherry, for Peach, for our kingdoms. I’m not asking for your forgiveness, Bowser. I’m just asking for a truce... so we can all move forward. We don’t have to be friends, Bowser, but we can at least try not to be enemies.

Bowser: (after a tense silence, finally releasing a heavy sigh)

I don’t know, Mario. It’s not as simple as you think. But for Cherry, for my family... I’ll try. But don’t disappoint me, and don’t think this means I’ve forgiven you.

Mario: (offering a slight smile, visibly relieved)

I understand. Thank you, Bowser. I don’t expect anything more.

The two stand together under the moonlight, neither quite willing to break the silence. The ball continues inside, but here, on this quiet balcony, a fragile truce is born, with a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, they can coexist.

[hobbitsetal]

The Hoard

The year the dragon came had been shaping up to be a bad one. The crops were barely adequate. The deer were skittish, the boar extra fierce, the fish sleepy and hard to reach. The old folks in the village predicted a hard winter, predictions born of fear and grief and anger that boiled down into pessimism. 

Inada, as the village leader, tried to counter such talk, but there was little she could say. The food would be stretched thin at best. The old and the very young were likely to die. All she could do was squirrel away extra portions where she hoped Trovar’s men would not think to look, and pray she could save some lives in the winter.

At the end of the summer, he came. They saw his shadow first: big as a cloud, almost to be mistaken for a cloud’s shadow. But no cloud had those curved wings or that long tail, and they knew what he was before he landed and changed shape and strode into their village. He was tall, dark-haired and golden-eyed, and he was surprisingly young. Inada had sons grown and older than he, she thought. 

Dragons lived to be five hundred years or more. But after all, before one could be five hundred years, one must be ten and twenty and thirty. Perhaps it should not have been so surprising that he looked no more than twenty summers, if he had reached even that many.

They watched, huddling in doorways, stopped at their work, clutching their children, as he walked through the long street and the square in the middle of the village where they traded when the peddler caravans passed through. His arrogantly lifted head swiveled, taking in the shabby village and the silent inhabitants watching him.

What reason could he have for coming to their village? They’d heard of dragons taking over lands, of course. Anywhere west of Elbiss, where they had driven the dragons out and hunted them now with frost weapons and relentless hatred, anywhere else might fall prey to a dragon. Some ate humans. Some enslaved them and forced them to produce whatever the dragon chose to hoard. Some, the less powerful, especially since Elbiss had cast them off six hundred years ago, lived among humans as ordinary citizens. Not every dragon could be a tyrannical ruler, it seemed.

There was nothing in this village to rule over, even if this one meant to be a tyrant. They didn’t have so much as a name for their village. They lived near no mines, gold or ores or jewels. Their forests were not unusually rich with game or fish. No mythic beasts lived near that anyone knew of. They were not renowned for crops or goods. The only unusual feature to their village was the twice-yearly visits from Trovar and his men, but even that was not so remarkable. Small villages with no protector often fell prey to bandits.

So they watched and braced themselves to learn this dragon ate humans. 

He sniffed the air and then turned toward Inada, gold eyes boring into her. “You. You are responsible for this place?”

She curtsied immediately and kept herself from falling to her knees. Better not to kneel. If she had to beg, she wanted someplace to lower herself to. “Yes, my lord.”

“It’s shabby.”

What did he care? Dragons never lived where others did. Still, all she could say was, “Yes, my lord.”

“You are not a knight protector. What are you?”

“I-I am…a weaver?” As with everyone else in the village, she was what was needed at the moment. They all tended little vegetable crops, they all fished, they all wove. Some, like Alma, were better at things like twisting flax fibers together. Some, like old Gregoire, were better at fishing. But they all did whatever needed to be done. They were too tiny to have specialists in the different trades, though she would have liked to have been a weaver.

He snorted impatiently, smoke clouding around his head. “You have those among you young enough to breed. Why does your village not flourish more? Are you lazy?”

Indignation choked her a moment, overriding her fear. Lazy? “We are a tiny village, my lord,” she said. “How can we thrive when those stronger than us come to take the best of what we have?” 

Of all the irony, a dragon demanding why they did not flourish was too bitter to be borne. 

“You have no one at all to stand up for you?” He turned as he spoke, casting the question–the challenge–out to the rest of the village. No one met his eyes.

Inada swallowed down tears and rage together, dropping her own gaze to the dust. “What do you want from us, my lord?” she asked quietly.

What would anger get but a village reduced to ash? What would resistance earn them but bones and perhaps one person left to bury them? Making herself sound humble, making herself bend her head and round her shoulders was not hard when she had done the same for the lesser threat of Trovar and his men.

“Bah,” he said, and turned away. A dozen steps from her took him to a clear space. He leaped into the air and changed as he leapt. The wind from his wings staggered her and sent up a great cloud of dust. 

And then he was gone, leaving them baffled and a little dirtier than they had been. Slowly, the villagers trickled toward Inada, necks craned to track the dragon.

“Will he come back?” Hella asked.

“I don’t know,” Inada said.

A restless murmur ran through the crowd. Eventually, they shuffled away, different scattered groupings muttering the same fears and wonders and answerless questions to each other. Inada went back to weeding her garden with her forehead furrowed. Surely the dragon would not come back. He had strolled through their village for curiosity’s sake and found they had nothing of worth. Surely Batran would protect them from more oppression than they already bent under. She sent up a silent prayer to that effect and resolved to sacrifice something small when she had time.

They saw his shadow a few more times that week. He seemed to be circling around the top of the small mountain that loomed over their village. Once, Old Horace said that Young Horace saw the dragon flying with a boar in its claws. That troubled Inada for a day, until Hella pointed out that perhaps the dragon was in the area only to hunt. That would explain his curiosity and his subsequent lack of interest. After all, there were plenty of boar for one with the stamina and strength to take them down.

Inada had other worries. Trovar was coming. The delicate balance of giving enough to satiate him and keeping enough to survive, of placating without arousing suspicion, weighed on her. Two years ago, his men had found one of her hidden stores and Trovar had been angry with the village. They had beaten her and taken extra food in punishment. The winter had been lean indeed. Last year, she had barely dared to hide anything. Trovar had been more merciful, sensing her defeat. But the village could not afford another winter with as little as he liked to leave.

She daydreamed of a protector. They would send out an appeal and someone would answer. A lord with restless men, inclined to be merciful, or a band of Elbissian warriors eager to deal justice, or better, a group of armed travelers seeking someplace to settle and join.

Foolish fantasies. A lord’s men were as likely to pillage as Trovar’s. Elbissian warriors were concerned only with hunting dragons, whether they offered harm or no. And armed travelers might kill the villagers and take the village for themselves rather than join peaceably.

Young Horace came running one golden day in the autumn to announce breathlessly, “They’re coming!”

Inada uttered a prayer under her breath and tipped a little vinegar into the dust as an offering. Then she strode out to supervise the half-yearly tribute. Bags of grains and dried fruit, casks of fruit wines and fish pickled or dried, racks of animal furs and smoked meats: they laid out what they had for Trovar’s men to take.

They watched the cloud of dust approaching. Then they heard the singing: raucous, bawdy songs, bellowed cheerily. And then Trovar, followed by his men, came out of the woods and strolled toward them. He was of middle height, compact with muscle, with a full beard and dusty clothes that had once been fine. He was quick to smile and he had a taste for pinching women’s buttocks and teasing them. In other circumstances, when she had been young, Inada might have laughed at such liberties even as she slapped his hands away. In these circumstances, at her age, such liberties were a veiled threat.

The villagers huddled in the square. Trovar’s men would wander through their houses, picking what they pleased, while their comrades watched the villagers and made sure no one had thoughts of rebellion. They would sort through the food. And then they would leave again, with their stolen bounty piled high on shoulders and the two pack mules, and the village would be left to face the winter.

Trovar strolled up to Inada and chucked her under the chin. “Inada. Lovely as ever. I swear, you look younger than you did in the spring! All that summer sun has you glowing.”

She looked at some point past his shoulder. “I am older, that is all.”

“Bah, you are younger! You’ve found some unicorn’s horn, haven’t you?”

He teased, she knew he teased, but the question sent a chill down her spine. If they had something precious and kept it back from him, the consequences would be unthinkable. “I have found nothing but more grey hairs.”

He clicked his tongue. “Really, Inada, you must learn to take a compli–Who by Batran’s balls is that?”

Startled, she turned to see what he was looking at. The villagers were parting, scattering, for the dragon. He strode through, gold eyes locked on Trovar. Smoke hazed the air behind him. “You,” he said, and his voice was a growl. “You take from them?”

Trovar snatched for his sword. “What is it to you?” he snapped back.

Inada backed away from him, huddling into Hella. 

“You are done,” the dragon announced. “Leave.”

The sword rang as it came free of the scabbard. Trovar was not a man used to denial. Trovar was a man used to force and to taking what he pleased. Trovar was a man who died by dragon flame, foolish to the end. 

The dragon did not waste time watching his ashes fall to the ground, as the stunned villagers did. He turned his gaze on Trovar’s men, lips peeled back from his teeth. His teeth were pointed, sharp: predator’s teeth. “Leave,” he said again.

They dropped what they held. They bumped into each other in their hurry to flee. The three archers among them made no efforts to string their bows or reach for their arrows. Empty-handed and silent, they scurried away while the wind blew their leader into the dust of the road.

Inada looked at the dragon and tried to think of something to say. Thanks, perhaps, or ask him what he wanted of them, or– But her throat stayed closed. The smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air.

The dragon surveyed them, chin ticked up slightly. “I am Lord Cazadan Isvrayne, and this is now my village. You will build me a dwelling on top of the mountain, according to my specifications, and then you will build me a hosting house. I will not permit bandits or miscreants to harm you. Your village will thrive under my rule. Am I plain?”

Glances flickered among the villagers. There was a catch. There must be a catch. Why would a dragon choose to protect them for nothing more than the cost of building a home and a guest-house?

“My lord–” Inada began, voice wavering.

His gaze settled on her. “You are a tiny village,” he said. “Unimpressive. But I will make you thrive. My kind will see how well I can manage and protect, and your kind will see the benefits of my rule. The best of what you have will grow your village.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, voice faint.

He nodded once. “Send someone up to the mountaintop with me to begin marking out where my dwelling will be. The rest of you, put this food away. The flies will get to it.”

And then he leapt and changed and sent dust everywhere as he winged away, heading for the mountaintop.

“What was that?” Hella whispered.

“I do not know,” Inada whispered back. “But…Jola should go to the mountaintop.” Jola knew much about building houses. Her grandfather had been the most skilled carpenter their village had ever seen.

It would be a month before the village understood what had become of them, a month before shock wore off and they settled into the mundanity of working for a dragon. In that month, they let themselves feel cautious joy over their sudden abundance. Old Horace spearheaded the efforts to weatherproof their homes. Inada supervised parceling out the food properly and setting the excess aside into stores. They might even have enough to trade in the spring, she thought.

It was a month before they all fully realized that they had become a dragon’s hoard, and that Lord Cazadan would protect them with his life.

[namazunomegami]

emperor!sukuna x imperial concubine!reader

a/n: part 2 of my self-indulging mess. I had a lot of fun writing him and his drabble got finished way before I developed the whole plotline for Geto lol. I'll try to complete Gojo today or tomorrow and Toji is in the works yaaay!!

Also, I'm so surprised my Geto drabble got so many notes in such a short time!! I wouldn't expected people to be remotely interested in my writing but now I'm getting confident.

And finally, I can guarantee that this reader is gender neutral.

Likes and reblogs are appreciated <33

wc: 674, I know, I know, Geto got the princess treatment from me but sometimes less is more <333

cw: historical AU, scheming, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of sudden infant death syndrome, betrayal, accusations of abortion, execution, nudity, mentions of poisoning, suggestive

credits: i used a colored manga panel instead of a fanart but I have no idea who did the coloring so feel free to help me credit their work. And again, my precious @notveryrussian did the proofread, luv ya mwah <33

MDNI PLEASE! I'm gonna find you and kick you in the butt if you do. If you’re not comfortable with dark content or anything mentioned in the warnings just scroll, there's nothing wrong with that.

His mandate of heaven is very different from Gojo and Geto. Sukuna is a ruthless tyrant, he enjoys crushing any nation he deems either threatening or undeserving to even exist next to his borders. His palace is a snake pit, full of betrayal and backstabbing. Executions are frequent and he needs no valid reason to sentence someone to death, he enjoys the bloodshed and the sight of lifeless bodies. You can’t survive that place acting kind and humble. Sukuna specifically torments his concubines physically and mentally for the sheer enjoyment of it.

His court is probably the most competitive. You need to be as ruthless as he is, you need to become a schemer. One of his high-ranking consorts takes you under her wing. She lets you spend leisure time with her, and somehow, she ends up telling you way more sensitive information than she should. She once managed to give him a child, but the infant sadly died days after they were born. She complained about how hard that pregnancy was and that she’s afraid of going through it again, even though she’s attached to him. And not long after this conversation, she fell ill. Retching out everything she ate, her stomach burned and ached. She was so weak her cycle was two weeks late. She trusted you enough to have you fetch her a specific herbal tea to ease her pain and grant her some dreamless sleep.

And that’s the moment you decide you’ll use everything you know about her to cast her down and take her place.

You accuse her that she’s pregnant but wants to abort her baby. Your story is so intricately constructed from all the details you knew that his officials are on your side without hesitation. She watches you horrified, desperately telling him that nothing could be so far from the truth. Sukuna decides to believe in your words and orders for the consort to be executed. Finding pure joy in how she wails and begs for forgiveness. At the execution, he studies your face, every little detail and reaction and you were aware of that. It’s time to impress him. Your face is still, you don’t even flinch when her head is severed by the neck. The eunuchs come for you at night.

He loves and loathes this tradition at the same time. The servants want to protect him, so they deliver you stark naked to ensure you won’t carry any weapons. Fools, as if a weak and trembling creature like you could ever hurt him with a mere dagger or a sharpened hairpin. Yet it makes you look like an offering. A sacrificial lamb. Maybe because you are.

Some primal instinct tells you to balance your inner strength and innate fear of him. Pull back your shoulders, straighten your back, don’t even think to conceal your private parts. Let your fingers quiver and the sheer dread in your eyes seep through. He mocks you. Almost laughs at you while sitting comfortably on the intricately carved shelf bed, wearing a loose bright yellow robe, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. There’s no reason for him to not do this though, he’s a god, the son of heaven, therefore, everything about him is perfect.

The first thing he asks you is if you’re satisfied with your pathetic attempt to improve your position. You don’t dare to tell him that you feel the guilt rotting your insides. He confesses that he was poisoning her meals, he wanted to watch her wither away slowly and enjoy her suffering, but you ruined his plans. He might spare you, you’re a stupid little thing, you couldn’t have known. He warns you that you need to do so much more if you want to be on his good side. You need to be absolutely despicable to earn his praise. Though you feel content having reached your goal and getting to spend a night with him, somewhere deep down you hope you can leave his chamber in one piece or, at least, alive.

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

☠️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Twenty-Eight

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: Collins Forces a Kiss.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~2.3k

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The Marine ship anchors at Kin Archipelago, its imposing silhouette casting long shadows over the tranquil waters. You stand at the railing, clutching Yumi's hand, trying to mask your fear and discomfort with a facade of calm.

Collins strides over, his uniform immaculate, his demeanor exuding authority. He grabs your arm, steering you down the gangplank. The manor offered by one of the noble families looms ahead, its grandeur a stark contrast to your recent experiences.

"Smile," Collins hisses under his breath as he guides you towards the welcoming committee. You force a weak smile that makes your split lip ache.

The head of the noble family, Lord Avander, steps forward with a practiced smile. "Commodore Collins, welcome. We've heard about your heroic rescue. It's an honor to host you and your...companions."

Collins tightens his grip on your arm as he responds. "Thank you, Lord Avander. Lady Bonn and young Yumi have been through quite an ordeal."

Lord Avander's eyes flicker with sympathy as he glances at you and Yumi. "Such bravery to survive such a harrowing experience," he says, his voice oozing with concern.

You swallow hard, your throat dry as sandpaper. The lie Collins has fed them—the story that you were kidnapped by pirates and raped—is like a bitter pill lodged in your throat. But you nod along, knowing any dissent could bring harsher consequences. You have to protect Yumi.

As you're led inside the manor, Yumi's small hand clings to yours like a lifeline. The interior is lavishly decorated, every corner exuding opulence and wealth. But it feels like another prison.

Collins leans down, whispering into your ear. "Remember to play along, Linaria,” he says softly but with an edge that chills you to the bone.

Lord Avander's wife appears at the top of the grand staircase, her expression warm yet tinged with curiosity. "Welcome," she says, descending gracefully. "We hope you'll find some peace here."

"Your hospitality is most appreciated," Collins replies smoothly. He looks at you expectantly.

"Thank you," you manage to say, forcing another smile.

Yumi squeezes your hand tighter and tucks herself into your side as you're shown to a suite of rooms that have been prepared for you. Once inside, Collins releases his hold on you but stays close enough to ensure compliance.

"Rest well," he commands before leaving the room.

You sit on the edge of the bed, Yumi crawling up beside you. She lays her head on your lap, her small body trembling slightly.

"It's going to be okay," you whisper more for yourself than for her.

But deep down, you're not sure how much longer you can keep up this charade or what future awaits you under Collins' oppressive control in this gilded cage of Kin Archipelago's noble manor.

The door to your suite opens, and a line of maids enters with purpose. Their eyes are respectful but detached, their movements efficient. You sit still as they approach, feeling Yumi’s tiny body stiffen beside you.

One of the maids, older and seemingly in charge, steps forward. "Lady Bonn, we’ve been instructed to prepare you for dinner with Lord and Lady Avander," she announces in a voice that broaches no argument.

You nod, trying to muster some semblance of dignity. "Of course," you reply, standing up from the bed. You glance at Yumi. "Be good while I am gone, Yumi." She nods, fear etched onto her face.

The maids guide you to a luxurious bathroom where the tub is already filled with steaming water. Fragrant oils float on the surface, creating a soothing scent that contrasts sharply with your current turmoil. They begin to undress you, their hands gentle but swift.

You step into the bath, sinking into the hot water with a sigh that mingles relief and resignation. The warmth seeps into your muscles, loosening knots of tension you hadn’t even realized were there. But the water cannot wash away the wounds between your legs. One maid begins to wash your hair with a delicate touch while another gently scrubs your back.

You close your eyes and let yourself drift for a moment, pretending that this is just another day in your old life—before Shanks, before Collins, before everything went wrong. Even it had been a cage. But the fantasy shatters when you open your eyes and see the bruises on your wrists from Collins’ grip.

After the bath, they help you out of the tub and wrap you in thick towels. You stand there as they dry you off and lead you back into the main room where an elegant dress awaits on a mannequin. It’s deep blue silk, adorned with intricate silver embroidery—a dress fit for a noblewoman. Fit for Linaria Bonn.

They work quickly but carefully, lacing up the corset with simple fingers. As they cinch it tight around your waist, you suck in a deep gasp as pain echoes from your abdomen. You are relieved when the strings are not tightened any further.

One maid applies makeup to cover any signs of distress while another arranges your lavender hair into an elaborate updo. There isn't much they can do about your split lip, but delicately paint your lips with lip stain. A maid reaches for your ear, her fingers hovering near the lone ruby earring. You jerk back instinctively, eyes wide with sudden panic.

"Leave it," you snap, your voice sharper than intended.

The maid hesitates, confusion flickering across her face. "But, my lady, it's mismatched," she says, her tone gentle but firm. "It would be best to remove it."

You shake your head, clutching the earring protectively. "No," you repeat more quietly but with no less determination. "This stays."

The maids exchange glances but ultimately nod in acquiescence. The one in charge steps forward with a small smile. "As you wish, Lady Bonn."

They continue their work, applying a final touch of powder to your cheeks and adjusting the folds of your dress. But your mind remains fixated on the earring—your last connection to Shanks, a fragment of defiance against Collins' control.

Once they finish, they step back to admire their handiwork. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror: a vision of nobility and grace, every inch the lady you're supposed to be. But behind the facade lies a woman determined not to lose herself completely. But you are struggling so hard.

"Ready?" The head maid asks softly.

You nod, taking a deep breath as you steel yourself for the evening ahead. As you turn to leave the room, you glance at Yumi, offering her a reassuring smile despite the storm brewing inside you. Yumi's eyes are wide, rounded by the sight of your dressed up so intricately.

You step out of the room, leaving Yumi behind with a soft promise to return soon. The hallways of the manor are dimly lit, casting long shadows that flicker as you move past. The sound of your heels clicking against the marble floor echoes in the quiet.

Collins waits for you at the end of the corridor, his expression unreadable. He offers his arm, and you take it reluctantly, feeling the tension in his muscles.

"Remember your place, Linaria,” he mutters as you approach the grand dining hall. The doors swing open, revealing a lavish room filled with glittering chandeliers and a long table set with fine china and crystal. Lord Avander and his wife rise to greet you, their faces beaming with warmth.

"Lady Bonn, you look exquisite," Lady Avander says, her eyes flicking to your earring before settling back on your face. "Please, join us."

You force a smile and nod graciously, taking your seat beside Collins. The meal begins, each course more elaborate than the last. You barely taste any of it, your mind wandering to thoughts of escape, the ruby earring that remains your lifeline to Shanks, and the dull ache in your lower stomach that slowly grows ins strength.

Lord Avander engages Collins in conversation about Marine affairs and recent pirate activities in the region. You listen with half an ear, your focus on maintaining an appearance of interest.

"And how have you been faring since your rescue, Lady Bonn?" Lady Avander asks suddenly, drawing you back into the present.

You blink and manage another smile. "I am...grateful for the Commodore's protection and swift actions bringing a doctor to tend to my… needs,” you reply carefully, the fork in your hand noticeably trembling. You tighten your grasp to hide it. "It has been a difficult time."

Lady Avander's gaze softens. "You are very brave," she says gently. "If there is anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable, please let us know."

"Thank you," you say, inclining your head slightly. "Your kindness is most appreciated."

You keep your head down, focusing on the delicate pattern of the tablecloth, tracing the intricate designs with your eyes. You miss the worn wood table of the Red Force, you miss the carefree atmosphere of the crew dinners. Collins' voice booms through the grand dining hall, a stark contrast to the soft clinking of silverware and murmur of polite conversation.

"I must make an announcement," he declares, standing up from his seat with a commanding presence that demands attention. The room falls silent, all eyes turning towards him.

"Despite the trials we have faced, I am unwavering in my love for Lady Bonn,” he continues, his voice filled with a conviction that makes your stomach churn. More like is unwavering determination for your womb. "And I am resolute in my decision to marry her. Our union will bring strength and unity to our noble families."

You feel a weight settle on your shoulders as his words hang in the air. The murmurs of approval and polite applause from Lord and Lady Avander only add to the suffocating pressure. You dare not look up, fearing that your eyes might betray the turmoil inside you.

Collins places a possessive hand on your shoulder, his grip firm but not painful. “Linaria has shown great resilience and courage throughout this ordeal," he says, his tone softening slightly as he addresses you directly. His eyes, however, remain sharp and warning. “She embodies the grace and strength befitting a Commodore's wife."

You nod slightly, still avoiding eye contact, knowing any show of defiance would only worsen your situation. Your mind drifts to Shanks and his crew—the freedom you tasted aboard their ship now feels like a distant dream. Had it even happened?

Lady Avander offers a warm smile. "We are honored to support such a union," she says graciously. "Your love and dedication are truly inspiring."

The statement makes you want to scream, but you swallow your frustration and maintain your composed facade. Collins' fingers dig into your shoulder slightly as if sensing your inner turmoil.

"Thank you," Collins replies smoothly. "Your support means the world to us.”

He finally releases his grip on your shoulder and sits back down, signaling the end of his grand declaration. The room slowly returns to its previous state of quiet elegance, but you remain acutely aware of the eyes that occasionally flicker towards you with curiosity or pity.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for whatever comes next while keeping your gaze firmly fixed on the tablecloth. The dinner continues around you as if nothing monumental has just transpired, yet inside, you're waging a silent battle against despair.

When dessert wraps up, you push the last morsel of a delicate pastry around your plate, not tasting it. It does not taste as delicious as you know it is. The conversation at the table has returned to lighter topics, but you can feel Collins' eyes on you, burning with unspoken intentions. The oppressive weight of his announcement still presses down on you like a heavy blanket.

Finally, Lord and Lady Avander rise, signaling the end of the meal. "Thank you for a delightful evening," Lady Avander says warmly. "We look forward to seeing more of you during your stay."

You nod and offer another polite smile, feeling as if your face might crack under the strain. Collins stands and gestures for you to follow him. You do so reluctantly, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Once you're back in your suite, Collins closes the door behind him with a soft click that reverberates in the silence. He turns to face you, his expression darkening. "Do you understand what’s at stake here?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

You nod again, unable to meet his eyes. "Yes," you state blandly, your voice nearly devoid of emotion..

"Good," he says, taking a step closer. "You will marry me, Linaria. And you will fulfill your duties as my wife."

His words slice through the air like a knife. You swallow hard, trying to keep your composure. It would be torture bearing his child.

"Do not think for a moment that I won't enforce discipline if necessary," he continues, his voice dripping with menace. “You’ve already proven trouble some, I’ll just have to beat that out of you.”

You flinch slightly at his words but remain silent.

Collins reaches out and grabs your chin, forcing you to look up at him. "You belong to me now," he growls. His grip tightens painfully on your jaw as he leans in closer.

Before you can react, he crushes his lips against yours in a brutal kiss. Pain explodes from your split lip as it reopens under the pressure of his assault. You try to pull away, but his grip is unyielding.

When he finally releases you, you stagger back a step, gasping for breath and tasting blood on your lips. Collins smirks at your distress before turning on his heel and leaving the room without another word. For a moment, all you can do is stand there trembling in the aftermath of his brutality, feeling more trapped than ever in this nightmare masquerading as reality.

You wipe the blood from your lip with the back of your hand, your chest heaving as you struggle to regain control. Shanks will come. Shanks has to come. The door clicks shut behind Collins, leaving you in a suffocating silence. You sink to the floor, knees drawing up to your chest as you wrap your arms around them, seeking some semblance of comfort.

Yumi peeks out from behind the bed, her eyes wide with fear and concern. "Aria," she whispers, crawling over to you. She reaches out with small hands, touching your arm gently.

You force a smile, though it feels more like a grimace. "I'm okay," you lie, pulling her into a hug. Her tiny body trembles against yours, and you hold her tighter, wishing you could shield her from all the horrors of this world.

"We need to be strong," you murmur into her hair. "We'll find a way out of this."

Yumi nods against your chest, drawing strength from your words even if you're not entirely sure you believe them yourself.

Date Published: 7/19/24

Last Edit: 7/29/24

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[callsigns-haze]

Histories Enemy

Warning: This chapter contains explicit sexual content and emotional turmoil, torture and violence. Summary: In a moment of passion and vulnerability, Rhysand implores YN to come back to him, but she grapples with the weight of her responsibilities as High Lady of the Court of the Lost Gods and yet returns to him. But now with the queen under the mountain things change

Series master list (but can be read alone)

As fifty long years passed since YN's return to the Court of the Lost Gods, the shadow of Amarantha's rule loomed large over the land, casting a dark pall over the once vibrant court. Rhysand, bound by duty to the tyrant queen, had become a distant figure, his presence a rare and fleeting glimpse in the tumultuous landscape of their world.

Meanwhile, Tamlin's human lover, driven by an unwavering determination to break his curse, had devoted herself to the arduous task of unraveling the dark magic that bound him. Her efforts were met with frustration and heartache, as each attempt seemed to only tighten the grip of the curse, leaving Tamlin trapped in a prison of his own making.

As the days turned into years, the courts suffered under Amarantha's oppressive rule, their spirits crushed beneath the weight of her tyranny. YN, once a beacon of hope and resilience, found herself struggling to maintain her resolve in the face of such overwhelming darkness, her heart heavy with the burden of their collective suffering.

But amidst the chaos and despair, a glimmer of hope remained—a flickering flame that refused to be extinguished. With each passing day, YN and her allies worked tirelessly to resist Amarantha's rule, their bond forged in the crucible of adversity, their determination unyielding in the face of impossible odds.

And as they stood on the brink of despair, their spirits battered but unbroken, YN knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, they would face them together, united in their unwavering resolve to reclaim their freedom, their dignity, and their future. For in the darkest of times, it was their unity, their strength, and their unwavering belief in the power of love and hope that would ultimately light the way forward, guiding them through the darkness to a brighter tomorrow.

As the days dwindled down to mere moments before Amarantha's grip tightened further, YN's heart pounded with a mixture of dread and determination. She knew all too well the cruelty and ruthlessness of the queen's ambitions, and the thought of her armies descending upon the Court of the Lost Gods filled her with a bone-deep fear.

With each passing moment, YN felt the weight of their impending doom pressing down upon her, threatening to crush her beneath its unforgiving weight. She knew that they were running out of time, that soon they would be faced with an impossible choice—surrender to Amarantha's tyranny or stand and fight, risking everything they held dear in a desperate bid for freedom.

But amidst the turmoil and uncertainty, a flicker of defiance burned bright within YN's heart. She refused to succumb to despair, refused to bow before the tyrant queen and her legions of darkness. With every fiber of her being, she vowed to stand firm, to protect her people, her home, and the ones she loved with every breath in her body.

Gathering her allies close, YN whispered words of encouragement and resolve, her voice a rallying cry in the gathering storm. Together, they prepared to face the coming onslaught, their hearts united in their determination to resist Amarantha's rule and reclaim their freedom at any cost.

And as the final moments ticked away, YN stood ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, her spirit unbroken, her courage unwavering.

The force of Amarantha's blow sent YN crashing to the ground, her body wracked with searing pain as she cried out in agony. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, leaving her gasping for air as darkness threatened to engulf her senses.

Stars danced before YN's eyes as she struggled to remain conscious, her vision swimming with dizziness and pain. Every breath felt like fire in her lungs, every movement sending waves of agony radiating through her battered body.

Through the haze of pain, YN could hear Amarantha's mocking laughter echoing in her ears, the sound a cruel reminder of the queen's overwhelming power. Fear clawed at YN's heart as she realized the full extent of the danger she was in, the sheer brutality of Amarantha's wrath a stark reminder of the stakes they faced.

But even as despair threatened to consume her, a flicker of defiance burned bright within YN's heart, a stubborn refusal to surrender to the darkness that threatened to consume her. With every ounce of strength she could muster, she fought to push through the pain, to rise above the fear and uncertainty that threatened to overwhelm her.

Slowly, agonizingly, YN forced herself to her feet, her muscles trembling with exertion as she faced Amarantha once more. Despite the overwhelming odds stacked against her, she refused to back down, refused to give in to the queen's cruelty.

With a defiant glare, YN met Amarantha's gaze head-on, her eyes blazing with unyielding determination. "You may have the power to hurt me," she spat, her voice trembling with defiance, "but you will never break me. I will fight you with every breath in my body, until my last dying breath."

And as she stood there, battered and bruised but unbroken in spirit, YN knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, she would face them with courage, with strength, and with the unwavering belief that love and hope would ultimately triumph over fear and despair. For in that moment, she was more than just a victim of Amarantha's cruelty—she was a warrior, a survivor, a beacon of hope in a world consumed by darkness.

The sickening thud of YN's body hitting the wall echoed through the chamber as Amarantha's brutal assault sent her crashing against the unforgiving surface. Pain exploded in YN's skull as her consciousness teetered on the edge of oblivion, darkness closing in around her like a suffocating shroud.

For a fleeting moment, YN fought to stay conscious, her mind a whirlwind of agony and confusion. But the relentless onslaught of pain proved too much to bear, and with a final, desperate gasp, she succumbed to the blackness that enveloped her, her world fading into oblivion as unconsciousness claimed her.

In the depths of her unconsciousness, YN's mind was a turbulent sea of fractured dreams and haunting visions, each more terrifying than the last. Images of Amarantha's cruel smile and mocking laughter haunted her, a relentless reminder of the queen's overwhelming power and cruelty.

But even in the darkness, a faint glimmer of hope remained—a whisper of resilience that refused to be extinguished. Deep within the recesses of her soul, YN clung to the belief that somehow, someway, she would find a way to rise again, to defy the odds and reclaim her freedom from the clutches of tyranny.

And as she lay suspended in the void between dreams and reality, YN vowed to never surrender, to never give up the fight against the darkness that threatened to consume her. For in that moment, she was more than just a victim of Amarantha's cruelty—she was a warrior, a survivor, a symbol of hope in a world ravaged by despair. And no matter how dark the night may seem, she knew that the dawn of a new day was waiting just beyond the horizon, ready to break through the shadows and illuminate the path to freedom once more.

----

As Rhysand stood amidst the turmoil of his court, a sudden, jarring sensation rippled through the depths of his mind—a sharp, searing pain that tore through the fragile threads of his mental bond with YN. His heart clenched with a sense of unease as he felt the connection between them splinter and fracture, leaving him reeling in its wake.

For a fleeting moment, Rhysand struggled to make sense of the sudden rupture in their bond, his mind racing with a torrent of questions and fears. What had caused this break? Was YN in danger? Had something happened to her?

With a growing sense of dread gnawing at his heart, Rhysand reached out tentatively, probing the shattered remnants of their connection in search of any sign of YN's presence. But to his dismay, he found nothing but an empty void—a yawning chasm of silence where once their bond had thrummed with life and vitality.

Panic surged through Rhysand's veins as he grappled with the magnitude of what had occurred. Had YN been harmed? Was she in need of his help? The uncertainty gnawed at him, driving him to the brink of despair as he struggled to come to terms with the sudden and inexplicable loss of their connection.

But even as fear threatened to consume him, a flicker of determination burned bright within Rhysand's heart. He refused to give in to despair, refused to accept that this was the end of their bond. With every fiber of his being, he vowed to find a way to reach YN, to bridge the gulf that now separated them and restore their connection to its former strength.

For in that moment, Rhysand knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, he would stop at nothing to ensure YN's safety, to protect her from harm, and to reclaim the bond that bound them together, heart and soul. And as he stood amidst the wreckage of their shattered connection, he knew that their love would endure, a beacon of hope in the darkness that threatened to engulf them both.

-----

As YN found herself locked in the confines of Amarantha's basement chambers, her voice filled the air with a haunting melody that spoke of longing and defiance. The notes rose and fell, carrying with them the weight of her despair and the fervent hope of escape.

With each verse, YN's voice echoed off the cold stone walls, filling the oppressive space with a haunting resonance that seemed to pierce the darkness. Her words were a lament, a cry for freedom that echoed the silent yearning of her captive heart.

As the song reached its crescendo, YN's voice soared, filling the chamber with a raw intensity that spoke of her unwavering determination to break free from the chains of captivity. Her voice trembled with emotion, each note a testament to her fierce resolve to defy the darkness that threatened to engulf her.

And as she sang, her voice a beacon of hope in the darkness, YN knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, she would face them with courage, with strength, and with the unwavering belief that love and hope would ultimately triumph over fear and despair. For in that moment, she was more than just a prisoner—she was a fighter, a survivor, a symbol of resilience in the face of adversity. And no matter how dark the night may seem, she knew that the dawn of a new day was waiting just beyond the horizon, ready to break through the shadows and illuminate the path to freedom once more.

It was in the depths of her despair that YN's gaze fell upon Feyre, the girl Tamlin loved, as she was dragged into a nearby cell. The sight sent a shiver down YN's spine, a grim reminder of the cruelty and brutality of Amarantha's reign.

But even as fear clenched at her heart, YN refused to give in to despair. With a steely resolve, she vowed to find a way to escape, to defy the darkness that threatened to engulf her and reclaim her freedom from the clutches of tyranny.

And as she continued to sing, her voice echoing through the darkness like a beacon of hope, YN knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, she would face them with courage, with strength, and with the unwavering belief that love and hope would ultimately triumph over fear and despair. For in that moment, she was more than just a prisoner—she was a fighter, a survivor, a symbol of resilience in the face of adversity. And no matter how dark the night may seem, she knew that the dawn of a new day was waiting just beyond the horizon, ready to break through the shadows and illuminate the path to freedom once more.

As the guards departed, leaving YN to the oppressive silence of her cell, she couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at her heart. Despite the heavy weight of her own captivity, her thoughts drifted to the girl locked away in the adjacent cell—Feyre, the object of Tamlin's affection.

With cautious steps, YN approached the barred opening that separated their cells, her heart pounding in her chest as she peered through the dim light to catch a glimpse of the girl within. Feyre's eyes met hers, wary and uncertain, mirroring the turmoil that churned within YN's own soul.

For a long moment, they regarded each other in silence, the air heavy with unspoken questions and unspoken fears. Feyre's gaze held a mixture of suspicion and trepidation, her uncertainty palpable in the tense silence that hung between them.

But as YN's eyes met Feyre's, a flicker of understanding passed between them—a silent acknowledgment of the shared struggle that bound them together, despite the vast divide that separated them. In that moment, YN knew that despite the walls that imprisoned them, they were not alone.

With a tentative smile, YN reached out a hand, offering Feyre a gesture of solidarity and compassion. Feyre hesitated, uncertainty flickering in her eyes, but slowly, hesitantly, she reached out to grasp YN's hand in return—a silent agreement forged in the darkness, a glimmer of hope in the depths of despair.

And as they stood there, two prisoners bound by fate and circumstance, YN knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, they would face them together, united in their determination to defy the darkness and reclaim their freedom once more. For in that moment, they were more than just captives—they were warriors, survivors, allies in a battle for survival. And no matter how dire the odds, they would stand together, their spirits unbroken, their hearts ablaze with the unwavering belief that love and hope would ultimately triumph over fear and despair.

As the flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows across the stone walls of their cells, YN's voice broke the silence, her words filled with a solemn urgency as she explained the identity of their captor—Amarantha, the tyrant queen whose reign of terror had plunged their world into darkness.

"She's ruthless," YN began, her voice low but steady, as she recounted the tales of Amarantha's cruelty and brutality. "Amarantha will stop at nothing to maintain her power, to crush anyone who dares to defy her."

Feyre listened intently, her expression grave as she absorbed YN's words, the weight of their meaning settling heavily upon her shoulders. The stories of Amarantha's atrocities painted a chilling portrait of a ruler consumed by greed and ambition, a force of darkness that threatened to engulf them all in its merciless grasp.

But even as fear clenched at her heart, YN pressed on, her voice tinged with defiance as she spoke of their shared determination to defy the queen's tyranny, to reclaim their freedom from the clutches of oppression.

Feyre nodded, her eyes shining with newfound resolve as she met YN's gaze with unwavering determination. In that moment, they were not just two prisoners bound by fate—they were allies, comrades in arms, united in their shared struggle for survival.

And as they stood there, their spirits unbroken despite the darkness that surrounded them, YN knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, they would face them together, their hearts ablaze with the unwavering belief that love and hope would ultimately triumph over fear and despair. For in that moment, they were more than just captives—they were warriors, survivors, defiant in the face of adversity, and determined to reclaim their freedom at any cost.

---

As Feyre entered the arena, her heart pounded with a mixture of dread and determination, her mind consumed by thoughts of the task that lay ahead. But as she stepped into the dimly lit chamber, her eyes widened in horror at the sight that greeted her—a lone figure suspended in the center of the arena, barely conscious, her wrists bound and her body bruised and battered.

It was YN.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still as Feyre took in the sight of her fellow captive, her heart wrenching at the sight of the woman's suffering. The realization of what she had unwittingly walked into hit her like a physical blow, filling her with a sickening sense of guilt and despair.

But even as fear threatened to consume her, Feyre forced herself to push forward, her every instinct screaming at her to save YN from the clutches of their captors. With trembling hands, she rushed to YN's side, her fingers fumbling with the bindings that held her in place, her voice a desperate plea for help.

As she worked frantically to free YN from her restraints, Feyre's eyes flickered to the entrance of the arena, where Rhysand stood frozen in shock, his expression a mask of anguish and despair. It was clear that he had only just arrived, his heartrending gaze fixed on the woman he loved, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he fought to contain his emotions.

But there was no time for words or explanations, only action. With a final, desperate tug, Feyre managed to free YN from her bonds, catching her limp form as she crumpled to the ground, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

For a moment, they remained locked in a silent tableau, their hearts heavy with the weight of their shared suffering. But as Rhysand rushed to YN's side, gathering her into his arms with a tenderness that belied the fierce strength of his love, Feyre knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, they would face them together, united in their determination to defy the darkness and reclaim their freedom once and for all.

With trembling hands and a heart heavy with dread, Rhysand gently shook YN's limp form, his voice choked with emotion as he called out to her in a desperate bid to rouse her from unconsciousness.

"YN, love, please," he murmured, his words a whispered prayer in the silent darkness of the arena. "Open your eyes. Stay with me."

But YN remained unresponsive, her breathing shallow and labored as she lay cradled in Rhysand's arms, her pale features drawn with pain and exhaustion. Panic surged through him like a tidal wave as he struggled to contain his rising fear, his mind racing with a thousand dire possibilities.

With a trembling hand, Rhysand brushed a strand of hair from YN's face, his touch gentle despite the fierce urgency that burned within him. He refused to accept the possibility of losing her, refused to let the darkness claim her as its own.

"Please, YN," he pleaded, his voice raw with emotion. "Don't leave me. You're stronger than this. You have to fight."

But even as he spoke, doubt gnawed at the edges of his resolve, threatening to overwhelm him with its suffocating weight. The sight of YN's still form filled him with a sense of helpless despair, leaving him grasping desperately for any glimmer of hope in the darkness that surrounded them.

And as he held her close, his heart aching with the agony of uncertainty, Rhysand knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, he would never stop fighting for YN's life, for their love, for the chance to build a future together free from the shadow of Amarantha's tyranny. For in that moment, she was not just his lover—she was his everything, his reason for living, his light in the darkest of nights. And he would do whatever it took to keep her safe, to keep her by his side, until the end of time.

As for what happened next, it's just the book............

Tagging some:

@callsign-magnolia

@kmc1989

@hardballoonlove

@senawashere

@hookslove1592

@marvel-molly

@lucky7rosie

@daughterofthemoons-stuff

@lilah-asteria