#He who saved us from our sins

[frobby]

i love madoka magica however i dont think we as a fandom talk enough about how tragic madoka herself is. probably because the narrative itself steers you away from thinking about her personally. shes not a character shes a desire that homura has, shes a force of good, shes homura's foil. but those are all madoka's narrative roles but madoka herself as a person is not really looked at because we are viewing this world from an unreliable narrator(homura) who only sees madoka as those things. The best thing homura could have done for madoka was give up on her, to let her go. because every time we go back in time the image of madoka is distorted, she loses more of herself every regression of homura's as she tries harder and harder to save her. We don't even know what madoka originally wished for to become a magical girl in the original timeline. and she actually acts quite differently than the madoka we meet. shes a lot more honest and caring and bold. by the time homura's has reached the actual anime madoka has been reduced by the sands of time to a figment of herself. she has no wants or desires of her own beyond wanting to do good and help her friends and when all her humanity is stripped away is when she finally acends to godhood because thats all thats left of her. an ideal and a faith in her. madoka kaname died a long time ago and all that is left is her ghost.

[inbabylontheywept]

by tradition, the first day of the camp was spent pranking the group next to us. our prank was ziptying the zippers on their sleeping bags together. we figured one of them would sleep with a knife, because we all slept with knives, because we were dangerous maniacs and half the danger of a dangerous maniac is that they tend to think that they are Actually Normal. so. obviously that didn't pan out, and instead they got stuck in their sleeping bags for like half an hour and because their scoutmaster slept in their car and couldn't hear them yelling, they actually only got out when one of them went full caged animal and chewed through the plastic. which meant they had time to make it to the axe throwing station, but they did miss breakfast.

the scale of our victory was impossible to understate. it was an epic prank. unrivaled. the best in years. we knew they were going to retaliate, and we both feared and craved it. maybe i'm still a maniac, but that feels like a common thing, right? do well adjusted people that are not maniacs crave Judgement?

(serious answers only please, from people who would never spoon a knife.)

anyway, the next day we got back to our camp, and the neighors had skipped dinner to just come back and fill all our tents with pinecones. which was like, a decent prank, i guess, but it probably took them an hour to fill all the tents up, and it took us like 15 minutes to tip the tents out, and as a return volley to the ziptie prank it was incredibly underwhelming. we felt a little cheated.

so our scouting group held a council, and we agreed, unanimously, that our prank was 100% better and theirs sucked and that there would be no escalating tensions because we were the clear victors. they'd had their chance to retaliate, and they failed, and so the war was over. that was it.

we agreed on this. we swore. but madness is a relative thing, and in our group of maniacs, we still had J. i have many, many J stories. too many. i biked up to school with him from 4th grade to 8th, and i saw him get hit by cars thrice. he'd just swerve into the road sometimes. one time on a rainy day in 4th grade, a car splashed me, and before i could even consider my response J yelled I GOT THIS and then he blitzed off after the car. i didn't see him the rest of the day. i was so anxious i barely slept that night. i saw him the next morning and he told me that he'd chased the car until it got to a gated community and then he'd climbed over the fence and looked in peoples garages until he found the one with the car, and then he'd ripped the hood ornament off and broke their window. then he gave me a hood ornament to a different brand of car from the one that splashed me and i didnt tell him because i didnt want him missing more school. i want you to mentally adjust your mental model of the things a 9 year old is capable of doing to include chasing a car for five miles, hopping a fence, breaking into a garage, and vandalizing a randos car.

and that's just the tip of my J stories iceberg.

the point of all this is just to say that J was so crazy that he made us knife spooners look like accountanting enthusiasts.

so we agreed the war was done, and we shook on it, and then J, in the name of friendship, in the name of honor, in the name of avenging our pinecone filled tents, snuck over to their camp that evening and fornicated with a watermelon that they'd been saving in their cooler.

i want to emphasize, again, that this was not the consensus of the group. that is not a prank. like i know it seems like we dont know what pranks are because of the whole ziptie thing, but even we knew that fucking someones food is not a prank, it is a crime, and a sin, the kind of weapon that had only been ethically used once in history by Horus in his battle against Set and none of us dumb assholes had owl heads.

so.

the next day went pretty well. we threw some more axes again, which is a valuable and important skill for children to learn i guess, and we learned how to tie knots, which is a skill that turned out to be far sexier than i ever expected, and i learned how to light fires with a magnifying glass, which was great. i'm looking back at this, and i am actually just now beginning to realize that the clear and obvious point of scouting is turning child sociopaths into apex predators.

and then the day ended, and we went back to our camps, except for our leaders, who had a sort of Scout Leader Meeting they were going to have for a few hours at least. it was built into the camp, that day was supposed to be our day to chill as a group, and make peach cobbler, and just be buddies.

except, as it turned out, our neighboring group's alternative to making peach cobbler was eating their watermelon. so at some point they opened their watermelon, and woo boy. oh man. you think catholics hated seedless watermelons? you should see how much mormons hate seeded ones.

so we were chilling by the fire, and then we heard screaming from the camp over, but we didn't pay much mind to that because there are many reasonable explanations for a group of 10ish children to scream simulanteoulsy, such as wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then the screaming got closer, which did not bother us because there were many reasons for a group 10ish children to scream and run towards us, for example, wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then we noticed they had large sticks on them, which we figured were perhaps being used to drive away the wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then they arrived and they started beating the shit out of us, abundantly, in arizona.

so we ran into the woods.

now, at this point, we had no idea what was up. we knew that the camp next to us was out for blood, which was crazy, because we'd actually locked them in fartproof bags for 30 minutes and they'd barely done anything back, and were trying to figure out what could possibly have happened that could drive them to Terrible Violence when we realized that J was cackling like a witch that had learned how to order children off of ebay.

so we politely asked J what the hell he had done, and he politely explained that had "done" their watermelon, and we politely beat him with large sticks because life is nothing but endless cycles of violence.

we were still being chased by the other camp btw. so it was them, chasing us, chasing J, and then they got tired and went back to their camp, and we chased J a little longer because we were mad we'd all been walloped with sticks, and J did not care because he was a supernatural entity whose only weaknesses were Needles and Fire, and then we got tired and went back and J kept running, and we just kind of figured he would come back eventually.

he did not.

we went back to our tents, and we waited, and J did not come back. we stayed up all night, peering into the forest, worrying. our leader came back, and we did our best to hide our battlewounds, and he either genuinely did not notice or simply accepted this as part of Boyhood. then he went to bed, and we waited, and waited, and waited. And Waited. and did not sleep.

eventually, we convened again, and we agreed that if J was not back by after breakfast, we would have to tell the scoutleader about what exactly had transpired. and we really did not want to do that, because it would have meant that everyone would have gotten in a very large amount of trouble.

morning came around, and J still was not back. we went to breakfast, and we ate very, very slowly. we were afraid the other camp was going to continue their war with us, but they actually looked fairly frightened. one of them actually came to us and asked for a truce, and we agreed because we truly felt bad for them. like, yes, they did beat us with sticks, but J fucked their watermelon. we werent complicit in the watermelonfuckening but they didnt know that, and it was definitely the kind of crime that left one outside the bounds of the social contract.

and then when we could eat no more bits, when breakfast was almost done, right when i was getting pushed to go and tell the scoutleader that we needed to find J, he arrived. he was sleep deprived, and noticeably scraped and bloody, and tied to his belt was a blood squirrel tail.

and i asked him, J, where did you get that? and he said, don't worry man, it was already dead, which did not answer by question and gave me several more.

the camp ended that day, and the other groups avoided us like the plague, and it was not until some weeks later that we were able to piece together what happened.

J, in his sojourn through the forest, managed to find (or, possibly, make) a dead squirrel. he then cut off the tail to keep on his belt, because he was a weird little freak like that. he also took the dead squirrel, and he skinned it, then he tied it to a little crucifix made of wood, and he left it in the other scouting group's camp. which is why they were so scared of us.

it was such an unhinged thing to do it actually sobered us up for a while. scouting became a scary thing for us. we'd found something dark and primal there, in the place where no adult could see, and our appreciation of J as a wild ride kind of changed into seeing him as something truly dangerous. we had a sense wherever he went, something terrible would follow, and the only way to escape it was to not be there when it arrived. and so piece by piece, the scout group dissolved. it wasnt until he moved out of that ward that the rest of us started daring to go back to scouts.

and for the final epilogue of the tale:

i have a little brother who was friends with a younger cousin of J's, and the two would go to parties together in highschool. and sometimes J, who was in his early 20's at that point, would show up at the parties, and it was unsettling in such a way that it just became a known risk at parties with the cousin. and at one party, they were playing truth or dare, and J wasn't even in the room, but someone asked him the Truth of how he always knew how to find the cousin, and J said the cousin's mom had mentioned she was worried about him and the parties so he'd put a tracker in his car. and when he saw that the cousin was out of the house on weekends, he'd made a visit by, just to make sure he was safe.

then he left. and every single person at that party went over that poor kid's car. they searched the wheel-wells, checked underneath it, the works, until they found the tracker. then because they were clever, they didnt break it, or throw it away, or anything that would've given away what they'd done. they just gave the tracker to the cousin, who put it in his glovebox. and on schooldays, he'd take it with him, so J could see him in the parking lot. and on weekends, he could leave it in the garage, so he could go to parties with out Hell coming with him. because everyone that met J - every single person - knew that the only way to be safe from him was to be far, far away.

[astonmartinii]

who's afraid of little old me? | [guilty as sin part six] | charles leclerc social media au

pairing: charles leclerc x sainz!reader

alls well that ends well.

MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

maxverstappen1

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tagged: kimiantonelli, yourusername & charles_leclerc

maxverstappen1: ootd for court!

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user379: HE’S SUING CARLOS?

user380: i think i saw that he’s in switzerland which means he’s probably referring to the court of arbitration for sport

user381: so red bull defo have the data to back up the claim that carlos purposefully crashed into max?

user382: they’d be stupid not to have it and still risk going to CAS

user383: so how do i go about getting into the court room?

yourusername: it’s not particularly weird that i’ve taken my brother to court, but it was weird that i’ve now done it twice

maxverstappen1: save some court dates for the rest of us

oscarpiastri: soooooooo selfish of you

yourusername: well at least we all get to come this time!

charles_leclerc: can our next group trip please be to somewhere fun like ibiza or bali not COURT

yourusername: why? i clearly love it here?

charles_leclerc: but you love me more?

yourusername: why do you think i keep getting dragged to court?

maxverstappen1: because your brother is a prick?

yourusername: well there’s also that

user384: so like who is going to be live blogging this?

user385: can you live blog court proceedings?

user386: why haven’t sky managed to get ted kravitz in the court room?

user387: if i have to listen to him slander max for the rest of the year it’s the least they could do…

olliebearman: omg the silence in the comment section @yourusername you should’ve sued him sooner

maxverstappen1: hey! i’m the one suing him give me the credit

yourusername: yeah sorry ollie, unfortunately carlos sued ME the last time

pepemarti: @charles_leclerc i still think you’re a pussy for not speaking up during this…

charles_leclerc: I KNOW

charles_leclerc: I’M SORRY

yourusername: it’s okay baby, i’ve forgiven you

pepemarti: i haven’t

charles_leclerc: okay?

yourusername: he’s just protective 🥰

charles_leclerc: what the hell sure

user388: pepe marti i am fond of you

user389: surely one of these grid kids will live tweet?

yourusername: do NOT tempt them with a good time

WHAT ON EARTH IS HAPPENING IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS (CAS?)

By BBC Sport

14:30

One of the most high-profile court cases in sport kicked off earlier this month and the rest of the world has been left baffled by the proceedings.

Max Verstappen, and his team Red Bull Racing, have taken Carlos Sainz, Ferrari driver for the 2024 season, to the Court of Arbitration for Sport following their crash in Azerbaijan.

The final lap at the circuit in Baku saw Sainz storm into the side of Verstappen’s Red Bull, pushing both cars into the concrete barriers at the street circuit. Although neither driver were seriously injured, Verstappen was kept overnight in the hospital for precautions, while Sainz was able to hop straight out of his wrecked car and into his private jet to his picturesque holiday spot.

Verstappen, ever the joker, immediately ran to social media where alongside his gang of other drivers and friend Y/N Sainz poked at the situation. It wasn’t until a couple of days after the incident that Sky Sports reported that Red Bull were enquiring into the possibility that this crash was on purpose, perhaps even with malicious intent.

The much-needed context to this crash doesn’t come from an on-track incident, in fact, it hardly has much to do with the sport at all. Y/N Sainz is an integral figure in this controversy. Earlier this year when it was revealed that her brother, Carlos, wouldn’t be resigning with Ferrari in favour of Lewis Hamilton, Carlos lashed out and revealed his sister’s years-long secret relationship with Sainz’s teammate at the time, Charles Leclerc.

Both Carlos Sainz Jr and Sr immediately threw accusations against their own blood of backstabbing and betrayal, despite it being very clear that Y/N Sainz was none the wiser to Ferrari’s move.

Y/N Sainz is far removed from Formula 1 aside from her relation to Carlos and her relationship with Charles. Y/N Sainz is a successful author who prior to this incident seemed to be in good favour with her family.

Amongst the fallout, further accusations flew from both parties. Y/N accused her father and brother of attempting to sell her off in the paddock for favours from teams while her brother and father regurgitated their points of her supposedly being a ‘gold digger’.

The first round of this controversy also culminated in a courtroom. Sainz Sr took his own daughter to court, claiming that he was entitled to all of her earnings from her book sales. It must also be noted here that those court proceedings exposed that Y/N had never had a bank account of her own, rather that all of her earnings were funnelled to her father to which she was then given a stipend.

Y/N won that court case, as it’ll be likely that her close friend Verstappen will win his. It was ordered that Sainz Sr had to pay back all of her earnings alongside damages. However, it was not the win she had hoped for as Ferrari had a gag order on her boyfriend, meaning she went through the proceedings alone, with distant support from Verstappen and Oscar Piastri.

Following worldwide outrage, this gag order was dropped and the pair were reunited and attended races again as a united front - even picking up a group of rookies that stuck to the side of Y/N.

Leclerc even commented following the crash that he felt it was meant for him, which reinforced the theory that it was premeditated. We’ll keep you updated as the court proceedings continue.

15:30

It is to BBC’s understanding that texts between Sainz Jr and Sr have been revealed to the court that imply a plan to cause as much damage before they are ousted at the end of the season. The texts themselves do not state that Verstappen was the intended target, that incident seemed to be a crime of opportunity. Rather, that Ferrari and Leclerc were the targets of their rage but fortunately for Leclerc in Baku, he was simply too fast for Sainz to catch.

Amongst the texts was on damning one, ‘I’ll put that mongasque cunt in the wall as many times as I can to make sure Y/N can only have her happily ever after with a cripple or a headstone’.

It’s shaping up to be a slam dunk against Carlos Sainz as Red Bull prepare to present their telemetry evidence.

16:45

Our court side reporter states that Red Bull’s telemetry data was damning. Another ‘betrayal’ for the male Sainz contingent as Ferrari happily complied with Red Bull’s investigation, handing over all of the data which conclusively proved that Sainz purposefully crashed into and endangered Max Verstappen.

We now just wait on the final verdict.

17:38

GUILTY!

Carlos Sainz Jr has been given a guilty verdict for endangering a fellow athlete with malicious intent. The Court of Arbitration of Sport has ruled that Sainz is hereby banned from Formula One indefinitely. He will not complete his final season with Ferrari and his entry to the paddock will be monitored on a case-by-case basis.

This is a landmark ruling in the sport but you can’t help but think it was necessary. The sport is dangerous enough, it was simply too dangerous to have a man who admitted in texts to wanting to inflict as much damage as possible on another driver.

yourusername

liked by logansargeant, pepemarti and 2,762,092 others

yourusername: family is not always the people you are born to but the people who you find along the way

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user390: yeah sis this is cute and all but like your biggest opp just got taken out back and shot let’s dance on his grave a lil bit

pepemarti: dw i’m doing the hoedown throwdown for the whole team 🫡

user391: you’ve just earned stanship good sir

pepemarti: i don’t play about my first celebrity crush

yourusername: you’re making me feel old josep

charles_leclerc: also can you like stop doing the hoedown throwdown you’re being the worst upstairs neighbour ever right now

pepemarti: just because carlos plotted to kill you doesn’t mean you have to take my shine 😖

user391: this is all a bit chill for idk the historic court ruling that just happened

user392: i mean if i were them i’d be getting crunk and celebrating

user393: one of them is literally doing the hoedown throwdown right now???

oscarpiastri: you guys don’t even want to know what max is doing right now

yourusername: yeah lets keep that off the internet for now

user394: not even one morsel queen?

charles_leclerc: max has been arguing (with himself) for an HOUR over how he should give y/n away at her wedding because he BASICALLY DIED for her

maxverstappen1: i don’t detect any lies…

yourusername: you didn’t die though did you

maxverstappen1: i COULD HAVE???

maxverstappen1: if carlos’ aim was better i would be splattered across the concrete walls of baku…

kimiantonelli: GROSS

maxverstappen1: i know kimi, it is gross that they’re minimising my trauma

charles_leclerc: okay buddy we bought you a couple gin and tonics for your trouble

maxverstappen1: SILENCE BOY

yourusername: how could we possibly repay you max?

maxverstappen1: charles could let me past on track?

charles_leclerc: i would rather let carlos make road kill of you

yourusername: CHARLES?

charles_leclerc: too soon?

maxverstappen1: and to think i was going to offer to take lando out for you?

yourusername: you don’t really need prompting for that?

maxverstappen1: it’s the thought that counts !!!

olliebearman: i know linkedin is sick of my ass

olliebearman: thanks for the ferrari drive charles, max and y/n!!!!

yourusername: what the hell, sure you’re welcome ollie

maxverstappen1: i know how you can repay me…

charles_leclerc: don’t listen to him ollie!

maxverstappen1: just got the biggest pain in your ass sent to the shadow realm but god forbid i ask for a cheeky tow

user395: after the absolute shitshow that was the ferrari gag order and the first trial… i prayed for times like this

user396: what will i do now i no longer have carlos to dunk on?

oscarpiastri: real haters find a way

f1

liked by maxverstappen1, olliebearman and 1,308,293 others

tagged: landonorris, oscarpiastri & charles_leclerc

f1: you might have been distracted by the off track drama… but we’re back and the title battle is probably a lot closer than you think… lando is leading the championship, with oscar following three points behind and charles just four points back from him. can ferrari finally clinch a championship in the second half of the season?

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user397: oh i lowkey forgot about this sport

user398: i was too deep in the how to get away with murder court room drama

user399: you people are what’s wrong with the sport

user400: and not the guy who tried to kill another driver based on the fact that he’s insecure about his sister’s relationship

user401: bro gets indefinitely banned from the sport for a malicious crash and somehow “DTS fangirls” are still the issue for these men

user402: make it make sense

charles_leclerc: what off track drama?

yourusername: we were just enjoying a family trip to switzerland

maxverstappen1: a very cultural trip i will say

olliebearman: the chocolate was yummers

oscarpiastri: never say yummers again

olliebearman: omg god forbid i want to get whimsy with my language choices

oscarpiastri: i think if anyone here is the authority on words it’s the literal author

yourusername: i ain’t getting involved in this nonsense

olliebearman: Y/N ???

user403: oh she really is a MOTHER

user404: I can’t believe my favourite driver has been banned because his sister couldn’t keep it in her pants

user405: and charles kept it in his?

user404: well yes he was clearly seduced

user406: how has this been an argument for over a year and yall are still coming to this conclusion

user407: it’s called hating women babe

user408: but like what do i do with my carlos merch now

user409: you still had that shit?

kimiantonelli: burn it!!!!

yourusername: kimi no!

kimiantonelli: kimi yes!

charles_leclerc: oh wait there’s a damn championship to win

charles_leclerc: idk how to focus just on racing after the past year omg

yourusername: get to winning mr

charles_leclerc: for you, of course

yourusername: i might be in love with you, hopelessly so, but i’m still a part of the tifosi HURRY UP

user410: y/n’s priorities have always been the realest

olliebearman: she just made me cookies and then said if i don’t protect charles from the world’s greatest evil (mclaren) then i’m disowned

landonorris: how are we the worlds greatest evil when your brother and dad plotted to kill charles and nearly killed max

yourusername: i thought i had you blocked?

landonorris: I’M SORRY

yourusername: i… don’t give a fuck - sorry!

charles_leclerc

liked by olliebearman, maxverstappen1 and 3,109,377 others

tagged: yourusername

charles_leclerc: it’s been a tough ol year this one. alongside a tough title battle, we’ve fought tough personal battles as well. no matter what happens tomorrow, i will forever be grateful to have the most wonderful woman at my side. i love you y/n, this is the start of the rest of our life and i’ll do whatever i can to make you the happiest woman in the world.

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user411: tough personal battles - and it was him having no backbone

user412: i mean in the court case it literally came out he had a gag order…

user413: well he should sort his gag reflex and get to sucking off

user413: the metaphor got wholly lost there my bad

user413: point is they would’ve had to put my ass in space to keep me from my love who also happens to be the Y/N SAINZ

user414: always saying what we’re all thinking

charles_leclerc: i’m not sucking off fred

user415: i don’t think -

yourusername: oh baby there’s a reason i’m the writer in this household

charles_leclerc: let me live !!!

user416: oh i am so glad that bros biggest personal battle now is reading comprehension

user417: happens to the best of us

user418: idk my brain doesn’t automatically go to sucking off my boss

charles_leclerc: I DIDN’T REALISE

charles_leclerc: IT WAS A BAD METAPHOR

charles_leclerc: @user414 you will pay for your crimes

maxverstappen1: bro can’t read lol

charles_leclerc: SHUT THE FUCK UP

charles_leclerc: did i or did i not write a very cute caption for this post

yourusername: yes! it is very lovely darling

charles_leclerc: HAH

user417: personally i think i could make y/n happier if i am given the chance

charles_leclerc: nuh uh

user418: bro is scared

charles_leclerc: no !!!

user419: he knows he’s outnumbered

oscarpiastri: he’s started pacing

yourusername: guys, i appreciate the sentiment but please refrain from threatening my boyfriend

user420: i demand a TRIAL BY COMBAT

yourusername: girl this ain’t game of thrones

user421: just because charles won’t fight for your hand…

charles_leclerc: YES I WILL I’LL FIGHT ALL OF YOU

olliebearman: my dad has officially gone crazy - and before i solidly made it into the will, you hate to see it

pepemarti: i can’t believe i’m missing out on a charles meltdown 😩

oscarpiastri: he’s shadow boxing with max and i’m pretty sure max is just biding his time to get a hit in on him

maxverstappen1: and that’s for the inchident motherfucker

yourusername: okay! time to stop!

charles_leclerc: this was meant to be a nice post 😖

yourusername: you know i love you baby

yourusername: let’s go win this championship

maxverstappen1: or lose it to me, i don’t mind

charles_leclerc: MAX???

yourusername: really?

maxverstappen1: omg he could win his first championship and now a man can’t make a joke?

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri and 3,987,019 others

tagged: charles_leclerc

yourusername: i won’t make this post all about karma, but good things come to those who wait… i’m overwhelmingly proud of my boy that i don’t quite know how to put it into words. there’s just something about seeing the person you love achieve their dreams, it’s otherworldly, just like charles. you said this was the start of the rest of our lives? i couldn’t think of a better way to start

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user422: well if you won't i will

user423: KARMA

fernandoalo_oficial: karma

user424: FERNANDO?

fernandoalo_oficial: KARMA! do i make myself clear

user425: omg the old man said fuck that guy

user426: the two carlos fans left just fell to their knees

user427: TWO? generous.

olliebearman: i COULD !!!!

charles_leclerc: oliver, no meddling

olliebearman: you just won the championship would it kill you to be a little more fun?

charles_leclerc: as much as i love you peoples annoyingly persistent presence in my life, lets leave some things to us

olliebearman: ANNOYING?

olliebearman: after i just won you a championship?

yourusername: ollie...

olliebearman: did i or did i not hold up lando?

landonorris: for like three laps?

olliebearman: CEASE SPEAKING TO ME

charles_leclerc: thank you ollie, those three laps 100% did it

olliebearman: you're welcome ☺️

yourusername: he's such a good dad omg

maxverstappen1: that's one way to put it

user428: bro won the world championship and immediately went into dad mode

user429: i fear y/n might need to make the man a father

oscarpiastri: HE'S A FATHER ALREADY

kimiantonelli: us erasure

pepemarti: there's not enough room for an actual child sorry

yourusername: ???

charles_leclerc: you guys are not helping in any way ever for anything

charles_leclerc: i don't think it'll set in for a long while, but i know now and forever that i love you and that i'm glad you've been by my side through all of it

yourusername: the pleasure has been all mine

maxverstappen1: believe me WE KNOW

yourusername: MAX?

maxverstappen1: sorry i just 100% heard you guys in the drivers room and am SCARRED but yeah you guys go back to being all lovey dovey

kimiantonelli: drivers room?

maxverstappen1: i protected your innocence, never say i don't do things for you people again

user430: well at least we know he didn't just get lucky on track

yourusername: gUYS?

charles_leclerc: anyway!

charles_leclerc: i love you !!! and your strength has inspired me since i met you and all throughout this season!

yourusername: i need you to know that i love you and i would do this all again 100 times if i meant that i would still be with you and see us achieve our dreams

charles_leclerc: you have my heart, forever and always

yourusername: as do you, you're my 1

user431: they're so sickeningly sweet

user432: thinking about a wedding... i might die

user433: it's defo happening - i can see right through you ollie

olliebearman: I SAID NOTHING

charles_leclerc: ugh. ollie !!!!!

yourusername: be patient charles - you chose him as a kid

charles_leclerc: well let me know when we can make our own and we can get busy

maxverstappen1: ENOUGH.

fin. EPILOGUE COMING SOON...

note: yes guys i did fall into a hole and forget about this blog - jokes! but life did get super busy, so i just had to get this out before i go on holiday this weekend !!! i hope you enjoyed and can now enjoy reading guilty as sin in its entirety (well, nearly). i have a long journey so i will be working on my other WIPs lol don't worry.

taglist: @2pagenumb @marshmummy @dullypully @scott-mccall-could-lift-mjolnir @minkyungseokie @sarah-thatstings-ann @callsignwidow @six-call @babyphotos0325 @velentine @honethatty12 @halleest @bruinsfan234 @woozarts @jaydaaasworld @random-human02 @blueberry64857959 @shimmermotorsport @xoscar03 @danielshoe @deamus-liv @jiminssmallpinkyy @eugene-emt-roe @emryb @aadu2173 @rhythmstars @booksandflowrs @2bormaybenot @firelily-mimi @evie-119 @mehrsdigitaldiary @sltwins @bibissparkles @evans-dejong @eiaaasamantha @23victoria @venusacrossthestars @boywondrgrayson @rare2306 @sinarainbows @chaoticbouquetangel @awritingtree @armystay89 @ggrgcribg @ct2302 @czennieszn @swangelss @sumlovesjude @hashmiya @airsky27 @chaoticbouquetangel @chenlesbitxh @iamkaku @scorpiomindfuck @samantha-chicago @trevuorzegras @personwhoisther @green-thots @madszoca @silentreader128 @buckybarnessweetheart @justzluv@toldyouitwasamelodrama @crowsnfrogs @charlesgirl16 @reguluscrystals @hiireadstuff @destinyg237 @mael1pastry @sweet-creature98 @changetyre @eclipsedcherry @its-elias-world @brune77e @exotic-iris13 @alenix @sheridamn @boherahpsody @e-nonsense @vogueprincess @loloekie @dckgzz @cluvsya

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 ||𝙾𝚍𝚢𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚞𝚜 ||

A/n: here it is, our dear Odysseus fucking you while he is covered in the blood of the suitors.

A/n: Listened to Like A Prayer (the Glee version) and it helped 🤣

Warnings: Fucking, just pure smut, Ody being possessive, biting, dirty talk, p in v, oral ( female receiving) blood, blood shed ( start of fic with Ody killing the suitors) cream pie, Odysseus having a breeding kink. Mention of the Suitors wanting to S/A the Reader.

These men

No...not men

Filth

The great halls of Ithaca had become a den of jackals.

They drank Odysseus’s wine, gorged themselves on his feast, and laughed in the face of the gods.

But tonight—their laughter turned to whispers.

Odysseus, cloaked in rags, his face hidden by age and filth, stood in the shadows, hunched like a beggar, his hands curling around the wooden staff he used to mask his strength.

He listened.

His heart thundered.

His blood boiled.

And when he heard their plan—their wretched, vile, unforgivable plan—

He nearly lost himself to rage.

Antinous, the boldest and cruelest of the suitors, stood at the center of the gathered men, his voice rising over the murmurs.

“Enough.”

The room fell silent.

“Screw this competition,” he sneered, throwing his goblet onto the floor, his arrogance dripping from every word. “We’ve been here for hours. None of us can string this cursed bow—because we were never meant to.”

The men grumbled, shifting uneasily.

“Can’t you see?” Antinous continued, his voice laced with fury, his lip curled in disgust. “We are being played.”*

He turned, pacing before them like a lion preparing to strike.

“The queen weaves her shroud, unweaving it at night.The boy plots in shadows, whispering of his father’s might.And we— we sit here like fools, waiting for a king who is never coming home."

Odysseus’s grip tightened on the wooden staff, his knuckles white.

The suitors nodded, murmuring, some pounding their fists against the table.

“So, what do we do?” one of them asked.

Antinous smirked. “We take what is ours.”*

The room stilled.

“Telemachus returns tomorrow,” Antinous said sharply, his eyes glinting with malice. “Alone. No army. No father to save him.”*

A pause.

Then, with a voice as cold as the steel of a dagger, he declared:

“We kill him.”*

A shiver ran through the men.

Even among cowards, killing the prince was a bold move.

“We wait at the docks,” Antinous continued, stepping closer, weaving poison into his words. “The moment he steps onto the sand—we strike.”

His lips twisted into a cruel grin.

“We hold him down, until the boy stops shaking.We hold him down, while we break his bones.Cut the boy into tiny piece's until the Sea is the only one who knows and the gods forget his name.”

The suitors stirred, some grinning, others nodding in agreement.

Odysseus’s heart pounded in his chest, his body thrumming with barely restrained fury.

But Antinous wasn’t finished.No—he had worse to say.

The Unspeakable Sin

“And when the boy is dead…” Antinous mused, pacing once more, his eyes dark with hunger, greed, cruelty.

“The queen will have no one to stop us.”*

Odysseus stilled.His breath caught.His blood ran cold.

“We break down her door,” Antinous sneered. “We take her, claim her, strip her of her pride. If she does not bow, we make her bow. If she resists, we...well she will find out."

Odysseus moved.

There was no thought, no hesitation, no mercy.

The suitors barely had time to react.The twang of a bowstring snapped through the hall.The whistle of an arrow cut the air.And then—Antinous stopped speaking.

A single choked gasp escaped his lips.

He staggered, his hands clutching at his throat, where the arrow had pierced clean through.Blood gushed, staining his tunic, spilling onto the floor.

The goblet he had dropped lay beside him, shattered—just as he would be.For a heartbeat, the suitors froze, their eyes wide, their faces pale.

And then—they turned.

Turned to see where the arrow had come from.

Turned to see the beggar standing at the edge of the hall.But he was no beggar now.

He stood tall, his back straight, his grip steady on the great bow of Ithaca.

His disguise—torn away.His eyes burned with divine fury.

And in a voice that thundered through the hall, Odysseus spoke.

“You dare speak of defiling my wife?”

The suitors took a step back.

“You dare plot the murder of my son?”

Another step.

“You feasted on my food, drank my wine, defiled my home—and now, you will pay for it in blood.”

And Odysseus showed no mercy.For twenty years, they had taken.

For twenty years, they had tormented his wife, his son, his home.

Tonight—he would take everything from them.

And when it was over, when the last of them had fallen—Odysseus would finally return to the arms of the woman he had bled the world for.

His Y/n.

His queen.

His home.

When the men were slaughtered, bodies littering the floor nothing mattered but you.

You should have turned him away, looked at him with disgust but instead you took him in your arms, her fingers gliding across his cheek not caring that he was covered in blood. "My love you have returned to me."

Odysseus pulled you into a tight embrace, burying his face in your hair, the softness of your body pressing into his. His strong arms encircled your frame as if afraid you might disappear like a mirage. "My little dove," he murmured, his deep voice thick with emotion. "After twenty long years, I've finally found my way back to you."

He cupped your face gently, thumbs brushing away the tears clinging to your lashes. His piercing gaze drank in every beloved feature - those luminous eyes, the delicate curve of your cheeks, the glossy pink of your parted lips. "You're even more beautiful than I remembered, if such a thing were possible," Odysseus said fervently. "Tell me, my heart, have you waited for me all this time?"

You choked back a sob as tears continued to fall as your fingers clutched his tunic. "Yes." You whispered as your fingers tightened its hold. "And I need for you to take me, My King. It has been far too long."

You needed him, desperately, hopelessly. You did not care he was coveted it blood. Nothing mattered because he was home.

Odysseus' breath caught at your impassioned plea. In one swift motion, he swept you up into his strong arms, cradling you against his broad chest. "As my Queen commands," he rumbled, his voice low and husky with desire.

He carried you swiftly to the bed, kicking the door shut behind them. Gently, reverently, he laid you upon the sheets, his hands roaming over your curves as if memorizing every dip and swell. "Let me worship you as you deserve, my goddess," Odysseus breathed, pressing hot kisses along the column of your throat.

His calloused fingers made quick work of the fastenings of your gown, parting the fabric to reveal the soft skin beneath.

Your lips parted feeling his hands push the fabric of your dress away, the blood from his palm cupping your breast. Thumb rubbing your nipple as the man bent down to kiss your stomach.

Odysseus paused, drinking in the sight of his wife splayed out before him like an offering. The moonlight filtering through the windows bathed your skin in an ethereal glow, making you look almost otherworldly. "Y/n," he groaned, his large hands then skimming reverently over your sides and hips. "My love, my life, my everything."

He then captured your lips in a searing kiss, pouring twenty years of pent-up longing and devotion into the press of his mouth against yours. One hand tangled in your tresses while the other mapped the curves he'd dreamed of for so long. Odysseus trailed his lips down the column of your throat, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. "I want to taste every inch of you," he growled against your flesh. "

You let out whimper, a gasp as you pressed yourself into him. It's been to long, you craved his touch to much as you let out a shaky laugh your fingers ranking through his hair tugging at the strands.

"Nothing is stopping you from doing so my King."

A wicked grin spread across Odysseus' face at your breathy invitation. "As my queen wishes," he purred, his voice a low, seductive rumble. He began his sensual assault, trailing open-mouthed kisses and teasing licks down the elegant line of your throat. His hands roamed your body with bold possessiveness, caressing every dip and curve he'd yearned for during his long absence. The blood of the suitors coating your body.

Reaching the swell of your breasts, Odysseus lavished attention on the sensitive mounds, suckling and laving each peak until they pebbled under his ministrations. He took his time exploring you, determined to rekindle the passion between you both to make up for lost time. "You taste even sweeter than I remember, my love," he murmured against your skin, his beard scratching deliciously.

"I have waited so long for this moment and you are finally mine." You whispered as you placed a hand on his cheek until you shifted your body, your tongue trailing across his neck licking the blood away.

Your night gown rising as your legs parted for him, your heart pounding in your ears. You wanted to feel his tongue on you again.

Odysseus shuddered as your tongue traced his neck, your intimate gesture igniting a fire in his veins. He could feel the heat of your core as your thighs parted invitingly beneath him. With a low groan, he settled between your legs, his broad shoulders nudging them further apart.

"Patience, my eager little dove," he chuckled darkly, his breath ghosting over your most sensitive area. "I intend to savor every moment of our reunion."

Slowly, torturously, Odysseus dragged his tongue along your slit, relishing your unique flavor. He lapped at your folds with long, deliberate strokes, circling your aching pearl with the tip of his tongue. Two thick fingers slid inside your slick channel, pumping steadily as he suckled your clit.

"Mmmm, still so tight for me,"

"Odysseus!" You whined, your fingers grabbing a fistful of his curls, another whine escaped your lips as your hips bucking. Your body shuddering with pleasure, your could the blood of the men he killed coating your body but you didn't care.

Not when you had your husband back.

Odysseus growled in approval as your fingers tightened in his hair, your desperate movements spurring him on. He redoubled his efforts, alternating between deep, curling thrusts of his fingers and firm suction on your throbbing bud. The obscene wet sounds of his ministrations filled the room, mingling with your increasingly high-pitched moans.

"That's it, my love," he praised huskily, his voice muffled against your sex. "Let me hear how good I make you feel. You've been so brave, waiting for me all these years. Now let go and take your pleasure."

He added a third finger, stretching you deliciously as he crooked them just right to rub that special spot inside you.

Your body was writhing on the bed and soon you were seeing stars as your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave.

Odysseus felt your walls clamp down around his fingers as your climax crashed over you. He worked you through it relentlessly, prolonging your pleasure until you were boneless and panting beneath him. As the last aftershocks subsided, he slowly withdrew his digits, bringing them to his mouth to lick them clean with a satisfied hum.

"You taste divine, my queen," he rumbled, crawling up your body to capture your lips in a searing kiss, letting you sample yourself on his tongue. Odysseus settled between her thighs, the thick head of his arousal nudging insistently at your entrance.

"Are you ready for me, My Queen?" he asked, his voice strained with barely restrained desire. "I need to feel you surrounding me, to know that this is real and not just another fever dream."

Chest heaving, you nodded your head as you did your best to return the bruising kiss your husband with your body still trembling.

"Yes my love...and I need you to fill me." You whispered. "Let me give you another child."

Odysseus' heart swelled with love and desire at your impassioned words. With a powerful thrust of his hips, he sheathed himself fully inside your welcoming heat. "Ahhh, Y/n!" he groaned, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder as he savored the exquisite feeling of being one with his wife once more.

Slowly, he began to move, setting a deep, sensual rhythm as he rocked into you. Each thrust was a declaration of his love, a promise of a future together. Odysseus peppered your face and neck with tender kisses, murmuring sweet nothings against your skin. "My heart, my soul, my everything," he panted, his pace gradually increasing. "I'm going to fill you up so thoroughly, plant my seed deep within you and watch your belly swell with our child."

Your body shuddered, leg resting against his hip as you did your best to match the man's thrusts.

"Odysseus!"

Your walls clenched around him, the blood that clung to your husband's skin making your bodies slick.

Odysseus felt your inner muscles flutter and clench around his cock, drawing him deeper with each powerful thrust. The slick glide of your sweat-slicked bodies, combined with the coppery tang of his dried blood, created an intoxicating friction. "Yes, my love! Take me, all of me!" he growled, his hips snapping forward relentlessly.

One large hand gripped your hip, holding you steady as he pounded into you, chasing the shared release. The other tangled in your hair, tugging lightly as he claimed your mouth in a bruising kiss. Odysseus could feel the telltale tightening in his loins, signaling his impending climax. "I'm close, my love," he panted against your lips. "Come with me, my queen."

Your buddy shuddered at his words, nails digging into his back as your fingers clutched and tugged at his hair. "Odysseuss...I." Your breath hitched and soon you were seeing stars, as you hit your climax."

Odysseus felt your velvety walls clamping down around him like a vice as your second climax overtook you. The rhythmic squeezing of your sheath proved too much, and with a guttural roar of completion, he buried himself to the hilt inside your welcoming heat. His cock pulsed and twitched as he emptied himself deep within your fertile womb, painting your insides with his potent seed.

"Y/n!" he cried out, your name a prayer on his lips as waves of ecstasy crashed over him. Odysseus collapsed atop of you, careful not to crush your smaller form beneath his larger frame. He peppered your face with tender kisses as they both struggled to catch your breath, basking in the afterglow of your passionate reunion.

"My love, my life,"

You let out a weak laugh, you could only imagine what you both might have looked like but you could careless because Odysseus was home.

"My King, My heart. You are home."

[dragongirlpoet]

Dark Signs 3

Summary: As Alucard grapples with his grief over what he has done, secrets are unveiled and graver foes awaken. Is it too late to save you? (Plot takes off months before *that ending* in part 2. Some parts are off-canon.)

This chapter is written in Alucard’s POV.

Themes: Dark fantasy, horror, romance, angst I Words: 4k

Warnings: MDNI. Horror, blood, gore, violence, religious themes, mentions of suicide, grief, depression, anxiety, slight smut

Pt 1 I Pt 2

_____________________________________________________

To the lovely folks who are holding out for part 3, thank you! 💛 Sorry I couldn’t put this out sooner.

@s-i-l-v-e @kawaiiskeletoneggsnerd @celly-fahrenheit @skychaser777

I tasted blood, cherry and salt. 

And I wanted more, more, more.

We were tangled in each other, our bodies suspended in the cosmic cerulean of the deep ocean. 

She was my salvation. Her kiss was my atonement. And her blood, oh her blood…it was a gift so heavenly. All my immortal life had desired only that very thing, and now that I had it, I couldn’t let go. 

Every shred of my primordial essence — powerful yet cursed, now entombed in the marrows of her soul. My blood now flowed in hers, as her blood, mine. We were fused as one, we were divine. 

My darling’s fingers traced the sharps of my jaw as she kissed me, our married blood spilling from her mouth, diluting the water. They formed red rivulets around us, as if in symbolic reverence that we were the almighty givers of ichor. 

We were safe, entwined together in eternal damnation.

I love her. I love her so deeply that I’d doomed her with my blood curse, so I could have her by my side till the sun swallowed us whole. And for that, I’d forever fester in my blasphemous sin.

“Adrian…” she seemed to say, but the snare of the ocean strangled her words, slowed our every caress… as if time at all wanted to still for our undying love.

Oh what I would give to hear her voice — seraphic, like a birdsong, my name chaste upon her lips. 

Her ivory chemise clung to her body like sculpted granite, her nipples just peeking through. They were for my eyes only. Yes…her being, her blood, her body…they all belonged to me.

But in that sacred moment, something felt…amiss. There were those jade-green veins, palpable under her eyes… they ran like fine cracks on marble, so like those on a delicately-carved statue.

Raven hair hovered around her tiny frame, resembling venomous serpents held buoyant by witchcraft. They were so in contrast to my gold, like the exact moment dusk bled into dawn.

There was the red rivulet again, this time saturating the white ribbons of her nightdress. They coiled around my arms, binding me to her. Not that I’d ever let go. 

But I had to, for her lingering touch was frost impaling even my vampiric skin. Why was she so cold?

“Adrian…” again she seemed to call out.

Her eyes, despite being underwater, were wide open, the blacks of them bereft of the soul I once knew. She was pale. So pale. And she looked every bit the angel of death. 

My angel…when did she slip from my arms? 

Our fingers entwined one last time, before a sombre gloom dragged her under. Slowly she sank, like a fallen star ousted by the heavens, syphoned of its light. 

But I’m right here, darling. Stay. 

I willed all of my immortal power to reach for her outstretched hands, but my body was deadened, as if held prisoner by spirit shackles. Further and further she sank from me, and I so terribly wanted to tell her that wasn’t where she was supposed to go.

Words evaded me, as my tears had.

The hollow abyss seemed to rise up — impatient, almost — to receive its new sacrifice. 

Blood gushed from her mouth — they were viscid, as if so thickened they had to be forced out or she would choke. The blood kept coming. They streamed out of the sockets of her eyes, running like bloody tears of the living dead. 

They say that monsters like us lack the ability to fear, yet I’d never felt more afraid than I did then. The love of my life, drowning, dying, yet I could do wholly nothing. Alucard, son of Dracula — weak, worthless…

A fissure cracked her chest open, the cavity creeping wide to reveal her beating heart. Her human heart. 

The blood kept coming. 

“Come back to me…” I begged, the futility of it sickening me.

Still, she descended. I watched in horror as the godless ocean buried her in its oblivion, until all I was made to see was the compunction of my sins. 

On her neck that I used to so lavish with kisses, lay the wounds only a wretch like me could inflict. 

I did it. I killed her. 

“Adrian…”

____________

I jolted awake. 

A numbing despair perforated my insides, a feeling I knew all too well. I stared out the window through heavy eyelids, the red moon magnified by sweat teardrops trickling through my eyelashes. 

For a long moment I just sat there, my lungs crushed by torment, my heart shattered by grief. I’d lost count of the nightmares that had plagued me over the decade…no, it’s been 96 years, Adrian. A century. A century she’s been gone.

What was I living for? 

Memories I longed to forget writhed their way into my mind, forcing me to once again relive the hell that fateful night. 

I had sat in the castle hall for days, her lifeless body cradled in my arms. My eyes burned from tears, and I wanted to die. I fed her so much of my blood, my immortal blood, still she slept. I summoned spirits, conjured the most powerful of magicks, still, she slept. My hope hanging by a thread, I fused my father’s sciences with my mother’s elixirs…still, she slept. 

I was about to drive my own sword into my heart — the only one ensorcelled enough to kill a dhampir, when a familiar voice stopped my contemptible deed. 

“Alucard! This place reeks of death, and here I thought we’d gotten rid of your father long ago.”

“Stop it, Belmont!”

“What? He may be pristine but his home sure isn’t. Alucard! Honey, we’re home!”

“Will you stop yelling?”

“Alucard’s probably busy shoving it in her, ha. I need to make sure he can hear me above their grunts and moans. Have you forgotten how loud you get, Sypha?”

“You’re disgusting, Belmont.”

“Alucard! Ah, there you are. In the hall, really? You two really are something. Do you have food? I’m starving. I…”

“Belmont.”

“Fine, fine. Beer is good as w…”

“Belmont!”

It took Belmont a long minute before he alas perceived what Sypha meant. My two dearest friends — immobile in silent trepidation, distress distinct on their faces.   

“What happened, Alucard? Was she attacked?” Sypha was the first to speak. As always, her presence seemed to bring solace, but it dissipated promptly.

“I killed her, Sy…Sypha. She asked mmme… to…tto turn her, and I…I drank too much…I killed her.” 

Mere speaking incinerated my throat, and it was then I’d realised I hadn’t stopped crying. I could scarce breathe through my wheezing, let alone enunciate words.

“I…I tried ever…rything, help me please…ppplease…save her please…”

Belmont, in a rare display of empathy, knelt beside us and took my hand in his. “We will find a way to save her, and we will not stop until we do. I promise.”

At his oath, I collapsed into Belmont’s arms. Anguish, shame, relief…they all coursed through my body — my face buried in his shoulders, weeping. Every emotion that I’d held in, all unfettered at the fact that I had someone, that I wasn’t alone to fight my battles. 

“Fault yourself not, Alucard. She never would’ve blamed you.” Sypha’s voice was soft, soothing, enveloping us in a reassuring embrace. I fell apart completely. 

A loud pounding at the doors disturbed our bittersweet reunion, arousing our every alarm. There seemed to be a clamour of sorts — yelling, mocking…definitely humans. Belmont took to receive the unusual affair, leaving a gap just wide enough to acknowledge a throng of men — bishops, priests and followers of the church. 

“I don’t remember ever calling for your conceited services, Father.” Belmont sneered. 

“It’s Father Caine to you, and I could hardly expect couth coming from especially you. Excommunicated and still, never learning the error of your ways…

I sense a great evil here…more so than I daresay…Dracula himself. Forgive our ruckus, for we, the good men, merely wish to rid the town of all that is malign…Hand the girl over, and all shall be well.” 

Sypha and I exchanged uneasy looks. What was he talking about? 

Belmont, entirely irked by the bishop’s pretentious drivel, was barely holding it in. “Take your horseshit hubris and shove it up your a…”

“Oh, but don’t you want to know why we want the girl? Not the speaker-magician…the dhampir’s lover.” 

What?

The dastardly bishop, words of scorn and malice, continued, “She now has the blood curse of the dhampir, and something in that transformation awoke creatures of the night…dark, hateful creatures…ones that possess an ancient evil…It is easy. We exorcise and burn her body, and as I’ve said…all shall be well.”

Blood searing in my veins, I raced past Belmont, the parasite parish’s body dangling midair in my chokehold. Eyes bloodshot and fangs hungry, I crushed his throat harder. He let out pathetic struggles of breath, rosary still firmly clasped in his hand. 

“Where is your God now, Father? If we are the impurity you so seek to vanquish, then what of the innocents you slaughtered unrepentently, all because they did not fit your cause?” 

I thought of my mother, the Belmonts, the heathens who simply held their own beliefs…and most of all, I thought of my sweet angel, so kind and full of love…

“What the…” Belmont cursed when we were doused with buckets of Holy Water. The “Men of God” started chanting prayers, as if their contrived communion would somehow free their pious leader. 

I let out a laugh. 

“The absolute gall you have, Father. Despite my mourning, I shall grant you this last mercy. Command your men to leave and never again return, and I shall kill only you. Fail to do so, and I’ll rip the tendons from all your wicked hearts. After all, I am a monster, am I not?”

A few men flinched at my words, casting hesitant glances to the others, while some implored Father Caine to choose wisely. Such cowards.

The bishop shifted a little in my grip, a faint smirk splayed across his face. “M…ark my words, vampire. Dark times ar…are ahead…The girl must di…” 

I tore his heart right out of his ribs.

He was right. I was a vampire. I was omni-sentient. I was a monster and a God all at the same time. The farcical impudence he had to order the execution of my beloved…Anyone who touches her will die.

With his blood on my hands, I felt my hunger creep in once again, ripping off the human mask I wore like a virtue. I needed to feed.

It wasn’t until Belmont started swinging his Morningstar than I realised the tumult that had ensued. “And God shits in my dinner once again…Alucard! Left!”

Veins palpitating from the heart I’d just consumed, I saw that the rest of the church, quite possibly under the predetermined order of the bishop, lit a pyre that massacred the foliage we used to read under, devoured the quince fruit trees we so loved to frolic around.

They will all die. 

“Get back!” Sypha cried, mutating the fire into swirls that wavered to her bidding. She channelled them towards the men, trapping them in rings of flame. Out of nowhere, fire arrows flew in our direction, narrowly missing Sypha’s face. That was enough to send Belmont into a scalding rage. 

His Morningstar cleaved through half of the men, dismembering some, dissecting others. My estoc weaved through throats and hearts, beheading some, mutilating others. The tragic irony of it all — the very men whose sole mission was to protect mankind, to do good, on an aimless rampage to kill because of a misguided prophecy.

And so the fighting went on for months, years... Night creatures, more members of the parish, vampires seeking a new world order…valiant efforts, alas they were no more than vermins effortlessly exterminated by us three. 

We weren’t certain why they had kept showing up. Whether it was a curse set off by my turning her, or the fact that they simply wanted us dead…it mattered not, nor did I make it my business to find out. I was going to kill them all. 

Sypha and Belmont had kept to their promise. Come hell or high water, they stuck with me, even moving into the castle with their son. We battled foes, and never once did they abandon their cause to revive the love of my life.

“Alucard, you need to seal her. Keep her somewhere safe, where no one but you can find,” Sypha had one day told me. I was no fool, I’d known they wouldn’t be around forever, and if I’d succumbed to my grief, all their efforts would’ve been in vain. 

“Promise me that when she wakes, you two will look after our kids, and grandkids, and great-grandkids, and…” Belmont trailed off, seemingly stumped by staple discourse.

“They’re called descendants, you idiot.” Sypha rolled her eyes. 

Managing a genuine smile I haven’t had in a long while, I replied, “I promise.”

“My lord.”

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to yet leave my reverie.

“My lord,” Centrio again addressed, this time with more urgency. There, bowing by the door, dressed in fine leather that I had gifted, stood the first human I’d turned after…her. I’d found him by the docks, and he was all but an emanciated vagrant on the brink of death. Perhaps it was the matyr in me, but I thought it more I had wanted to experiment…if he indeed turned, perhaps there was a way…

“The council is ready for you.” 

Donning my guise of Imperious Vampire Overlord — terrifying, deadly, merciless — I made my way down to the great hall with my most loyal emissary. I clutched at the pendant around my neck — a vial forged with obsidian and laced with gold, encased with her blood. It was the only way I could feel her if she woke.  

An excruciating sorrow once again took shape, like an enemy planting tiny splinters in my heart, except those splinters were tainted with the most malevolent of poisons, inching slowly to ravage my vital core. 

“My lord,” 

The council all greeted in unison, heads bowed in utter veneration. Men, women, young, old…I had sired them all. To have a contingency if I ever needed one, to delegate my task of finding a cure, to have some goddamn chatter in the forsaken castle…

“We’ve received word that the denomination led by Gwyth is storming in from the highlands of Brasov. They are…angered by the vampires you’ve sired. She thinks just because…” 

“Just because what?” 

The gathering fell silent, as if fearful to draw my ire. Good…that’s how I intended it to be.

“Tell me, Finnor, does your gallantry waver in my presence? If so, perhaps it was my oversight in appointing you General?” 

“Forgive me, my lord. She thinks it’s a travesty that we, vampires a mere century old, are…” Finnor cleared his throat before continuing, “...exhausting all the human blood supply here in Braila. Some of our own have gone over to bordering cities, and they’re most displeased. She thinks that just because you’re… Dracula’s son, doesn’t give you the right…”

“Dracula’s son?” I scoffed. 

“Did I not sire you all? If Dracula is my father, then does his blood not also run in your veins? 

“Yes!” My council concurred in earnest. 

Does that not make you powerful?”

“Yes!”

“Good! Then let them come. We will defend what is rightfully ours, will we not?”

“Yes!” 

At that, they broke into a resounding cheer, half howling, the rest pounding staffs, swords and what have you on the marble floor. Contrary to the revelry below, I, worshipped like a God on my throne, felt wholly insentient. I cared not for war, nor truimphs, nor reign. If I’d created bloodthirsty monsters, it was merely a means to an end. 

I wanted only one thing. 

Was this how my father felt when my mother died?

“Kindly see to it, Centrio. I wish not to be bothered.”

“At your service, my lord.”

There she was — immaculate in white, clutching the garland of daffodils I’d made her, so detached from the pain I’d caused…I had all but little choice when I’d sealed her in the underground castle chambers. I had cast a spell so powerful, that save for the both of us, no one could enter, or find, our fortress in Wallachia.

Living in the castle without my friends, without her, seeing her lifeless body…it went on for months, years…I couldn’t bear it. Her lying there, bereft of a heartbeat, of a breath, broke me in ways I never knew existed. 

And so I resolved to start over in Braila, it was the only way to keep her safe, it was the only way I could honour my vow to save her.

Cape dragging behind my lifeless steps, I trudged back to my study, thoughts once again lost in her. Innumerable letters I’d written, infinite words I wanted to say — all frozen and wayward like misplaced luminaries in an interstellar void. 

What have I done, darling? I’ve created…abominations... so many innocent lives lost because of me…Will you still love me when you see what I’ve become?

“Adrian…”

I spun round, completely entranced by her voice. 

In the doorway, against the crimson glow of the stained-glass window, wearing the white chemise just as she always had, awaited my beloved. It suddenly became daunting to breathe, my mind apprehensive to behold the sight.

“Darling? Is it really you?” I uttered, my words close to a tremble.

She said nothing, but merely moved to me with such litheness I was taken aback. Her steps were languid, like a lone willow swaying in a bleak winter tempest. 

“H…how did you find me? You don’t look well, do you need to feed? Here,” I offered my bloodslit wrists to her. She pressed her lips to them at once, as though thoroughly acquainted with my gesture. 

“I missed you so much, I…”

“Shhh…” she hushed, sinking to her knees. 

Her hands made quick work of my trousers, and too soon had my entire length in her mouth. My cock twitched as her tongue lapped over the ridges of my growing erection, licking hurried circles around my tip.

“Fuck…baby…I missed you so fucking much…” I panted, pushing her face deeper between my thighs. “Ahhh…that feels so good…” and threw my head back, shutting my eyes, relishing in the absolute ecstasy of her eagerness. 

Pumping my sex in rapid fervour, she took it further down her throat, sucking, constricting…the weight of my every burden reduced to an indistinct drone.

“Slow down, darling,” 

“Yes, my lord…”

My eyes flew open. My lord?

From where I was, I alas saw it. The sable of her tresses ran an incomparable lustre to my darling’s raven. I flung the devil thrall into the windows at once, shattering the glass, red fragments giving way to golden gleams of the inconspicuous sun. 

“How very dare you,” my voice dropping to a haunting hiss as I stalked towards her. “The audacity you possess to employ such pitious artifice…who sent you?” 

The thrall quivered at my unrestrained wrath, straining to speak against the bleeding shards skewered in her throat.

“Y…you…did…m…my l..ord…” 

I froze, the lunacy of my suffering clear as day. I must already be dead. 

Refusing to bear the yoke of that truth, I instead directed all my shame and hurt at the dying vampire whom I’d sired. 

“Why do you get to live, but she doesn’t? Why do all of you get to persist in endlessness, possess my blood gift, but she is doomed to sleep for all eternity? Why!”

All that remained was the anguished aftershock of my tirade, and the spurting of blood that had slivered their way to the soles of my boots. 

“F…forrr…give me, mmy…lord…”

“I want you to listen closely. She transcends your every breath. You will never be her.” 

I compelled my estoc to sever her head. 

____________

I liked it out here. At times the ocean waves would susurrate, tonight it was a thunder against the cliffs. It offered a quiet respite from my heartbreak, the inane vampire politics, and the endless blood war of the undead.

My hair whipped in the frigid windstorm, yet I felt nothing. I was a lighthouse abandoned — hollow, crepuscular — fleeting through the years devoid of purpose. There were nights where I would see her in the middle of the violent sea — so alone, so tormented — does she know? I would cross oceans of time to find her.

Something snapped. 

I remained still as death, my gaze shifting calculatedly to the untimely intruder foolish enough to trespass into my castle grounds. Their steps, though fairly distant and furtive, stood little chance against my heightened hearing. 

The clanging of chains reached my ears long before my sword ensnared the metal. Holding it mere inches from my face, I studied the peculiar weapon — intricate weaving of iron, spikes flared at the tip…and that leather whip. 

“Simon Belmont. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Save that garb for someone who gives a shit, vampire.”

I smirked at his salutation, perhaps a little more than necessary. “I see the Belmonts have a tradition.”

Unlike his forefathers, Simon had fallen out of favour with the Belmonts, insisting that vampires, regardless of their intent and relationship, are considered foe and should, at all costs, be exterminated with their bodies wrung out to dry. 

“The odious horde you have sired are arrogant beyond their means. Do you not care for the turmoil they have caused? The innocent lives they have claimed?” 

I no longer have the capacity to, I wanted to tell him. 

“I come here not to befriend, or beg, or ask. Halt the atrocities of your vampires, or I shall finish what my grandfather so failed to do — kill you.”

“Are you threatening me, Belmont?”

Taking advantage of my affront, he wielded the Combat Cross — one I’d noticed too late — for it struck the pendant around my collar, barely missing my chest. I watched as the vial containing her blood fracture into pieces, her lifesource splattered and devoured by the earth below. 

Seething, I lunged for Simon, teleporting behind him while coiling the Morningstar around his neck. He threshed around his imminent asphyxiation, blindly stabbing his dagger, attempting to find purchase on any of my organs. 

The tip of his Morningstar however, managed to etch itself onto my arm, igniting an unsteady glow. It would not combust in me, for I was neither human nor demon. Still, a searing pain barelled through the recesses of my body.

I released Simon as he collapsed onto the ground, his chest heaving from the lack of air. Hovering my sword above his heart, I recalled the promise I had made to Belmont. 

“This is a fight for another day, Belmont. Take your weapons and leave, for I have little forbearance for charity such as now.”

Flinging a shard of the Transmission Mirror next to Simon, he was pulled into its magic before he could contend. As the mirror engulfed him in its sorcery, he glared at me with such loathing I thought it incredulous I had loved his grandparents dearly.

But it was his last words ahead of being teleported that unnerved me, roused me back to the verity of that very moment — “I know what you’re searching for, Alucard.”

I stared at the spot where Simon was, now an insignificant mass of rocks, amongst them lay fragments of my obsidian vial.

An uncanny cold snaked about my heart. Clutching at it, the hammering intensified to a booming knell, in the same manner as nights where the parish would pound at my castle doors with boulders, clamouring to burn her. My breathing soon withered to a wheeze, then a gasp, and I fell to my knees.

Without the pendant, I could feel her no longer. 

What if she woke? The indefinite dangers she would face outside the castle walls…Simon…what if he knew a way to find her…to kill her…

I was sickened with fear. Haste was of the essence, but the Transmission Mirror teleported at random — there was no telling where I would end up. Trembling, I raced to ready my stallion. 

I was going back to Castlevania. 

Pt 1 I Pt 2

[allgirlsareprincesses]

Choosing the Beast: Modern Folklore Heroines Embrace the Animal Husband

“I choose the bear.” The refrain rang out across the web, with many a woman nodding in agreement or at least understanding, and certain men huffing with indignant outrage. Just a meme, really, but did it speak to a deeper truth? Is it merely age-old mistrust of patriarchy talking, or a true desire for the beastly, the wild, the untame?

I’m no sociologist, of course, but I have noticed an emerging trend in fem-gaze media that seems to reflect this view. In movies like I Am Dragon (2015) and recent shows like My Lady Jane and The Acolyte, the heroine chooses the beast, loving her animal husband in his wild form rather than requiring him to transform back into a mundane man to earn her affection. This is such a departure from the typical folktale pattern that it’s difficult to even find an historic example where this occurs.

Commonly thought to reveal the desire to tame a dangerous mate in a patriarchal society, most animal husband tales (ATU 425a) feature a hero who ultimately transforms permanently into a human. This is viewed not only as freeing him from the maddening effect of his wild form, but also saving his bride from committing the sin of bestiality. In these tales, the animal mate’s transformation is necessary for the salvation of both.

Is the modern heroine then damned by choosing her husband’s beastly form? Or does she actually free them both from the yoke of patriarchal expectations?

Bathing: Discovering the Wild Masculine

The first motif that stands out in these modern screen examples is bathing. In animal spouse tales, there is often a dynamic of the hunter and the hunted, and thus a moment when the hunter comes upon their would-be lover unawares. Perhaps they find the animal spouse sleeping, or they cast a light on them unexpectedly, see them without their animal skin or disguise, and so on. And of course, they often come upon the lover at their bath.

There is an implied eroticism in this discovery, finding one’s quarry not only undressed, but also in the most private of activities. Water of course symbolizes fertility, but bathing is also purifying, symbolically washing away all that might make a mate undesirable. And this, perhaps, is the reason that historically this motif is used almost exclusively for animal brides, not animal husbands.

For the animal husband, he either actively chooses to reveal himself to the bride (perhaps on their wedding night), or she violently strips away his disguise, often armed with “flame and steel” like Psyche and her many avatars. Animal brides on the other hand are nearly always discovered at a body of water, bathing. The hunter will then capture her either by stealing her animal skin or cloak, or by placing his own clothing on her. What does it mean, then, when it is the husband who is discovered bathing in a body of water, held as an erotic object in the feminine gaze?

In The Acolyte, Osha follows Qimir to a pool where he slowly undresses, in full knowledge that she is watching. On the shore, she steals his lightsaber, just like the hunter who steals the animal skin, symbolically claiming him. When he emerges, Qimir dons new clothes, as if acknowledging that he is a different person than before he entered the water, almost purified in a way. Osha is forced to confront that there is more to the murderer in the mask than she realized.

Similarly, in My Lady Jane, our heroine goes looking for Guildford just before sunrise on their ill-fated wedding night, only to discover him bathing in the stables. The scene is gratuitously filmed from Jane’s (very horny) perspective, flipping the script on the countless scenes in screen history shot with the masculine gaze. Immediately after she discovers and confronts him, Guildford transforms against his will into a horse, and Jane realizes that he is an Ethian, a creature she has been taught is demonic and unnatural.

And in I Am Dragon, Mira makes several discoveries in quick succession: first, she deduces that Arman is actually the dragon. In the next moment, she slips from the island’s peak and falls, saved only when Arman transforms at the last moment and breaks her fall with his dragon form. The water begins to wash over his unconscious body, and at first Mira thinks that she will allow him to drown. But the sight of Arman in his human form after he rescued her, worried over by his animal familiar, stirs her to pity and she wraps him in a sail and drags him to safety. In this way, she clothes him, claiming him as her own.

Each of these heroines discovered a new aspect of her husband at the bath, finding him unexpectedly alluring, and ultimately choosing to begrudgingly claim him. Each animal husband tried to wash away his beastly form, to separate himself from the wild masculine. These men feel a sense of disassociation from a part of themselves, but now that their brides have discovered it, there will be no more hiding. Further, the bride now holds the power in the relationship, evidenced by how her husband needs her: Qimir needs Osha to be his apprentice, Guildford needs Jane to help him “break the curse,” and Arman needs Mira to heal him from his wounds.

Playing House: The Half-Husband

The second feature of these stories is a period of domesticity for the couple. For a brief time after the husband’s beastly nature is revealed, the lovers “play house” like children. While sexual tension is present, they typically do not consummate their union during this time, but instead cook, eat, rest, and care for one another. What’s more, they ignore or even attempt to actively destroy the husband’s animal form. They deny that this is part of him and therefore part of their relationship.

In I Am Dragon, Mira heals Arman, and wakes the next morning to find he has left food for her (dragonfruit, appropriately). Together they begin building a home out of shipwreck debris they find scattered around the island. A cheery montage shows them decorating a living space, choosing clothes, playing music, and dancing. But the specter of Arman’s monstrous form lurks on the edge of their idyllic life. Mira has nightmares, and tells Arman how much she fears “the dragon,” notably not referring to them as the same person. And eventually, it emerges that Mira has been planning to escape, rejecting Arman’s dragon form entirely.

After he sheds the helmet and robes of The Stranger, Qimir turns his attention to caring for Osha: he heals her, lets her sleep in his bed, provides clothes, and cooks for her. In turn, after some lightsaber-wielding, Osha becomes more comfortable in his home and accepts the food he offers, eventually even trying on his helmet. Later, they bicker amiably on their way to Brendok, like an old married couple on a road trip. When not facing down Jedi, Qimir leaves his menacing persona behind and transforms into an empathetic, protective, and alluring partner.

Jane Grey, meanwhile, finds herself using her honeymoon sequestered away in a private cottage to try to cure Guildford of his Ethianism. With her knowledge of medicine, she concocts various potions and magical cures, but none of them succeed. Guildford often checks in on her after these disappointments, making sure she’s getting enough sleep and taking care of herself. It’s also clear that they’ve been regularly dining together when Jane suddenly dashes off to rescue her friend. Guildford follows her and the two protect one another, followed by an almost-tryst. Even when they move into the palace, their day-to-day (or rather night-to-night) life is one of comfortable domesticity, although they continue to deny Guildford’s horse form.

In each of these cases (although less so in The Acolyte without Season 2 to continue the story), playing house can only last for so long while the husband’s animal nature is denied. There is a part of him that is suppressed, rejected, and this leads to him being incomplete, a half-husband. Each hero is unable or unwilling to accept and celebrate his whole self with his bride. Eventually, it is that denial that leads to a rift between the couple, which can only be healed not with the transformation of the husband, but with the embrace of his animal form.

Enforcing Patriarchy: The Rival

Each of these relationships exists in direct opposition to the dominant culture in the story: Arman as the Dragon is the literal enemy of Mira’s people, Qimir as Sith is the enemy of Osha’s Jedi masters, and in My Lady Jane, intermarriage between humans and Ethians is punishable by death. By choosing to stay with their animal husbands, even for a brief time, our heroines are openly defying the patriarchal norms of their societies. But no oppressive society is about to take that transgression lying down. In each story, a rival emerges to enforce the patriarchal order, kill the beastly husband, and retrieve the bride.

In I Am Dragon, Mira’s betrothed and descendent of the dragon-slayer, Igor, journeys to rescue her from the dragon. Over the course of the story, it becomes clear that Igor cares nothing for Mira herself, and merely feels entitled to her as his bride. Dragon-slaying is his heritage, so he must find her, kill the dragon, and take his place as the hero of his people. Even the marriage ceremony illustrates his ownership of her: he takes hold of a rope tied to her boat and reels her in, thus binding her to the patriarchal order. Contrast that to Arman, who offers her the power of flight, a symbol for freedom.

In Osha’s case, Qimir’s rival for her loyalty is clearly Master Sol, who wants to keep his former pupil dependent on him and the Jedi. Sol takes patronizing fatherliness to an extreme, constantly rescuing Osha rather than letting her stand for herself, teaching her to deny her feelings and instincts, and lying to her to “protect” her. The Jedi refuse to allow that there might be any other way to access the Force than their own, thus invading the home of the Brendok witches and ultimately orphaning the twins. Sol continues to press this dominance to the end, challenging Qimir and insisting to Osha that his own lies were justified.

In My Lady Jane, there are two rivals, both women. Lady Frances attempts throughout the show to dominate her daughters and crush their wills, forcing them into unwanted marriages, applying political pressure, and even counseling Jane to abandon Guildford to save herself. The other rival is Mary Tudor, who is determined not only to emulate her father’s violent, oppressive, and misogynistic reign, but to crush anyone she considers “unnatural” or who poses a threat to her rule. These characters stand as clear examples of how women can enforce patriarchy, too.

In each story, there is a moment when the rival briefly recaptures or “rescues” the bride from her beastly husband, bringing her to a moment of decision: will she stay within the bounds of patriarchy like a good little girl? Or will she make an act of defiance to choose her own path?

Marriage: Choosing the Beast

The bride’s choice will ultimately decide not only her fate, but that of her mate as well. As an independent character, the wild masculine is deeply wounded, separated from himself and thus from his bride. He longs to transform not into a greater, more whole person, but into a lesser, half-person. Alone, without the embrace of his anima, he cannot see the value of his beastly form. Instead of healing, he faces annihilation.

As a part of the bride’s psyche, the beastly husband represents her innermost desires, the truth of her heart, and a spirit freed from the expectations of her society. He is her animus, her missing wild masculine. If she transforms him into a man, then she will tame his wild nature, bringing him to heel under the boot of the patriarchy. Choosing the human form and rejecting the beast means rejecting her own psychological needs. It would be just another form of psychic dismemberment.

Fortunately and unusually, each of these modern brides chooses her beastly husband without demanding he transform. When Osha finally agrees to become Qimir’s apprentice, she takes his hand under the willow tree, clasping the newly-bled lightsaber between them. A few scenes later, this wedding imagery is repeated when they hold hands over the saber again, this time looking into a sunrise/set. Notably, at the moment they “marry” under the willow tree, Qimir is wearing his beastly helmet with rows of menacing, wolfish teeth. He has not come to the light side or shed his Dark Side persona, but Osha has embraced him anyway without fear. And while they might not both be healed (yet), they are more whole together than they were apart.

When her efforts to cure Guildford of his Ethianism repeatedly fail, Jane begins to suspect that his “condition” cannot be cured at all. But listening to her Ethian friends Susanna and Archer finally convinces her that the truth is Guildford doesn’t NEED to be healed - being an Ethian is who he is, and it’s nothing to fear. Unfortunately, Guildford still associates his beastly form with his mother’s death, so he is unable to accept it as Jane encourages, and flees. After a near-death experience, he uses his equine speed to return to the castle just as Jane is deposed and captured. As our heroes battle toward the end, Guildford comes to learn that there are many other proud Ethians, and that his family loves and accepts him in any form.

Still, he’s unable to transform at will, and when Mary captures him and sentences both husband and wife to death, it seems their story may end in tragedy. But as Guildford has been struggling to accept himself, Jane too has been battling with her own conscience. Does she renounce Guildford to save herself? Use her wits to kill the guard and escape? Bend to her mother’s manipulation? Jane confronts each temptation, and ultimately chooses to face death rather than betray Guildford or herself. But when her Ethian friends (the wild instinct) appear to disrupt the execution, our heroine seizes the opportunity to rescue Guildford. Unable to free him from the burning pyre, she confesses her love for him, and they kiss amid the flames.

Fire is often a herald of transformation, burning away illusions to reveal the truth. And when Jane and Guildford exchange their vows in this symbolic marriage ceremony, Guildford’s fears and illusions are finally burned away. Now that his bride has accepted his beastly form, he can accept it too, and so he at last transforms at will into a horse so that they can escape. Their story ends with them married and whole before the sunrise.

Among our modern heroines, Mira is the boldest in her embrace of the beastly husband. Offered yet again as a bride to Igor, she realizes that this is not what she wants, and casts off the tether from her boat. She declares “I love the Dragon!” using the name of her husband’s animal form rather than his human name. Then, she sings the song that will call the dragon to her, and he appears to carry her away again.

But their story is not over yet! Earlier in the story, Arman told Mira of how he loses control when in dragon form, and that dragons are compelled to reproduce by burning maidens to death and retrieving their offspring from the ashes. Returning to the island with her a second time, the dragon drops her on the altar and prepares to spew fire, but Mira lunges up and kisses him. This act of love, even when he is a monster, stuns the beastly husband. Again, Mira declares her love and kneels before him, saying she does not wish to be parted. We might expect the animal husband to transform in this moment, but instead he lays his fearsome head in her lap as a lover. Their story ends with a child and a flight in the sky, silhouetted by the sun just like the other couples.

Each bride, when confronted with the option to return to the patriarchal limits of her childhood, chose instead an act of love and acceptance for her wild masculine. This embrace helped the beastly husband to accept his whole self, and he is healed without having to cut off the wild parts of himself.

What Does It Mean?

Again, this story is so rare in world folklore that it’s difficult to even find examples. On fleeting occasions that the woman chooses an untransformed beast, it is presented as a cautionary tale. These women are framed as a danger to the community for their bestial impulses and abandonment of the social order, much like witches who were said to consort with the devil. It was certainly never presented as a happy ending, insofar as we can tell from written accounts.

So what does the emergence of this tale mean for our culture? I would argue that this is just the latest step in our ongoing reckoning with historic gender roles, as well as renegotiating with other forms of systemic oppression. People of all genders are pressured to reject a part of ourselves, cutting us off from our own truth and desires that run counter to the enforced social order. We must not challenge patriarchy, must not embrace different gender expressions, must not blur established hierarchies of power, must not find joy and power in our identities, and so on.

This enforced denial does tremendous damage to everyone caught in the system, and so through story, we dream our way to escape. We dream of embracing the dark, wild parts of ourselves, of flying free on a spaceship or a dragon or enchanted horseback, and of being totally loved for who we are.

It’s clear patriarchy is still fighting back against this emancipation of the wild feminine and wild masculine, given that both The Acolyte and My Lady Jane were canceled not long after their release. In the case of The Acolyte in particular, there was a sustained campaign from its announcement to harass and silence the creators. Demoralizing as this phenomenon may be, it’s important to remember WHO ultimately owns these stories:

“Fanfiction is a way of the culture repairing the damage done in a system where contemporary myths are owned by corporations instead of owned by the folk.

-Henry Jenkins, NYT 1997

Ah, an oldie-but-goodie. But Dr. Jenkins is right. Corporations may greenlight, film, release, and then cancel these stories, but ultimately they belong to the people. We take from these tales what speaks to us, leave what does not, and then retell them ourselves in fanfiction, in art inspired by the stories, and in lessons we pass on to our friends and families. If the embrace of the wild masculine speaks to you, let the story take root in your own life. Do you know someone who needs to be embraced, just as they are? Do you need to accept the parts of yourself that society tells you to hate? Do you want to be free, healed, and whole?

If so, then let these stories show you how, and tell more like them. Embrace the beast, and find your joy.

Sources:

Beauty and the Beast Tales From Around the World by Heidi Anne Heiner

In Search of the Swan Maiden: A Narrative on Folklore and Gender by Barbara Fass Leavy

And a relevant song for you, as a treat:

Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype by Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D.

[mehmetabdullah]

I wonder what sin this child did? It did not exist before October 7th. Where he pays the price without sin. Does anyone answer this question? This child of mine came into this world several months after the war. He was born inside the tent in the place of displacement. Now when the rain comes, water floods the floor of the tent in which we live. We searched for a safe place to put the young children away from the water. We found nothing but a poultry barn nearby. Yes, it really is. poultry farm,

Look, my friends, at this picture. It's not a bed. It's a chicken cage. Oh my God, why all this? We will not forgive evil people who start wars, We will also never forget the gratitude of everyone who extends a hand to us and provides us with assistance in these harsh circumstances.🥲

😭😢He extends his hand and calls for your help Look at him 😓😥

Hello dear, help me with a donation or if you can't do that just a small request. Can you share the link with someone you know on social media or ask them to share it? My dear, you may not imagine how grateful I am. Thank you from here forever and from all my heart❤️ for reaching our goal Whatever your donation, even the price of the cup of coffee you drink, will contribute to saving a person’s life.

🇵🇸🇵🇸

#FreeGaza

#Free Palestine. #GoFundIt #SavePalestine

#help this family

#Canadian

[zeroducks-2]

What's up with batman and the erasing of queer history? Sry I try to interact with fanon as little as possible

There is no simple or short answer to this but to try and not make it a wall of text - Batman/Robin has always been a staple of the queer community, so much so that to this day there are "brudick" graffiti in big cities and lots of older gay couples have been using them as a reference for solid partnership which endures in spite of adversity.

Originally there was no indication anywhere that Bruce and Dick were in the roles of father and son, rather they were partners against crime, one the shadow of the other, and they would share everything both when it came to crime fighting and in their everyday lives. They're shown sleeping together, going on lake trips together, finishing each other's sentences and Dick being viciously jealous every time Bruce would "replace" him with any of the women he used to have flings with such as Talia or Selina.

Did DC mean for them to be read as a queer couple? No, of course not. Bob Kane and others wrote a partnership, an unbreakable bond which would allow these two men to overcome any obstacle together, and queer people read into it as queer people always do.

Someone else read into it though: Frederick Wertham, who called Batman a pederast and used Batman and Robin as an example of how the evil comics would corrupt young minds to send them on the way of perdition and sin. He wrote all of this and many more infuriating shit in his book Seduction of the Innocents, which was then the major influence in creating the Hayes Code, which is the reason why we never had queer characters in comicbooks and movies and anything really for decades (and we're still struggling today).

Wertham and the Hayes Code did not stop the queer community from loving Batman and Robin though, therefore what started happening was the more subtle shift towards Bruce and Dick having a father and son relationship rather than a partnership. You can see this clearly with Jason Todd for the first time: Bruce takes Jason in and treats him as his own son, the narrative calls them father and son, and there is no doubt in the mind of who's reading that Bruce perceives Jason as his child. It all went steadily downhill from there.

Nowadays, writers have Dick say character assassinating things like "I love you dad" to Bruce, Tim saying "we will save our dad" to Damian, and everyone in the fandom acting like this has always been the case and actually you're weird and you should be sent death threats for shipping Brudick, because "UMMM that is literally his son?!??!?!?". DC has been pushing the idea that these folks are a nuclear family for a while now, but whoever has actually read the comics knows it's not the case, and it used to be very different before.

Brudick, among queer people, used to be entirely uncontroversial. While Wertham raged about how it corrupted the minds of young men and the Hayes Code prevented queerness to be anything but vaguely hinted and coded in the text, queer folks didn't care and kept having matching Batman and Robin shirts.

Today queer people will call you a pedophile and a groomer and try to doxx you for posting Brudick art because apparently they're doing the fascists' job for them, either because they are genuinely misguided or because they think that if they're enough morally pure they will have a spot among the chosen ones, hell if I know. What I know is that they'd suck Wertham's cock and balls if he wrote Seduction of the Innocents today, and it's DC's fault too with their erasure of every found family dynamic among the batclan, and the way they've been pushing the idea of a "batfamily" instead, in which everyone has a strict role of son or brother or father, and shipping them makes you the antichrist.

[manikas-whims]

LADS men + Halloween Costumes

Now with Sylus solo banner upcoming, the possibility of getting a Halloween quad banner is nil. And i’m happy for it cuz this has saved me from making a really bad financial decision 😆

anyways here's some mulling over the LIs costume choices..

SYLUS

Option 1: Vampire

If we consider Sylus’s overall aesthetic, then Vampire is the most obvious choice for him. He can't go out in the daylight for some inexplicable reason; definitely a creature of the night. He has red eyes that glow in the dark. And even during Destiny Café interactions, he playfully sinks his teeth into your palm. No doubt he'd enjoy sinking them more into your neck 🤭

Also like imagine a 5 star Sylus Halloween card where MC begins suspecting Sylus to be a vampire. And the whole card revolves around her trying to collect evidence. Even Luke and Keiran begin to suspect Sylus thanks to MC and the 3 join forces. The card ends with Sylus playfully scolding all of them 😆 and laughing in disbelief, in that deep cadence that he has 😊

Option 2: Demon

Another obvious choice. If not a vampire, then the red eyes and dark aesthetic are also quite befitting for a Demon attire. A very charming demon who lures you into sinning by offering his black card 🤭 and ofcourse you willingly sell your soul to him.

Option 3: Bounty Hunter

You know those charming sorts of outlaws that everyone loves and roots for? Yeah, that would fit so well with Sylus. Especially the steampunk aesthetic. So yeah..a steampunk style, bounty hunter Sylus with an array of weapons strapped all over. He only works solo but will definitely make an exception for you 😌

Option 4: Crow

Unlike the other two, this option involves a big, poofy bird suit. A crow outfit to be specific. And he looks simply adorable in it 🥺 Imagine yourself trying not to laugh as you sneakily take millions of photos of him in this outfit 🤭 while he sneers at you but there's no actual anger behind his gaze.

XAVIER

Option 1: Werewolf

It may sound unusual upon first thought but this will play so well into his overall persona of the “wolf in sheep's clothing” or “wolf in bunny clothing”. He did nibble on your finger and sniffed your scent in the No Restraint card. And I'm damn sure he has a thing for biting and marking. So just imagine him putting on the wolf ears, claws and fangs, and he starts acting more sly than ever, saying he's only playing the part 😉

Option 2: Royalty

Another obvious choice. Xavier is pretty used to this cause he is royalty afterall. So assuming a position of power comes easy to him (remember Floral Blessing?). Maybe some sort of chivalrous and gallant prince because he can easily add his swordplay skills to it. Seeing him regard you as his queen will be a treat sweeter than all the candies 😌

Option 3: Lumiere

You think it's the most hilarious inside joke— Lumiere hiding in plain sight amidst the crowd of Linkon on one night where a large majority would be dressed as their legend. Their hero. Xavier absolutely hates it! And he hates the amount of people he spots in Lumiere costumes. But he'll put it on upon your insistence. Just be ready for the consequences later on cause this man is jealous of his own superhero alter-ego 😭

Option 4: Angel

Xavier with large white wings protruding from his back would be another fitting sight with his overall white/silver aesthetic. Imagine him as your guardian angel, always watching over you, protecting you and trying his best to guide you on the right path, despite his own desires for you.

Option 5: Bunny/Alien

If not the above choices, then some cute/sexy bunny costume (though we've already got our bunny butler). Or a really silly alien costume that somewhat resembles his sticker set. We know he'll look squisher than ever in those 🥺

ZAYNE

Option 1: Mad Scientist

Something similar to Dr. Faustus or Dr. Frankenstein (yeah Frankenstein was NOT the monster but the name of the guy who created the monster..in case some people still don't know 😭). Zayne’s personal goal– his obsession and drive– to keep MC alive is somewhat similar to Dr. Frankenstein’s obsession with unraveling the secrets of life and well..ultimately beating death by bringing someone to life. And Zayne's hunger for knowledge is also similar to that of Dr. Faustus’s who readily sells his soul to the devil in exchange for knowledge.

So yeah..Zayne as a mad scientist, obsessed with knowledge and the drive to keep you alive would be intense 💯/💯

Option 2: Tutor

He'll sigh, take off his glasses and pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance, like he always does. But you'll somehow convince him to do it because he's incapable of saying no to you.

It starts as a silly costume idea but the moment you see his legs clad in those unusually tight-fitting slacks and the pointer stick in his hand, you realize you might have a tutor kink and that you wouldn't mind misbehaving cause you'd actually enjoy getting punished by him 🫣

Option 3: Snowman/Penguin

The cute option! Definitely Dr. Carter, Yvonne and his other co-workers coaxed him to put it on for the little kids visiting Akso hospital throughout the week. When you stop by for a scheduled check-up and stumble upon him, you can't help but take loads of pictures of him with the kids 😊

RAFAYEL

Option 1: Merman/Siren

Just like Xavier as Lumiere, Rafayel as a merman on halloween would be such a spectacular inside joke.

At first he'd be offended because the fake tail you bought for him would feel like an insult to the real thing. He would pout and narrow his brows but after your constant cajoling and sweet-talking he'll agree to indulge you. And it's all fun and games until you realize why all those sailors in fiction are so terrified yet turned on at the mere sight of a merman/siren. He'll entice you so easily with his velvety voice 😵‍💫

Option 2: Assassin

Don't fall for his pretty face. Rafayel can be cunning, deceptive and deadly when he wants to be. (in the main story and also as Abysswalker). As such, putting on the attire of an assassin would come easy to him. His charm is as lethal as the numerous daggers he conceals within his clothes. He’ll strike you right in the heart. Can totally imagine him doing finger guns at you 😉

Option 3: Chick

Pouty babie in an adorable chick costume with a beret and paintbrush, like his sticker pack. Imagine him struggling with the bulky costume, trying to waddle towards you in annoyance, demanding you to immediately help him take off the costume. Despite it all, he'd let you hug him and take selfies. He'll hate every minute of it but still pose properly when you take pics 😆

these are just some silly thoughts..what are your costume ideas for each LI 🤔

» MASTERLIST «

[katakaluptastrophy]

Time is running out, your miraculous friend is freaking out so badly he's sweating blood, and the authorities are closing in - it's Good Friday and since I apparently write weird bible studies for queer goths now, we're thinking about what it means to 'so love the world'.

Now I know, I know, if we're thinking about Good Friday - the day in Holy Week when we remember in real time how Jesus was judicially tortured and publicly executed - we should probably be talking about Gideon on the fence post or her subsequent colourfully-named stigmata or something like that. But I'm re-routing us to an incident at the end of the Last Supper because in many ways we can't talk about what Gideon is part of making better before we talk about how her dad messed it up to begin with.

If you're only passingly familiar with the Passion story, then you may not be aware of the incident sandwiched between the Last Supper and Jesus' torture and death, often descriptively referred to as 'The Agony in the Garden'. This gets mentioned in several gospels, but I'm going to go with Luke because that's the only version where Jesus sweats blood:

Jesus went out as usual to the Mount of Olives, and his disciples followed him. On reaching the place, he said to them, “Pray that you will not fall into temptation.” He withdrew about a stone’s throw beyond them, knelt down and prayed, “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done.” An angel from heaven appeared to him and strengthened him. And being in anguish, he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground. When he rose from prayer and went back to the disciples, he found them asleep, exhausted from sorrow. “Why are you sleeping?” he asked them. “Get up and pray so that you will not fall into temptation.” (Luke 22:29-46)

TL;DRN Jesus has a frankly understandable after dinner freak out about the whole crucifixion business, but commits to the plan.

There are a couple of traditions about what's going on with Jesus here, but most involve some sense of being confronted by the awful enormity of the task ahead of him, whether that's the horror of the suffering to come, or the idea that this is the moment that Jesus takes on all of the sins of humanity.

I don't think it's entirely coincidental that John's account of how things go down also involves him withdrawing from his friends in a moment of desperate overwhelm, during which he is approached by a representative of the divine who provides encouragement that strengthens but doesn't remove the issue at hand, before emerging to discover that his friends are not as he left them.

This is the point where we all turn in our Bibles to John 1:20:

He did not fail to confess, but confessed freely, “I am not the Messiah.”

Now John is not Jesus in this scene in a couple of senses.

The first is that the role he's playing in the John chapters of NTN isn't Jesus, it's John the Baptist. That verse, John 1:20, is where John the Baptist, asked if he's the messiah, acknowledges that he isn't, that his job is to prepare the way. I've suggested before that this is what the nun thought John was meant to do, and that his failure to take on this John the Baptist role is part of what sets the stage for the pool scene and everything that follows.

But the second is that - ok, hang on, it's going to take a moment to get there... We don't know quite what's going on in the John chapters, but it seems to be John re-telling the story of what happened for the first time, to Alecto. He's trying to make sense of his actions - to justify his actions - both to her and to himself, and he often carefully phrases or presents things to make what happened seem more inevitable than it perhaps was. To portray himself as suffering like Jesus, suffering because of others' sins, doing what was necessary in order to save the world - what could be more Purposeful? And after all, John so loved the world...

You've probably encountered John 3:16 in the wild, but let's quote it for context:

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.

To steal a line from yesterday's reblog - John isn't the Antichrist. But he is, thematically, anti-Christ. TLT evidently isn't intended to be operating in the same universe as Christian metaphysics, but for all that John tries to place himself in a comfortably familiar Christian pattern, his motivations are almost exactly opposite to those that Christianity attributes to Jesus: John so loved the world that he took, and everyone perished. There is resurrection, there is eternal life...and it's a horror that perverts everything it touches. John wants a new creation, but he wants to build it on another's sacrifice; it's not a world to repair others' sins and restore them to wholeness, but to ensure that no one remembers his'. It's a world in terrible stasis.

Tomorrow, its Holy Saturday, the day that marks Jesus' descent into Hell to bring even death under his power. The resurrected Christ in the Book of Revelation announces "Fear not. I am the First and the Last, and alive, and was dead, and behold I am living for ever and ever, and have the keys of death and of hell." (Revelation 1:17-19). John isn't first (but consider who in TLT is...), isn't last, is neither quite dead or alive, and hell is "somewhere I don't fully comprehend, where my power and my authority are utterly meaningless."

[vivievienne]

A HYMN FOR THE HOLLOW GOD . . . . 祁煜 ☆ he begged for her love and bled for her silence.

DΞVФΓIФИ ─── God loves you, but not enough to save you.

ωα𝗋𐓣𝗂𐓣𝗀𝗌: religious trauma , priest!rafayel , implied murderer , deity!mc , mc uses she/her , hemolacria , blood , 932

a/n: I SAW THIS RAFAYEL AU AND OH MY GOD I COULDNT HELP MYSELF. God, forgive me please, but I just had to. I made it in like two days??? but hell yeah it was worth it. anyway UUHH IM GONNA DIEEE

part 1 / part 2

"Let us pray," he said, raising his hands upward. "Most Magnificent, You, before whose beauty the stars fade and the seas are torn in two so that You can pass through them - we ask You to deign to hear our humble requests and supplications. Make Your people grow in love together with all the saints who have pleased You throughout the ages."

Saying this, he looked towards the altar, where the image of the Most Holy One was.

The Divinity.

Their Divinity.

His Divinity.

The Divinity he venerated above all others.

They began to sing. The sounds of the songs began to fill the Temple, where in a flash the voices of the choir spread, where the altos and sopranos began to worship their Saviour in perfect harmony accompanied by the organ, whose pipes were able to produce such tones that the floor could shake under the influence of the sublimity of this event.

She was so beautiful.

Rafayel always looked at Her with admiration. She walked this earth just as he did now. Improbable. Someone as extraordinary as She was once like him.

That is why every time he read the Holy Book, he could not believe that She never wanted applause, that She did not want to be recognized, that She was able to endure all tortures just to save them.

Magnificent.

"May the Most Sacred Heart of Our Saviour always bless us."

He always, but always, uttered every word with a serious and dignified tone that made those gathered in the Temple look with interest at the young priest, who was looking at the Deity with delight, as he walked away from the altar.

Then, there was his favourite moment during the day.

It was when he returned to his small room to rest after a hard day. He sat down at the desk where the Holy Book was. He didn't remember how many times he had read It. Certainly a lot. However, he couldn't help the fact that this story affected him the same way every time. He couldn't help the fact that His Deity lived among them and it seemed so unreal, so surreal to him, and at the same time he was so happy that it had really happened. He was glad that She was among them, that She watched over them, that She loved them.

However, man is a proud being, no matter how wonderful His Creator is.

And Rafayel wanted Her to notice him, for Her to look at him and tell him that She saw how devoted he was to Her.

Because Rafayel loved His Divinity.

He loved Y/N.

He was faithful to Her, obedient. If She told him to jump into the fire — he would do it.

Let Her just look at him.

But Rafayel knew.

He was nothing.

One of the many sheep of Her flock.

Her miserable prodigal son.

A weed in Her field.

Everything Rafayel did not want to be, and yet he knew he would never be more.

But his faith, that unconditional love that he gave Her...

He didn't want too much, did he?

He did everything for Her. He honoured Her more than those... 'followers'.

Rafayel hated that name.

They 'follow'... But they don't believe.

No one believes in Her Majesty like he does.

You can profess anything: a view, love, a mystery, but not religion - you have to believe in it, blindly follow its rules and trust it, recognize it as truth and the highest value. You have to live religion, not just breathe it.

That's why Rafael believed that these 'followers' would never get what they wanted.

They leave the Temple and sin. They are so proud. They think that She will forgive them everything.

And it hurts Rafayel.

It hurt him that She loved him as much as others, even though he trusted Her completely and believed in Her with all his heart.

It was so unfair.

"I beg you... Most Beloved... Be merciful to me", he said through tears. "Me, a sinful thief, unworthy of Your gaze. Have mercy on me... Have mercy on Your worthless servant", he remembered that he always put his hands to the cheeks of the cold stone covered with a white veil, in which the bust of His Deity was carved.

It was so unfair.

He always judged those who in any way opposed the Most Holy Commandments.

After all, salvation did not await them anyway, right?

They violated the Holy Law, for which they must be punished.

Even if they pay the highest price for it.

It was so unfair.

"I have sinned," he confessed before the stone image of His Savior. "I have sinned against You, Most Holy. Forgive me. I beg You. Or take my eyes so that I may not suffer, looking upon those who are unworthy of Your Grace."

He was covered in the blood of that wicked man who had defied His Divinity. Scarlet tears flowed from his eyes, leaving red streaks on his pale cheeks. He held a rosary in his hand, and his stained hands touched her cheeks, leaving crimson streaks.

"Forgive me, Most Holy."

His voice began to tremble as the words left his lips.

"I beg You, forgive me."

And his lips joined the cold stone, leaving a ruby ​​mark on them.

"I will do anything to be closer to You," he whispered. "Just ask, tell me whatever You desire. I will be Your boundlessly devoted servant. Just please, give me a sign."

"I will prove it to You. I swear it. I will prove it."

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝓇𝑜𝓈𝑒𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝒶𝒻𝒶𝒷!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You were never meant to fall—never meant to kneel before something unholy, with bloodied hands and a soul stretched thin between heaven and hell.  

But the devil saw you for what you were. He peeled back your skin, traced the rot beneath, and smiled. He whispered sins like lullabies, carved damnation into your spine, and when the time came—you didn’t run.

Now, the chains are too tight. The air is too thick. And when he pulls you close, lips brushing against yours, his voice is a promise, a prayer, a curse.  

"Our love is God, after all."

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: I was inspired by Heathers movie (maybe a little from the musical, too), @prince-silver-lining’s beautiful art (above), and now here I am, ruining it by writing this shit. My ideas always come in the oddest ways.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: sol x afab! reader, smut?? forced intimacy, mind games, worship kink, psychological horror, dark romance, manipulation, toxic relationship, yandere, religious symbolism, guilt, and desire, the morally gray protagonist, obsession, possessive love, emotional turmoil, and…  god won’t save you, but he will.

When people think of angels, they imagine something pure—beings bathed in golden light, untouched by sin, cradled in the hands of God Himself.

You used to believe you were one of them.

A soul untainted, moving through this world with purpose, with righteousness. You carried yourself like a disciple, holding fast to the belief that goodness was enough, that virtue would shield you from the rot infesting this earth.

But God’s kingdom does not extend to places like this.

This college is not a temple but a pit—a den of indulgence, cruelty, and corruption where the wicked thrive, where the privileged few sit atop thrones of deceit. Their words drip with venom, their laughter echoes like hymns of the damned, and their eyes watch you like scavengers circling something already dying.

You clutch the rosemary around your neck, something you swore would protect you. A reminder that once, long ago, you thought you could remain untouched by the filth of this place.

However angels are not made for a world like this. Because once the devil came—red-orange eyes burning, voice like a whispered prayer—you didn’t run. You didn’t fight.

Even the holiest of creatures can fall.

You once dressed for yourself, for the joy of feeling like you controlled your own image—soft, free, unburdened by the expectations of a world that had no place for your kind.

But that was before you learned the rules.

Before you learned that kindness is a weakness, and empathy, a quick road to being chewed up and spat out. Before you realized that in this world, standing out only made you a target, while blending in could keep you alive.

So, you changed.

The first thing to go was your individuality. The clothes you used to wear, those that felt like a part of you, became buried beneath layers of the uniform—the colors, the styles, the things that said “I belong here.”Your rosemary cross, once proudly displayed, now lies hidden under your clothes like a secret prayer—its power still there, but buried. 

Because the world doesn’t care about purity.

It rewards power.

You learned quickly that the game was rigged, and that if you wanted to survive, you needed to manipulate the pieces. You couldn’t be the angel anymore, not in a place like this. 

You needed to be something else.

So, you joined the shady girl group—the ones who ruled the social scene. They didn’t care about you, not really. They cared about what you could do—your journals, your perfect hand, your ability to forge anything. They gave you what they thought you wanted: new outfits, extra attention, an easy way in. 

They turned you into their project, their doll to dress up, but you didn’t mind. Because you knew something they didn’t: you were the one holding the cards.

You played the game but on your terms.

It used to bother you—the pretending, the act of slipping into a world that wasn’t yours. But you learned to let it go. You learned to embrace it, because this was how it worked. People didn’t give unless they wanted something in return. And you knew how to make them give.

And when you looked up, you saw it—God. Not the one you were taught to pray to, but one of power, one who existed in the shadows of this world. The god who didn’t care for morals, only for domination. And you realized—you were always meant to wield that power.

In a world where devils walk free, you’re not here to survive. 

You’re here to reign.

But even power has its limits. And sooner or later, the game will come for you, too. It wasn’t long before the leader of your old girl group that entitled bitch—decided you were done the second you threw up all over her precious dress at that fancy party. As if it was your fault, she made you drink a gallon of cheap vodka just to fit in. 

Monday morning rolls around, and the verdict is: You’re out of the group. 

She doesn’t even have the decency to look you in the eye when she says it. But to say you didn’t care? You’d be lying. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t sting a little, even if you never really felt like you belonged there.

But losing that power? 

That influence you had over everyone? 

The way they looked at you because they thought you were one of them? Nah. That’s not happening. You’re not going back to being just another faceless girl getting bullied by these assholes who don’t know how to shut their mouths.

Who needs a god when you’ve got someone like Sol?

Solivan Brugmansia.

The weird, quiet artist kid who’s cold as hell—he���s the kind of guy who only wears green and black, which just screams ‘I’m deep’ and ‘I don’t give a damn.’ Everyone in school knows him for one thing:

He’s the perfect target. 

The bullies at the school use him like a punching bag. You’ve seen the videos. The ones where they throw punches at him so hard his face becomes a canvas of purple and red, like a twisted work of art. It’s a damn shame, honestly. They think it breaks him, but somehow, he always gets back up. 

Every punch he throws back looks like it comes from a place of pure rage. You’ve caught yourself watching him sometimes, walking to class. Every time, that little flutter in your stomach as you see him throw a punch, standing tall like he’s untouchable despite everything they do to him.

What was it about him?

Well…

Let’s just say, after that party, you ended up with your head nestled into his flat-ass pillow as his scent filled the air—green, metal, something almost intoxicating. You can feel the weight of his presence even though he's barely moving. 

Yeah, you hooked up with him. And the whole thing was... well, weirdly comforting. You’ve never felt more alive, more real, than when he was there with you, holding you in a way that made you forget all the shit the world tried to throw your way. Not that you’d ever admit that to him, or anyone for that matter.

It didn’t feel like a transaction. It didn’t feel like some pity hookup. For the first time, you didn’t feel like you were just pretending to be something for someone else’s amusement. You felt seen and heard—even if it was just for a moment. It felt dangerous, but in a way that turned you on more than anything ever had before.

And maybe that’s exactly what you needed. 

Someone who wasn’t afraid to fight back, who didn’t need you to fit into some mold. Someone who could see the world as messed up as it is and yet still have the guts to stand tall.

Lying in Sol’s bed felt like a damn drug—every second wrapped in a haze of heat, of fire, of something you couldn’t name but needed desperately. It wasn’t just his bed. It was him—the way he was, the way his presence felt like it could pull you under, drown you in something deeper than just physical need. 

You hadn’t planned on it. 

It wasn’t supposed to happen. 

After you left said lame-ass rich party, you walked by a late open convenience store, minding your own business—going home that’s when you saw him. 

The way he stood outside, staring off into the distance with that same disaffected look he always wore like the world didn’t matter. And for some fucking reason, you couldn't help yourself. You had to pull him into your orbit. 

You weren’t entirely sure how you’d convinced him to follow you back to his place.

One moment, you were laughing too loud under neon bar lights, the tequila in your veins making the world tilt just enough to feel weightless. The next, you were stumbling into the dim warmth of his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind you like a secret being sealed. The air smelled like him—clean linen and something darker, something alive—and your pulse thundered in your ears.

“You sure about this?”

His voice was rough, frayed at the edges like he was clinging to the last thread of his self-control. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth was stupid, embarrassing—you were a goddamn virgin—but tonight, that didn’t matter. 

Tonight, you needed to feel something real, even if it burned.

So you stepped into him, your body moving with a liquid courage you didn’t recognize. The alcohol still hummed under your skin, blurring the lines between bravery and recklessness. His hands came up to push you away, but the contact was weak, his fingers trembling against your waist.

“You’ve been drinking,” he murmured, but it sounded like a plea—to himself, not to you.

You didn’t let him finish. Your mouth found him, and the second your lips touched, his resolve cracked. A sharp inhale. A low groan. His kiss was softer than you expected, almost hesitant, but his body betrayed him—his heart pounded against your chest, wild and frantic, and the heat of him pressed into your thigh, hard and wanting.

You climbed onto him, knees sinking into the mattress, and his hands finally stopped resisting. They gripped your hips like he was drowning like you were the only thing keeping him anchored.

You needed this.

And God help him, he was done fighting it.

You slid your hands down his chest, feeling the solid, warm muscle beneath your fingertips, “You want me,” you muttered against his lips, a playful, teasing smirk curling on your face. “Don’t pretend like you don’t.”

His eyes flickered shut, and for a moment, he looked like he was trying to convince himself he didn’t want this. “I…” he trailed off, his voice shaky. But then his hands moved, gripping your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt it—the way his control shattered beneath you. 

The moment you took control, it was like you were commanding every piece of him. He was trying so damn hard to resist, but when you moved, when you rode him, there was no pretending. He groaned, his hands tightening on your skin, and you couldn’t help but laugh, a low, sultry sound that sent chills down your spine.

“Say no now,” Your voice was a challenge, a smirk curling your lips as you hovered over him, your thighs bracketing his hips. His chest rose and fell beneath you, his breath already ragged.

"You’re not fooling anyone."

Sol’s eyes—burning like embers in the dim light—locked onto yours. There was something terrifyingly open in his gaze, something that made your stomach twist. 

Not fear. No hesitation.

Hunger.

But not just the kind that devoured. The kind that worshiped.

His hands slid up your sides, rough palms skimming your skin like he was memorizing you. Every touch was deliberate, reverent as if you were something sacred he was afraid to break. You rolled your hips, taking him deeper, and his breath hitched—sharp, unsteady. His fingers dug into your waist, but he didn’t move, didn’t thrust up into you.

He let you take. Let your claim.

And God, the way he felt—thick and hot inside you, stretching you in a way that bordered on pain but tipped so easily into pleasure. You moved slowly, savoring the drag of him, the way his jaw clenched as he fought to keep his composure.

"Fuck," he gritted out, his voice wrecked.

You grinned, leaning down until your lips brushed his ear. "That’s It."

His restraint snapped.

One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip as he finally, finally met your movements. But even then, it wasn’t frantic. Wasn’t rough. It was deep, every roll of his hips deliberate, like he was trying to fuse himself to you. His mouth found yours again, kissing you like he was starving for it like he’d die if he didn’t taste you.

And the way he looked at you—

Eyes dark, lips parted, his entire body trembling beneath you like he was coming undone. Like you were unraveling him.

You haven’t been with others before. But this?

This was the first time either of you had ever really fucked.

There was no rush, no mindless chasing of pleasure. Just the two of you, tangled in sheets and sweat and something too heavy to name. His hands never left you, tracing your spine, cupping your face, pulling you closer like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

And when he finally spilled into you, it was with a broken groan, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours. You followed him over the edge, your body clenching around him, your nails biting into his shoulders.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then your thumb brushed Sol’s cheek, his voice barely audible.

"…Good boy."

It was a sinful saying. And you knew that. 

But in that moment, you didn’t care. You could’ve stayed in his bed forever, lost in the fire of it all, and maybe—just maybe—you didn’t ever want to leave. But you knew, deep down, you couldn’t afford to get too lost. 

There were things to worry about.

Like, for one, the fact that you had a sneaking suspicion Sol had something to do with the sudden, suspicious death of your former group leader. The one you just so happened to throw up on at that goddamn party. 

Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it wasn’t.

After all, when she asked you to get her something to cure her hangover, you didn’t give a damn. Couldn’t have cared less if she lived or died. You weren’t about to drop any more of your pathetic leftover cash on her. You were broke. Besides, it wasn’t like you had a reason to play nice. You were done with her, done with the group, done with their petty little games.

You complained to Sol, slouched across his bed, half-dressed, staring at the ceiling like it was the only thing keeping you sane. He didn’t care, though. He didn’t need your complaints. Instead, he offered something simple, something that felt like a lifeline to cling to when everything around you felt like it was crumbling: "You can use my kitchen," he said, voice low and calm, the sound almost soothing. "I’ll take you to drop it off."

You couldn’t help but smile a little, amused by how nonchalant he was about everything. How even now, after what happened between you two, he was still so calm. So unaffected.

And so, you went.

You used Sol’s kitchen, not giving a damn about what you were making, the motions mechanical, the noise of the pot stirring a dull soundtrack to the mess of thoughts crowding your head. 

You needed to do something. 

Anything to shake off the constant tension clawing at your insides. Your stomach churned, but it wasn’t from hunger—it was from the gnawing confusion and dread eating away at you, as if your body already knew something bad was coming.

The thought of her—the bitch—lingered in the back of your mind like a thorn you couldn’t shake. But you shoved it down. Focused instead on stirring, on the repetitive movement of the spoon, anything to drown out the thoughts swirling in your brain. The smell of the ingredients wasn’t comforting, but it was something to focus on, something that made the moment feel mundane, even if it was anything but.

You tossed things into the pot like you didn’t care what came of it—this wasn’t about cooking, after all. You’d made this concoction a thousand times before, for yourself and for the others when you went out drinking, those long nights where the world blurred into something hazy and forgettable.

It had become a ritual, a way to get through, but tonight it felt more like a mask. You were just going through the motions, trying not to think too hard about what was really hanging over you.

You thought about her again, the leader, the one who had always looked down on you, the one who thought she was better than everyone else. You didn’t care that she’d caught you throwing up on her dress at the party—she was just another problem you didn’t have the energy to solve. 

But now? Now, she was gone. 

The weight of that truth hit you harder than expected, but you pushed it away. Not yet.

You finished the drink and dropped it off with Sol, who was waiting outside, casual as ever, his posture relaxed like nothing was wrong. You handed him the drink, but as he walked over to the leader, the thought of what she might do with it made your stomach tighten. 

The entire thing felt wrong like something was off, but there wasn’t time to second-guess yourself.

And then it happened.

A few slips. A few moments, and then—boom. Dead.

Like, what the actual fuck?

The death wasn’t natural. The first thing you noticed was the color of her tongue—blue. And not just any shade of blue, but something sickly, unnatural. It looked wrong in the worst way. It twisted your insides, but there was no time to linger on it.

Because now, she was dead. And that meant you had to act. Fast.

You didn’t want to be anywhere near the mess that was about to unfold. The last thing you needed was to be connected to a rich girl’s death. Hell, the media would have your neck if they even got a whiff of your involvement. You didn’t care about her death—she was just a footnote in your life—but your survival? 

Now that was a whole different story.

Sol, ever the calm presence, suggested the only thing that made sense: write a suicide note. Quickly, and convincingly.

You didn’t hesitate. You had to write that note fast, your hands trembling with the weight of it, the words coming out in a rushed stream of desperate lies. You didn’t care what you wrote, as long as it kept your name out of it. You had to move carefully—no fingerprints, no mistakes. Everything had to be flawless.

The cops would be swarming any minute now, so you and Sol slipped out, making sure to leave no trace of your presence. You didn’t want to leave anything behind that could tie you to her. You weren’t going to be the one to pay for her mistakes.

It wasn’t about caring for the girl or feeling anything for her death. No, it was about making sure your own skin stayed clean. You didn’t have the luxury of being caught up in a mess like this. You’d been through too much already, and the last thing you wanted was for this to be the thing that pulled you under.

Survival. That’s what mattered now.

Now, you might be thinking—why the hell would you assume Sol had anything to do with it? Your bitch of a leader wound up dead, yeah, but you were the one who made the damn hangover concoction. That was your little trick, your go-to remedy for long nights and regret-filled mornings.

So, shouldn’t you be the one to blame? Not exactly.

Because you saw him, Sol.

You saw him lingering by the counter, careful not to make any noise while you went to the bathroom to change before heading out. You saw the way his fingers moved, casual—too casual—as he fiddled with the cup. And then you saw the switch, so quick it was almost imperceptible. 

The blue cleaner. A few drops, maybe more. A slip of a hand, a glance in your direction. And yet—

Did you ever bring it up? No.

Because you were already too fucking deep in this.

You and Sol, like it or not, we’re in this together. And with that bitch dead, the school needed a new god. The natural order should’ve pointed to the last two girls in the group—the ones who used to worship at her feet, waiting for their turn to take the crown. 

But the moment the leader’s body went cold, one of them was already off somewhere else, building her empire with the fame of her dead leader, shaking off the past like a snake shedding its skin. And the other? She folded. Gave up. Ran off to follow the next rising star.

That left you.

Because whether you wanted it or not, people had always compared you two. Same energy, the same pull, same effortless way of drawing attention without even trying. You used to be second best.

Well, not anymore. But this wasn’t what you wanted.

You just wanted to go to class, pass your exams, maybe get through the day without being dragged into some social bullshit. That was the goal. But instead, here you were—the most followed person in the student body. 

This wasn’t high school. This was college. 

And yet, somehow, it felt just as fucking stupid.

Every waking moment, every damn day, all you wanted was to go to class, take notes, and leave. But no—some dude, some random fucking guy, always had to try his luck, like they were programmed to shoot their shot no matter how many times you said no, no matter how many times you muttered, I have a boyfriend.

Didn’t matter.

They’d still try, still hover, still think they had a chance like you owed them something just because you existed.

And honestly? It made you sick.

Sometimes, in the back of your mind, you swore you could hear that bitch of a leader laughing at you from the afterlife. Oh, you wanted to be me so bad? Enjoy it, sweetheart.

It was all so fucking overwhelming

You hated this. You hated this dead-end college. And sometimes—just sometimes—you wished the whole place would fucking blow up. Just poof—gone. Then maybe you could run away, transfer somewhere new, start over, and live a normal life, away from all this bullshit.

Instead, here you were—outside late, making your way back from some lecture you were forced to take at night because all the earlier ones had filled up before you could even register.

And of course—of course—the universe just had to make things worse.

Because there they were.

Fucking Abel and Cain.

The pretty boys. The well-known bops—two fine ass bastards every woman on campus either wanted or knew to stay the hell away from.

And yet, here they were, standing on the sidewalk, their gazes locking onto you like wolves spotting a lone rabbit. You didn’t look at them. You didn’t acknowledge them. Just keep walking, picking up your pace, focusing on your apartment’s front door in the distance. 

You hate it. 

Hate how people think they have a right to you now. Hate that the moment your old leader took their final breath, the weight of the world shifted onto your shoulders, crowning you the new god of this campus. But of course, they called your name.

And of course, they followed.

"Yo, you deaf now?" Abel scoffed, his voice dripping with faux amusement.

"Yeah, what, you ain't getting our messages?" Cain added, tone lower, sharper.

You felt their eyes burning into you, felt the heat of their presence as they got closer, their footsteps heavy against the pavement.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t dare look back.

Just kept walking. Because if you did, you knew this night would take a turn you really didn’t have the energy to deal with.

You kept your pace steady, ignoring them like they were nothing more than background noise—like their words, their presence, their very existence didn’t fucking matter. Because to you? They didn’t.

But, of course, they didn’t like that.

“Damn, she’s really tryna act like she don’t hear us,” Abel muttered, just loud enough for you to catch.

Cain chuckled, a low, amused sound that made your stomach churn. “Maybe she’s shy.”

You weren’t shy. You just didn’t give a fuck.

But they weren’t letting this go.

Next thing you knew, Abel was right next to you, keeping pace, that cocky smirk already stretched across his face like this was some kind of game. Cain was a step behind, like they had this whole routine practiced like they knew how to trap people in conversations they didn’t want to have.

“Damn, you in a rush or somethin’?” Abel grinned, leaning in slightly like that’d make you break. “Where you headed, mama? Lemme walk you home.”

You finally spared them a glance—just enough to give him the most deadpan expression you could manage. “Nah.”

Cain whistled, all smug like he thought this was cute. “Cold as hell. I like it.”

Abel laughed, but there was something mean behind it. “C’mon, don’t be like that. We just tryna talk. You really don’t be seeing our DMs?”

“Oh, I see ‘em,” you said flatly. “I just ignore ‘em.”

That shut him up for a second.

Cain let out a little ooooh like you just roasted his boy in a rap battle. Abel, though? His smirk twitched. “That’s kinda rude,” he said, tilting his head like he was trying to figure you out.

“And?”

Cain barked out a laugh. “Damn, you got a mouth on you.”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your bag and picking up your pace again. “Yeah, and it’s saying leave me the fuck alone.”

You weren’t scared. Not really. Just annoyed.

But they didn’t fall back. If anything, that just made them more persistent.

“Y’know, most girls would kill to have us hitting them up,” Abel said, his tone dipping slightly. Less playful. More... annoyed?

"Then go hit them up instead," you shot back, eyes locked on your apartment complex in the distance. Almost there. Just a few more steps.

“But we want you,” Cain added, voice lower, smooth like oil, like he actually thought he could charm you. “You really turned us both down? That’s wild.”

“Y’all are wild for not taking the hint,” you muttered, stopping just at the front of your apartment gate.

They both stopped, too.

Abel crossed his arms, looking you over like you were some puzzle he couldn’t crack. “For real, though. You got a man or somethin’?”

“Yeah. And he’s crazy as fuck,” you said, not missing a beat.

Cain raised a brow, clearly amused. “Yeah? What, he gonna pull up on us?”

Fools.

They didn’t realize they were speaking to something untouchable. Something already claimed. So you exhaled, slow and deliberate, before tilting your head slightly, voice smooth as silk, dripping with something just shy of amusement.

"He’s already watching”

Abel and Cain followed your gaze, and for a moment—just a split second—you swore you saw something ancient flicker across their faces. A primal instinct whispering to them that they had fucked up. Because there—perched on the second-floor railing like a god overlooking his domain—stood Sol.

His presence was undeniable. Absolute.

His red-orange eyes burned through the darkness like twin embers in the void, glowing with an unnatural light that made the streetlamp look like a cheap imitation of fire. He wasn’t leaning lazily anymore. No, now he was upright, hands stuffed in his pockets, his gaze locked directly on them.

Watching. Waiting. Judging.

Cain clicked his tongue, but his cocky smirk faltered just a bit, as if the weight of Sol’s stare pressed against his chest like a blade. “Tch. Guess we’ll see you around then.”

Abel lingered half a second longer like he was considering saying something else—but then Sol moved.

Not fast, not aggressively, just the slow, deliberate shift of his shoulders, the lazy tilt of his head. But it was enough. Enough to send an unspoken message.

Run along, little boys.

And so they did.

You didn’t turn to watch them go. Didn’t need to. You just stepped through the gate and let it slam shut behind you, the metallic clang ringing out like the closing of a coffin.

But as you climbed the stairs, you could feel it. The way Sol’s eyes dragged over you, heat crawling up your spine—not just watching, but seeing. When you reached him, his fingers were already curling around your wrist, warm, and firm, pulling you close. His touch was casual, lazy even, but his grip? 

Almost Possessive.

His voice, low and edged with amusement, sent a shiver down your spine. "Have fun?"

You huffed, pressing a hand against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of it beneath your palm. “Oh, loads.”

He smirked. But it wasn’t just a smirk—it was something deeper, something more dangerous. Like a god deciding the fate of his worshippers. Like a storm rolling in before the first crack of thunder. Then he leaned in, breath warm against your ear, voice dropping into something almost reverent.

"Want me to kill ‘em?”

You held your breath, watching Sol’s expression carefully, searching for the telltale twitch of amusement in his features, the playful glint in his eye that usually came when he joked about something questionable.

But there was none. He just looked at you, unreadable, that lazy, knowing smirk resting on his lips like he already knew the answer. Surely, he was joking. Right?

For someone who had such an appreciation for horror movies, you hated it when he joked about killing people—only for right now. Not when that memory was still lurking in the back of your mind. The memory of your hands gripping a pen, scrawling out a suicide note as quickly as possible, while Sol stood over your dead leader’s body with that smile.

That damn smile.

A shiver crept up your spine, but you shook it off, exhaling sharply before rolling your eyes, masking your unease with a playful sigh. You gave him a light punch to the shoulder, a simple motion that masked too much, that tried to communicate things you weren’t ready to say.

"Don’t joke about that, dumbass," you muttered, forcing out a laugh. "Especially not when we’re already in the hole. Deep in the fucking pit."

Sol hummed, tilting his head slightly. "You think we’re in a pit?" His fingers ghosted over your wrist, his voice smooth, too calm. "Nah. A pit means we can’t get out. We’re just…" His grip tightened slightly like he was anchoring you. "Visiting the bottom."

You scoffed, brushing past him. "That’s some pretentious artist bullshit."

"And yet, you love it," he teased, following close behind as you made your way to the bathroom.

You ignored him, flipping on the sink and splashing cold water onto your face, letting the sharp chill jolt your senses back to reality. You needed to wash off the weight of tonight—the tension, the stares, the suffocating presence of everyone watching you as if waiting for you to snap.

Sol leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you through the mirror with an unreadable expression.

"You tired?" he asked, though it wasn’t really a question.

You exhaled, grabbing a towel and pressing it against your face. "I’m always tired."

He was quiet for a moment before he spoke again, voice softer this time. "You don’t look like you."

You frowned, lowering the towel slightly to glance at him through the mirror. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means," Sol said, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer, "that I remember you before all this. Before them."His gaze burned into you, intense in a way that made your throat tighten. This wasn’t his usual teasing arrogance, the lazy smirks and smooth words meant to make you roll your eyes. 

No, this was different. This was something else.

"You were free." His voice was low, almost nostalgic, but there was an edge to it—something sharp, something almost bitter. "You dressed how you wanted. Acted how you wanted."

He gestured vaguely, eyes dragging over you, taking in the perfectly curated image you had become—the safe version of yourself. The version that blended in. The version that followed the rules.

Now, you looked… normal.

Plain. Society’s definition of acceptable.

The clothes that once made you feel like yourself—the bold choices, the personal touches, the outfits that turned heads and made statements—were gone, replaced with something neutral, something designed not to offend, not to stand out. 

The makeup you once wore to highlight what you liked about yourself had been swapped for whatever the trend was. Your hair, once styled in whatever way you felt like at the time, now fell in the safest way possible, effortless but calculated.

You had stripped yourself down to something palatable.

"This isn’t you."

Your jaw tightened. You met his gaze in the mirror, the weight of his words pressing against your ribs, making it just a little harder to breathe.

"I had to survive." Your voice was firm, clipped.

Sol was quiet.

Then he sighed, shaking his head. "Yeah. I get that."

You exhaled sharply and turned off the sink, gripping the edge of the counter, your eyes flickering downward. Your reflection stared back at you—polished, presentable, a perfect product of adaptation.

Unrecognizable.

Sol watched you for a moment, his gaze heavy with something unreadable. Then, in a voice softer than before, he murmured, "You're still pretty."

For some reason, that irritated you more than anything else.

You scoffed. "Gee, thanks."

"But it’s not about that," he continued, stepping closer until he was right behind you, his hands resting on either side of the counter, boxing you in. His voice dipped, lower now, careful, yet firm. "I liked you better when you liked yourself more."

Your breath hitched.

His words clung to you, wrapping around your ribs like vines, refusing to let go. They settled deep, sinking into that part of you you’d tried so damn hard to bury.

You swallowed hard, hating the way he saw you—really saw you—like his fire-red-orange eyes could peel back the layers of armor you had so carefully constructed and lay you bare without even trying.

"I don’t want to talk about this," you muttered, shaking him off as you grabbed your toothbrush as if the simple act of brushing your teeth could drown out the weight of everything pressing down on you.

But Sol just chuckled, low and knowing. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your skin, his presence an anchor you weren’t sure if you wanted to hold onto or escape from.

"Don’t worry," he murmured, voice like embers in the dark. "I’m not going anywhere." Then, softer. More deliberate.

"Use me if you need to."

The words sent something sharp down your spine. Something dangerous. You wanted to pretend they didn’t sink in. You wanted to pretend that they didn’t make something inside you snap. But they did. Because Sol was right here. Warm. Solid. Real. And you—

You were so fucking angry.

Not just at Abel and Cain. Not just at the dead social media apps that kept your name in their mouths. Not just at the way your classmates looked at you today like they knew you—like they had any fucking clue.

You were angry at everything.

At this school. At life, you have to build for yourself just to survive. At the fact that no matter what you did, no matter how quiet you stayed, the world still found a way to put its hands on you.

And Sol? 

Sol was offering himself up like he always did, and fuck, you were selfish enough to take it.

You turned, grabbed the front of his shirt, and yanked him toward you. His body hit yours with a force that should’ve knocked you both off balance, but Sol just let out a sharp breath, his hands already finding your waist like he’d been waiting for this.

You didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

Your lips crashed against his, open-mouthed, desperate.

Sol let you take control at first, let you kiss him like you needed to rip something out of him, let you take and take and take—but he wasn’t passive. No, he met you head-on, groaning into your mouth as he walked you back until your hips hit the bathroom counter.

"This what you need?" he muttered, voice rough as his hands dug into your sides.

You didn’t answer. Just pull him closer, press yourself against him like he was the only thing holding you together.

Because right now, he was.

You let him lift you onto the counter, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. The mirror behind you reflected the scene at you—your lips swollen, your eyes unfocused, your expression raw. You almost didn’t recognize yourself.

Maybe that was the point.

Maybe you didn’t want to.

Sol’s hands trailed up your thighs, the warmth of his touch searing through the fabric of your clothes, grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed. His lips brushed your neck, sending a jolt of electricity through your body, his breath hot against your skin as he moved lower, his hands anchoring you to the counter with a firm grip that almost felt possessive.

"Tell me what you want," his voice came a low hum that seemed to vibrate through you, reaching places you didn’t know you could feel.

You squeezed your eyes shut, unwilling to face the war raging inside you.

God, you needed this—needed him to drown out everything that had been gnawing at your insides, clawing at your thoughts. But even as you pressed yourself closer, even as your hands gripped the back of his shirt like you were trying to pull him inside you, you knew it wasn’t enough.

The whispers kept creeping in, insistent and ugly.

The rumors.

Abel’s smug voice, practically oozing with triumph.

Cain’s laugh, that mocking, arrogant chuckle that you couldn’t escape, no matter how far you ran.

And the whole campus? They all thought they had the right to claim you. To dictate your life, your choices, your body. They were already filling in the blanks, deciding who you were, and who you should be.

It wasn’t long before you and Sol collapsed into your bed again, tangled in the kind of desperation that felt more like drowning than desire.

He was already between your thighs, his breath hot against your skin, murmuring words you barely processed—“Let me, please, just let me make you feel good.” And you did. 

You let him. 

Because even if it wouldn’t fix anything, even if the hollowness in your chest refused to be filled, at least his mouth on you was something real.

His lips were soft, his tongue relentless, tracing patterns you’d long memorized but still made your back arch off the mattress. Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him deeper as if you could press him straight through your skin and into the parts of you that ached. 

The pleasure was sharp, bright—too bright, like staring into the sun until your eyes burned. You wanted it to blind you.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, each one shuddering out of you like a sob. Sol knew your body better than anyone, his touch so familiar it should’ve been a comfort. But instead, you felt untethered, floating somewhere outside yourself, watching as your hips rolled against his mouth on pure instinct.

Closer. You needed him closer, needed to disappear into the heat of him, the weight of him. But the more he gave, the more you realized—no amount of him would be enough. The storm inside you wasn’t something he could fuck or kiss or worship away.

“Please… more—”

The words spill from Sol’s lips in a broken whisper, his mouth still searing against your clit like he’s starving. You barely have time to process the plea before his fingers curl just so inside you—a merciless twist that sends your back arching off the bed. A gasp rips from your throat, raw and unfiltered, as your hips jerk against his face.

“Fuck—” Your moan is half-snarl, half-prayer, fingers twisting in the sheets like they’re the only thing tethering you to earth. His touch is relentless, every stroke deliberate, studied—as if he’s mapping the way you flutter around him, the way your body betrays you with every slick, tightening pulse.

“Look at you,” You moan, “Couldn’t wait, could you?”

The accusation sends heat flooding Sol’s cheeks—because you’re right. You felt yourself already close, teetering on the edge, and he’s barely started. His thumb brushes your clit in a slow, filthy circle, and you jolt, a whimper catching in your throat like a sob.

“Tell me,” he rasps, grip tightening on your thigh to spread you wider. His other hand doesn’t stop—if anything, his fingers plunge deeper, crooking to drag against that spot that makes your vision whiten. “Please. Tell me what you want, pumpkin.”

You can’t.

The words clot in your chest, stolen by every ragged breath, every electric scrape of his calloused fingers. All you can do is feel—the ache he’s stoking into an inferno, the way your hips grind shamelessly against his mouth, the sound of him—low, hungry groans vibrating against your skin as he drinks you down like something holy.

And when his teeth graze your clit—gentle, so gentle—you finally shatter, his name a shattered scream on your lips. It was violent, overwhelming, your thighs clamping around his head as you choked back something too raw to be a moan. Sol didn’t let up, licking you through it until you shoved him away, oversensitive and raw.

He looked up at you, lips glistening, eyes dark with something like concern. You turned your face away before he could see it—the tears, the fracture—it was for the silence, for the absence of everything that was suffocating you.

But even in the heat of the moment, your mind refused to let go.

You knew. You knew.

This wasn’t going to fix anything. Nothing ever did.

Because People—people with nothing better to do—had decided that their life was the perfect subject for gossip, and of course, they had to drag it across every dead social media app that nobody even bothered with anymore, unless it was for the filters. And this time?

It wasn’t just petty rumors. No, this was a different beast entirely.

You had to hear it from everyone. Every fucking hallway. Every class. 

Every goddamn second spent looking at your phone or stepping outside your apartment—it was all whispers, side-eyes, and those insufferable, smug smirks from people who thought they knew you, who thought they knew what happened.

And it all led back to two names.

Abel and Cain.

It was always them, wasn’t it? The infamous duo—the campus it-boys, the ones who somehow got away with everything, every time, with no consequences. They were untouchable, always looking so clean, so perfect in their shit-eating grin ways, while everyone else got swept up in their chaos.

And what were they saying this time?

That they had a threesome with a “special girl” they ran into.

No names. No specifics. But you didn’t need specifics. Everyone knew exactly who they were talking about. You. You.

Your actual friends—your real friends—began asking questions. Concern was written all over their faces, voices shaking with uncertainty. 

They wouldn’t leave you alone.

“Are you okay?”

“Did something happen?”

“Why are they saying this?”

You couldn’t even look them in the eye. You couldn’t answer. Instead, you sat there, frozen, staring at your phone, the screen burning your eyes. The words blurred together in a haze of pain and fury. A ringing noise drowned out everything else as your fingers clenched around the device like it was the only thing anchoring you to the present.

Fuck this.

Every inch of you felt like it was going to crack, like the anger and disgust were going to bleed out of your skin. It was a lie, a fucking straight-up lie. But it didn’t matter. No one cared about the truth. Not when they already had a story to tell.

The worst part? It wasn’t just the lies—they were believing it. The campus didn’t just buy into it; they were savoring it like it was the juiciest piece of gossip to ever grace their empty little lives. People who barely even knew your name were now looking at you like they had some kind of claim to your life.

Every time you stepped outside, it was like the world was watching, whispering about you, judging you, reducing you to some fucking scandal. And you?

You were just trapped in the middle of it all.

No matter how many times you told them it wasn’t true, how many times you tried to explain, they didn’t care. The perception was everything. Once a story like this had legs, it ran wild. It didn’t need the truth to keep moving—it only needed people to keep talking.

And that was all anyone was doing now. …Talking.

After your last class, you couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. It felt like the walls were closing in with every step, suffocating you as you walked through the crowded halls, your classmates' whispers and looks searing into your skin. Every footstep felt like it echoed too loudly in your ears, a constant reminder of the gossip, the rumors, and the lies that were now following you like a shadow you couldn’t escape.

No. No, no. You weren’t going to let this happen. 

You couldn’t. 

You wouldn’t.

You kept repeating it in your mind, the words like a mantra, trying to drown out the noise, trying to drown out the sick, twisted feeling clawing at your chest. You didn’t have time for this. Not when you still had so much left to do, so many plans that needed to be carried out. 

This? 

This wasn’t part of the plan.

You rushed back to your place, heart hammering in your chest, your mind spinning with what to do next. How to fix this. How to make it stop. 

You opened the door to your apartment and slammed it shut behind you, locking it as quickly as you could. But the feeling of being trapped didn’t go away. You paced back and forth in your small space, your mind racing, plotting your next move. You had to do something—anything—to get the control back. 

You couldn’t let them get away with this. 

Suddenly, the window beside you creaked open, and before you could even react, a figure slid through, startling the hell out of you. “Fuck!” You yelped, barely managing to keep your phone from smashing into his face as you whipped around. 

Sol. Of course, it was him. He stood there, grinning like it was any other day as if he hadn’t just scared the shit out of you. "Woah, woah, easy there," he said, holding up his hands to stop you from swinging again, his usual cocky smile plastered on his face. 

"You okay?"

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your shaking hands. "Stop climbing through my window. It's a crime, Sol. Not the time for this."

He shrugged nonchalantly, not at all bothered by the fact that he had literally just broken into your apartment. "You’re still alive, aren’t you?" he said, voice soft and smooth. "I figured you could use the company."

You took a step back, barely even registering his words as you continued to pace. You couldn’t stop moving. Not with all the chaos swirling in your head, not with the weight of the entire situation pressing down on you. 

Sol watched you, his expression softening, the cocky grin falling away for a moment. "You’re really losing it, huh?"

“Losing it?” You let out a sharp laugh, but it was humorless, edged with frustration. "No, Sol. I’m not losing it. I’m trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now. These people—" You gestured wildly, your voice rising. "They think they know everything about me, and they’re lying. It’s all lies!"

Sol stepped closer, slowly, like he was giving you space, but you didn’t want the space. 

You needed to move. You needed to think. 

You couldn’t stand still. 

"Look, I get it," he said quietly, his voice steady as he reached out and placed a hand on your arm. "I know it sucks. But you can’t keep running from it. You gotta deal with it, or it’s just gonna keep eating at you."

You jerked away from his touch, irritation flaring. "I don’t need you telling me what to do, Sol. I know how to deal with my own shit."

His gaze stayed on you, unwavering, like he wasn’t going to back down. "Then what? What’s the plan? Are you gonna sit in here and hope it all goes away? Or you gonna take control back?"

You stopped walking, turning sharply to face him, the heat rising in your chest. "I’m not just gonna sit here and let them tear me apart," you snapped. "I’m gonna make it stop. I don’t care what it takes."

Sol raised an eyebrow, stepping forward again, his voice barely above a whisper. "Then let me help."

You paused. Your mind screamed at you to push him away, to tell him to get the hell out, but somewhere in that moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You were angry and frustrated, but deep down, you knew this was something you couldn’t do alone.

"I don’t need your help," you muttered, but even as you said the words, you felt the cracks in your resolve begin to show. "I’ll handle it. I’ll fix it."

Sol tilted his head, giving you a look that said he didn’t believe you for a second. "Yeah, sure. You’re really great at handling things on your own."

You shot him a glare, but deep down, he was right. 

You had been trying to handle it all by yourself, trying to keep everything together, but now it felt like it was slipping through your fingers, like no matter how much you fought, it wasn’t enough.

"I don’t know what to do, Sol." The words left you before you could stop them, the exhaustion in your voice more apparent than you wanted it to be.

He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, letting the silence fill the space between you. Then, he took a step closer, his eyes softening, his usual arrogance gone. "I know you don’t. But you don’t have to figure it out by yourself."

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him to leave. But something in his voice—something in the way he was looking at you—stopped you.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a small glimmer of something that wasn’t rage or frustration. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was just the fact that someone, anyone, was standing there with you, not turning their back.

“All right,” you muttered, voice low, still shaky, but more resolute than before. "Help me. But we do this on my terms."

You sat there, phone pressed against your ear, trying to ignore the fact that your heart was hammering in your chest. Sol sat beside you, arms crossed, watching you with a look that was equal parts concern and curiosity. 

You could feel his presence, like a weight behind you, but right now, you needed to focus. 

You had to do something—anything—to reclaim control of the narrative. So, you borrowed his phone. You didn’t want to make this call, but you had already told yourself it was too late to back out.

The number had come from one of the girls who’d been all too eager to share Abel’s contact when they found out what was being said about you. It was all too easy—far too easy—and that made it all the more unsettling.

You took a breath, your fingers slightly trembling as you dialed the number.

Ring… ring… ring…

The phone in your hand felt heavier with each second.

"Hello?" Abel’s voice broke through the static, and you straightened, your heart jumping in your throat as if the sound of his voice was a physical blow.

"Hi, Abel," you said, your voice soft but steady. You weren’t sure if it was the shock or the fact that you were doing this that made your voice sound even more controlled than you felt. "This is me. You know, the girl you and Cain were talking about."

You could practically hear his smirk through the phone as he laughed, the arrogant bastard. "Oh, so it’s you. What’s up?"

You paused, trying to gather your thoughts, knowing this was a game you were playing, but you didn’t quite know the rules. "I, uh, heard about what you said on those social media apps," you started, swallowing the lump in your throat. "

The... rumors. The ones about me. It’s not true, by the way, but, uh..." You faltered, but only for a moment. "I guess I’m kind of into it. It’s... kind of a fantasy of mine. Two guys, you know?"

The words felt like they were burning on the tip of your tongue, but you pushed them out anyway, watching Sol as he stood there, tense, his lips pressed into a thin line. You could feel him tense as you spoke, his arms crossing tighter, his eyes narrowing.

“Wait, so you’re saying you’re into it?” Abel’s voice came through, mocking. "Guess I didn’t think you’d be this easy." His words made you sick, but you bit your tongue, holding it together. 

"Yeah, I’m into it," you said again, your voice quieter now, but the lie was out there. "You and Cain. So, is that something you want to make happen? Or was it just talk?"

Sol shifted behind you, stepping closer, but his arms didn’t reach for you. He didn’t touch you, not yet. You could feel the tension, the strain in his muscles, but you had already committed to this. His hands were at his sides, fingers flexing as if wanting to grab you but also knowing he couldn’t interfere.

On the phone, Abel’s laugh was low and smug. "I like the way you think. I knew you were different from the rest of those girls." He continues, “So, when’s this gonna happen?" Abel asked, clearly already thinking about his next move.

You took another breath, steadying yourself. "In the woods behind campus," you said, making sure your voice was clear. "Dawn. Don’t forget Cain."

There was a pause on the line. It lasted too long, long enough for you to wonder if you’d lost him, but then Abel’s voice returned, smooth as ever. "All right. Dawn. I’ll be there."

You hung up the phone before he could say anything else before you heard his usual mocking laughter. The second the line went dead, you threw Sol’s phone onto the bed, not even looking at him as you sat there, hands shaking slightly.

He moves forward, his voice low. "What the hell was that?"

You ignored him, crossing your legs crossed, your head spinning. Your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, none of them making any sense. You needed to think, to figure out what the hell you were doing, but the pressure was suffocating. You couldn't back out now, not with everything on the line, but you also couldn’t go through with it. 

It was a mess, a disaster, and the worst part was, you had no idea how to clean it up.

Sol sat there, watching you, his expression unreadable, but you could feel the tension in the room. He was waiting for you to say something, anything, but all you could do was stare at your hands, clenched in your lap. The phone call was still fresh in your mind, Abel’s smug voice echoing in your ears. 

You couldn’t believe you had just made that call. You’d thrown yourself into a situation you didn’t fully understand, and now it was too late to undo it.

"Hold on a sec," you muttered, your voice shaky as you crossed your legs tighter, hoping that physical discomfort might distract you from the chaos in your mind.

Sol, sensing the urgency, nodded but couldn’t help himself from speaking up. "Are you done yet?"

You bit your lip, frustration bubbling up inside you. "No. Shut up. Hold on."

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. You could hear his breathing, steady but loud in the silence that followed, like he was trying to figure you out. You didn't want him to figure you out. Not now. Not with everything crashing down around you.

"You know," Sol started again, voice careful, almost hesitant. 

"I have an idea."

You immediately shot him a look. "I said, shut up," you snapped, trying to focus, trying to ignore the growing panic in your chest. "Just... hold on, okay?"

He was quiet for a second, probably biting back whatever retort he had, but then his voice came again a little sharper this time. "I don’t like it when you tell me to shut up, you know."

You didn’t want to hear it. Not now. 

Not when your entire world felt like it was crumbling in on you. "Well, I don’t give a fuck right now, Sol," you growled. "Okay? Just shut the hell up and let me think."

Sol’s eyes softened then, but there was still a hardness in them. He wasn’t buying it anymore. "Fine," he said, stepping back, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. "But I’m here if you need me."

You heard the unspoken question in his voice—what the hell is going on with you?

But you didn’t have an answer. 

You didn’t even know what was happening anymore.

The tears came then, slowly at first, one slipping down your cheek, then another, until they were falling freely, soaking the sleeves of your hoodie. You buried your face in your hands, your body trembling. You couldn’t stop. 

You couldn’t think. You were just... overwhelmed. 

Overwhelmed by everything—by the lies, by the rumors, by your own stupid decisions.

This was all your fault. You'd fucked up. 

You’d gotten so lost in the need to take control that you didn’t stop to think about the consequences. And now you were stuck in a nightmare that you couldn’t wake up from.

Sol didn’t say anything for a while. He just stood there, watching you with a mixture of frustration and concern. He wasn’t the type to offer comforting words, but you could feel his presence, steady and unwavering behind you.

But you couldn’t even look at him.

 You were too ashamed. Too angry at yourself.

"You really fucked yourself over, didn’t you?" Sol said quietly after a while, his voice low, almost like he was talking to himself. "All this for what? To get back at them? To prove something?"

You didn't respond. You couldn’t. 

The weight of everything was crushing you. Your mind felt like it was constantly spiraling, a mess of self-loathing and regret that you couldn't escape, no matter how hard you tried. The guilt gnawed at you, relentless and suffocating, leaving you with nothing but frustration and confusion.

"I told you not to do this," Sol's voice broke through your thoughts, softer now but still thick with frustration. "I knew this was a bad idea, but you—" He paused as if deciding not to push you further. You could almost hear him biting back his words, but it was too late. 

You spun around to face him, the anger and tension finally breaking free. "Just fuck off, okay?!" you snapped, the words sharp and laced with all the bottled-up emotion you hadn't let out yet. 

"You don't listen to me. Maybe quiet the box dye, it’s fucking your brain up." You couldn’t hold back anymore. “You don’t get it, okay? You don’t get what it’s like to feel like you have no control. Like everyone is just… talking about you, deciding who you are and what you’ve done. I didn’t want this, Sol. I didn’t want to get caught up in this shit, but here I am!"

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Sol just stood there, staring at you, his expression unreadable. But there was something in his red-orange eyes—something that made you hesitate, made your anger fizzle out for a split second. It was like a flicker of something deep, something that made you pause, unsure of what to do with it.

“Oh shit…” you mumbled, the weight of the words you’d just thrown at him hitting you harder than you expected.

Sol let out a breath, his tone quieter now. "Look, I’m sorry for not respecting your boundaries," he said, his voice soft, calm, but carrying that underlying sincerity you never expected from him. "And I promise it won’t happen again. You’re not alone in this." He stepped forward slightly, his eyes steady on yours. 

"I’m here, whether you want me to be or not."

You didn’t know how to respond. His words were unexpected, but there was something so honest in them, something that made your stomach twist. You didn’t even know if you could trust yourself to speak. His actions, his words, they didn’t make sense to you right now. You didn’t even understand what he was doing or what he wanted, but somehow, you knew he meant it.

“What…?” you muttered, still not sure if you were hearing him right. You frowned as Sol gave you a half-pitying look like he knew something you didn’t. "I was totally in the wrong, pushing you like that…” He said it with an almost apologetic tone, but before you could reply, he suddenly moved forward and hugged you.

You froze, caught off guard by the sudden closeness, his face pressing into your chest. His arms wrapped around you in a way that felt far too familiar, far too intimate, and for a moment, everything hit you like a wave.

His words, his actions—none of it made sense. Sure, he always let you push him around, always let you fuck him whenever you needed to blow off steam. 

But this? This was different. 

You’d never seen him act like this, not in the way that felt… obsessive. So why, then, did it all feel so wrong and yet, so right at the same time?

His voice came muffled from your chest. “You had every right to say that to me…” His words were softer now, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t expected from him.

You shifted awkwardly, still thrown off by the way he was holding you. "Well…" you mumbled, still trying to process everything, your words coming out uneven. "As long as you’re sorry, you asshole."

“I know I’m an asshole,” Sol replied with a sigh, a little smile tugging at his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something different there, something that made the space between you feel... softer, in a way.

For a moment, you both just sat there, the silence settling in, only the sound of your shaky breaths filling the room. Sol held you, letting you calm down, and slowly, you felt your body relax into him, even if you were still trying to make sense of everything. 

His warmth was a strange comfort, and as he kept you in his arms, you couldn’t ignore the sense of safety that washed over you despite how lost and confused you still felt inside.

You pulled away just enough to wipe the tears from your face, your hands trembling slightly as you did. You let out a shaky breath and pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. 

"I... I fucked up, Sol," you muttered, the words bitter on your tongue. It felt like you were admitting to something too big for you to truly grasp. "I thought I could control it, but now I’m just... stuck. And I don’t know how to fix it."

Sol didn’t say anything for a long moment, his eyes studying you, not offering any immediate solution, but his presence felt reassuring. He was there, steady, not pushing, not trying to fix it for you, just letting you be. His words finally came, quiet and unassuming. 

"I’ll help you figure it out," he said softly, and for once, it didn’t feel like a hollow promise. It felt like something he meant.

You didn’t push him away. For once, you didn’t feel the need to. Maybe it was because, deep down, you knew there was no easy way out of this anymore. Again, you were in too deep. The mess you’d created wasn’t something that could be cleaned up overnight. But maybe, just maybe, with him there, it wouldn’t be so bad. 

But still, a part of you knew—there was no going back. Not now. Not after everything that had already been set in motion. The weight of it pressed into your chest like a vice, but all you could do was watch as Sol, ever reckless, ever smug, sat there with a gun in his lap like it was just another piece of the game you were playing.

You stared at him, then at the gun, then back at him.

You were deadass over it.

"Sol." Your voice came out flat, caught somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion. "You can’t be serious."

That smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened, that usual glint of mischief in his eyes sharpening into something unreadable. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers ghosting over the grip of the gun.

"Dead serious."

A sigh pushed past your lips, heavy with frustration. You dragged a hand through your hair, nails digging into your scalp for a brief moment, like maybe if you pressed hard enough, you could force your brain to make sense of this.

"Our Bonnie and Clyde days are over," you muttered, the words coming out bitter like they left a bad taste in your mouth. "We already took care of the bitch-ass leader…" The unspoken part of that sentence hung in the air between you.

Because you know it was him that caused that.

Sol didn’t even try to defend himself. He just shrugged, casual as ever, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t confirmed, but he wasn’t denying it either. He never did. 

That was the thing about Sol—he always left just enough room for doubt. Just enough space for you to wonder whether you were paranoid or if he was just that good at covering his tracks.

You exhaled sharply, jaw tightening, and reached forward, taking the gun from him with careful hands. You weren’t afraid of it—not really—but something about the way it felt in your grasp made your stomach turn. Cold metal, heavier than you expected.

You moved to stand from your bed, trying to piece together just how insane this whole thing had become, but before you could even get your feet off the mattress, Sol’s fingers wrapped around your wrist. 

His grip was firm but not forceful—just enough to make you stop.

"Wait a sec," Sol said, his voice shifting into something unreadable, something that made you pause. His fingers tapped idly against the gunmetal, his eyes flicking toward you with a glint of amusement. "Do you know German?"

You blinked, thrown off. "What?"

His grin widened like he was enjoying some inside joke only he understood. "Right, right," he mused, almost like he was talking more to himself than to you. "This uni has all the majors except computer science and engineering. And they force you to take a language to ‘keep the culture alive.’ But you—" He pointed lazily at you. "You tested out of your requirements, didn’t you?"

Your confusion deepened, a chill creeping up your spine. "Yes—?" 

How the fuck does he even know that?

Sol reached into his bag again, rummaging for a second before pulling out a handful of small, polished bullets. He let them clatter onto the bedspread between you both, the dim light catching on the brass casings.

"Echt Luger rounds," he said, the German words rolling off his tongue with casual precision. His fingers traced one idly, spinning it between his thumb and forefinger.

You narrowed your eyes. "WWII-era. Scored them as a decorative piece—because you know—”

"You’re a dirtbag. Emo and all." You cut him off, deadpan.

Sol looked up, caught off guard for a fraction of a second. "Really?"

You just nodded. "Yes."

He rolled his eyes but let it slide, too preoccupied with whatever he was scheming. "Anyway…" He lifted one of the bullets again, twirling it lightly. "They’re basically like tranquilizers. Just enough force to break the skin, draw some blood, but no real damage. No organ penetration, no fatal wounds—just enough to make it look like a kill shot."

Your brows furrowed as you studied the rounds, turning one over between your fingers. It was unsettling how something so small could carry so much weight in the right hands.

"So…" you started, tilting your head slightly, arms crossing. "It looks like someone’s been shot and killed, but really, they’re just unconscious and bleeding?"

Sol nodded, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Exactly. When we shoot Abel and Cain, it'll look like they shot each other. By the time they wake up? They’ll be the laughingstock of the whole damn campus. Possibly even kicked out of school. Not to mention—" he leaned in slightly, smirking, "—no one’s gonna fuck with you after this."

He wasn’t wrong. It was an airtight setup. Humiliation, expulsion, and a clear message to the entire school—don’t cross you two. But there was still a piece missing.

"The note’s the punchline. How’d that turn out?" Sol asked, nodding toward your bag.

You didn’t answer right away, instead reaching for your bookbag and yanking it onto the bed. From inside, you pulled out one of Abel’s old papers, along with a separate sheet covered in your scrawled handwriting.

"First, tell me the similarity isn’t incredible," you said, placing them side by side.

Sol leaned in, scanning the papers with a slow grin creeping across his face. "Shit." He exhaled, shaking his head. "It’s almost perfect. Just make sure to rewrite it clean—don’t leave any fingerprints on the final note."

You nodded, already mentally noting the steps. "Okay…"

Sol’s gaze flicked to you, suddenly skeptical. "Also, how the hell did you even get his paper?"

You met his stare, deadpan. "None of your business."

He chuckled under his breath but didn’t push. Instead, he gestured toward the note, waiting for you to explain.

"Suicide notes have to be believable," you began, fingers drumming against the paper. "So I made it all dramatic—Abel and Cain, forced to live a lie, unable to reveal their forbidden love because they’re expected to be the ultimate straight heartthrobs." You read a few lines aloud in an overly serious tone before side-eyeing Sol.

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "That’s fucking ridiculous."

"That’s the point," you shot back. "The note is just enough to make people speculate, but not enough for anyone to outright disprove it."

Sol leaned back against the bedpost, nodding in approval. "Dumb it down a bit, make it digestible for the idiots, and we’re golden."

You agreed, already reaching for a fresh sheet of paper.

"Oh," he added, reaching into his bag once more. "Almost forgot—brought some props to sell the scene."

You raised an eyebrow as he pulled out a handful of small, folded love notes, a cheap-looking heart-shaped locket, and a half-empty pack of cigarettes.

“The evidence,” he smirked. “Gotta hammer it in."

You stared at him, then at the items, a slow exhale pushing past your lips. "You’re fucking insane."

His smirk only widened, dark amusement glinting in his eyes. "And you love it."

Do you?

Yeah, Sol is a bit weird sometimes—lowkey emo scary tall dude—but still, he cares about you. Maybe in a fucked-up, possessive way, but caring nonetheless. The kind of care that made your chest tighten, made you wonder if you should be wary of it or melt into it.

You sighed, the tension between you thick and electric, before shifting onto your knees. Your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as his hands instinctively settled at your hips, gripping you like he had no intention of letting go. 

His gaze burned into yours, intense and unreadable, but beneath the chaos of his mind, there was something raw there—something unspoken.

Without a word, he took your hand in his, flipping it over and pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of your wrist. His lips were warm against your skin, his breath featherlight, but the way his grip tightened on you sent a shiver crawling down your spine.

Then he moved.

Before you could fully process it, Sol had you pinned beneath him, his body pressing you into the mattress as his mouth crashed onto yours. The kiss was deep, consuming—desperate. His fingers dug into your hips as he kissed you like he needed it, like he was starving for you.

And god, he was.

Every time he touched you, it was like he was trying to memorize the feeling, like he was terrified you’d slip away.

His lips left yours only to trail lower, dragging along your jaw before settling at your neck. He inhaled, and fuck—rosemary. You always smelled like fresh rosemary. He didn’t know why it drove him insane, but it did. His teeth grazed your skin, and then—bite.

A sharp gasp slipped from your lips, and god, he fucking loved that sound. That lovely, breathy noise that only he could pull from you. His tongue flicked over the fresh mark before he bit again, harder this time, feeling you squirm beneath him.

Fuck.

Every little sound you made, every breathy exhale, every shiver that ran through you because of him—it was all his doing.

And he was going to make damn sure you never forgot that.

The night blurred into something feverish, something tangled in sheets and desperate hands. Sol made sure to fuck your brains out, so deep, so rough, so unbearably good that your nails raked down his back, leaving angry red scratches in their wake. He didn’t care—if anything, he welcomed the sting, craved the proof of it, and reveled in the way your body clung to his like it was made to take him.

Your moans, the way you whimpered his name, the way you fucking trembled under him—it was enough to send him over the edge, enough to make him lose himself in you entirely.

And when it was over, when your body finally went limp beneath him, exhausted and spent, Sol didn’t move. He stayed pressed against you, chest rising and falling in sync with yours, fingers still gripping your thighs like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Not yet.

Not ever.

But sleep? Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

Sol lay awake long after you’d knocked out, your breaths slow and even, face buried in the pillows. He couldn’t help it—he just watched you. So soundly, so peacefully… so pretty. All the words really.

The bruises you’d left on him—teeth marks at his collarbone, nail marks at his ribs—they ached, but he didn’t mind. So what if it looked like you were just using him for his body? If that’s what you wanted, that’s what he’d give. He didn’t care. 

Not when he got to have you like this, not when you were his.

With a quiet sigh, Sol finally sat up, pushing off the sheets and heading to your bathroom. The dim light flickered on, casting sharp angles over his tired face as he leaned against the sink, exhaling slowly. His red-orange eyes traced the marks you left on him in the mirror, fingers brushing over the fresh scratches down his back, his sides. 

Red. Deep. Yours.

Then, his gaze dropped to his hand.

The rosemary necklace—your necklace—dangling from his fingers.

For a moment, he just stared at it, rolling the small pendant between his fingertips. His grip tightened, then loosened. Then, with slow deliberation, he brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against the cool metal. His eyes fluttered shut.

You’d need it.

He’d need it.

Because you, this, everything—it was in God’s hands now.

And God help anyone who tried to take you away from him.

It wasn’t long before dawn came in. The night air was thick, clinging to your skin like a second layer, the scent of damp earth and pine filling your lungs. You stood in the woods, tired but ready, eyes sharp despite the weight of everything pressing down on you. 

Your fingers flexed against the cool metal of the gun in your hands before you tucked it behind your back, pressing it firmly against your spine.

Are you ready for this?

A voice snapped you from your thoughts. "Hey, babe. You really here?"

You turned slowly, masking every bit of tension behind something effortless—something playful. 

Abel and Cain. Right on time. 

"Hey," you greeted, lips curling into a teasing smirk. "Glad you could make it."

They grinned, stepping closer, oblivious to the tension humming beneath your skin. The three of you stood there for a moment, suspended in the night, the setup almost awkward in its anticipation. 

Then Cain huffed, running a hand through his hair. "So… what now? Should I whip it out?"

You bit back a laugh, playing along with ease. "Yeah, go ahead. Right here. Let’s see what you’re working with."

Cain smirked, his posture relaxed, a hint of cockiness lacing his stance. Abel, beside him, shook his head, lips tugging into something between amusement and exasperation. 

Men. Always so easy.

"So, what now?" Abel drawled, brow arching as he sized you up. "You want us to just—take our clothes off? Right in front of you?"

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it, letting the silence stretch just long enough for anticipation to settle in. 

Then, with slow deliberation, you nodded. "Mhm. Every last piece."

They hesitated, just for a beat, before exchanging glances. But it wasn’t hesitation out of uncertainty—it was intrigue. A silent, unspoken challenge.

How far would you go?

Cain chuckled first, his fingers already moving to his belt, metal clinking softly as he loosened it. "All right," he muttered, clearly unbothered, the smugness never leaving his voice. "You’re the boss."

Abel followed suit, reaching for the hem of his hoodie before tugging it over his head in one swift motion. The dim light caught on the sharp lines of his muscles, his toned frame flexing slightly in the cool air. 

Jesus fucking Christ. You hadn’t expected them to be this built. At least they had the decency to keep their boxers on.You smirked, tilting your head as if admiring your work. Too easy.

"Abel, stand to the right, in front of me. Cain, to the left." They obeyed without question, their movements fluid, eager to see where this was going. The way they adjusted their stances, the way their eyes never left yours—it was almost laughable how predictable they were.

Abel smirked as he looked you over, a knowing glint in his gaze. "And what about you?" he asked, voice dipping into something lower, something teasing. "You gonna strip for us too? Or just watching?"

Your lips curled into a slow grin, eyes gleaming as you stepped closer, letting your presence pull them in further. 

Closer. Just a little more.

"Oh, I’m definitely getting undressed," you murmured, watching how their eyes trailed you. "But I want you two to do it for me." You let the words linger, letting them feel the weight of it before adding, voice smooth as silk—

"Rip my clothes right off."

Their expressions flickered—excitement, amusement, interest twisting into something sharper. Their grins widened, their bodies tensed in anticipation. They barely spared each other a glance before shifting forward, ready to take the bait.

Right where you wanted them.

And just like that—the pieces fell into place.

The woods swallowed every sound except the rustling of leaves under your feet and the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing. You could hear the faint chirping of crickets, and the occasional distant hoot of an owl, but in this clearing, nothing else moved—except for the three of you.

Abel and Cain stood before you, their smirks widening, the hunger in their eyes unmistakable. 

Like lions ready to pounce.

You lifted your hands slightly, fingers curling, drawing them in. "All right, boys," you murmured, voice dropping into something sultry, teasing. "On three."

They nodded, anticipation thrumming between them.

"One."

Their muscles tensed, Abel rolling his shoulders, Cain shifting his weight.

"Two."

A flicker of something in their eyes—excitement, impatience. 

They were ready.

"Three."

The word barely left your lips before the night erupted.

CRACK.

Two gunshots shattered the fragile quiet, ringing through the trees like the voice of God itself. The impact was immediate. Abel’s smirk melted into pure shock as his body jerked, violently convulsing as the bullet struck home—right in the neck, just a breath away from his heart. 

A sick, wet gurgle bubbled up from his throat, eyes wide and uncomprehending as his knees buckled beneath him.

Then—dead weight. The forest floor held him now.

Cain hesitated, just for a heartbeat, before instincts overrode whatever stupidity had kept him standing. “Shit!” he muttered, his breath catching before his feet moved.

He ran.

And you? You laughed.

A sharp, breathless burst of amusement tore through you, so abrupt and visceral that you had to clamp a hand over your mouth, trying to stifle the sheer delight curling through your ribs. God, that was good.

Abel—pass out.

Cain—running like a scared little bitch he was.

You doubled over slightly, shoulders shaking. "Oh my god—" you wheezed between giggles, eyes flicking from Cain’s retreating figure back to Abel’s crumpled body.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Sol, who appeared from behind the tree, however, was not entertained. His sigh cut through the night like a blade, dark eyes narrowing in unmistakable irritation. "Did you miss him completely or something?" His voice carried over to you, exasperation curling around every syllable.

You tilted your head at him, still grinning beneath your fingers, breathless from laughter. "Yeah, but—" Another laugh bubbled up as you pointed at the direction Cain ran in. "Don’t worry, it was worth it just to see the look—"

"Don't move, pumpkin," Sol snapped, already turning away, his patience thin. "I’ll get him back."

He didn’t wait for your reply. His long, steady strides carried him into the trees, his dark figure melting into the shadows of the forest as if he belonged there. The gun in his hand—so much bigger than yours—glinted under the pale light filtering through the canopy, black and menacing.

With a sharp click, he cocked it.

And then—gone. Just like that.

The woods swallowed him whole, leaving you alone in the quiet aftermath, your laughter still lingering like a ghost in the cold air.

The silence wrapped around you. The wind slithered through the trees, rustling the leaves with ghostly fingers, whispering secrets you couldn’t quite catch. Somewhere in the distance, an morning dove called out—a slow, drawn-out sound that sent an eerie shiver down your spine.  

You exhaled, long and steady, but the cold still settled deep into your bones. The adrenaline that had once thrummed in your veins, hot and electric, was fading now—leaving behind something heavier. Something quieter.  

Your arms folded around yourself, a subconscious attempt at warmth.  

And then—your gaze dropped.  

Abel.

He lay sprawled on the forest floor, motionless, starkly contrasting to the wild energy that had filled the space just moments ago. His body was unnaturally still, limbs twisted where they had fallen, his mouth slightly parted as if caught mid-breath. The pool of blood beneath him was thick, seeping into the earth, dark and viscous under the slivers of moonlight breaking through the canopy.  

It looked… too dark.  

Your fingers twitched.  

His chest. Was it rising?

Your breath caught in your throat. You swore—just for a second—there had been a flicker of movement. A barely-there shift in his ribs, a whisper of breath that shouldn’t exist.  

No. That wasn’t possible.  

Sol didn’t lie to you. Right?

Your fingers curled, nails pressing into your palms. Sol knew what he was doing. He never missed. And yet…  

A sudden gust of wind swept through the trees, rustling Abel’s blood-matted hair. You flinched.  

The forest was alive with motion—branches snapping, leaves rustling, heavy footfalls pounding against the earth. The adrenaline that had begun to fade roared back to life as you listened, heart thrumming in your ears.

Oh… no.

You heard Sol from afar, “Fuckin’—hold still, asshole!” His voice rang out through the trees, frustration sharp like a knife’s edge. Cain was running like his life depended on it—because it did. His breath came ragged, his legs burning as he wove through the undergrowth, trying to lose Sol in the tangle of trees. 

But Sol was faster, relentless, his boots striking the dirt with the precision of a hunter closing in on his prey.

They circled back—Cain, desperate, Sol, determined.

And then—you.

Kneeling beside Abel’s body, frozen, watching. Cain burst into view first, panic flashing across his face as his gaze locked onto you. He skidded slightly, trying to correct his path, but the split-second hesitation cost him.

CRACK.

A gunshot ripped through the air once more. Sol had fired his gun, but the bullet barely grazed Cain’s shoulder. A clean shot was impossible—he was still moving too fast.

"Shoot!" Sol’s voice cut through the chaos, raw, commanding. His eyes snapped to yours, burning with urgency. “Fucking shoot!”

Your breath stuttered, but your fingers didn’t.

BANG.

Your gun kicked back, the force jolting up your arm, but your aim was true. The silver bullet struck Cain square in the chest. He let out a strangled sound—something between a gasp and a whimper—before his body collapsed to the ground with a dull, lifeless thud.

Everything went still. Your hands were trembling.

What have you done…?

Sol exhaled a sharp, satisfied breath. “Thank fucking god.” He strode over, as composed as ever, as if this were just another night.

You barely registered his words, your eyes locked onto Cain’s unmoving form. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and spreading, just like Abel’s.

Sol crouched beside the body, reaching for his gun. He didn’t hesitate. With practiced ease, he placed it in Cain’s limp hand, curling his fingers around the grip. 

Then he turned to you, holding out his palm expectantly.

You stared at him.

His eyes met yours, unwavering. "Your gun, pumpkin."

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the silver weapon still warm in your grasp.

Sol’s voice softened—just slightly. 

A reminder. A reassurance. A warning.

"They shot each other, remember?"

The cold air bit at your skin, every inhale sharp, laced with the scent of damp earth and blood. Your pulse thundered a wild rhythm that refused to settle. 

The weight of what you had just done clung to you like a second skin—Cain’s body hitting the ground, the way Abel’s hand now gripped the gun Sol had placed there, the sickening realization of what you had done.

But there was no time to wait. Silly silly…

Then—sirens. Distant but growing louder. 

Your head snapped up, breath hitching. Red and blue lights flashing quick beyond the tree line, flashes of color bleeding through the dim lighting. A voice rang out, sharp and authoritative. "We got something!" Panic shot through you like ice in your veins. 

Sol moved before you could. With one smooth motion, he grabbed you—arms locked firm around your waist, hoisting you up before you could protest. "Shit—hold on, pumpkin." 

And then he ran.

Sol moved with purpose, every footstep controlled, every breath steady. It should have been impossible—how quickly he reacted, how effortlessly he carried you through the trees. He knew these woods. The paths, the turns, the dips in the earth. As if he’d studied them, traced every possible escape route long before this night.

Was it always supposed to be like this?

The voices behind you faded into the distance, but they were still there—too close. The snap of twigs, the rustling of disturbed underbrush.

They were searching for you two.

Sol didn’t slow down nor didn’t hesitate. Even as the trees thinned and the open road came into view, he kept moving, his grip unwavering, his body a shield between you and whatever threat lurked behind.

And then—you saw it.

The car you guys took, just parked just off the side of the road. Sol reached it in seconds, yanking the door open with one hand, and setting you down with the other. His movements were fluid, and practiced.

Again, like he’d done this before.

"Get in." His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—something sharp, something unreadable.

You hesitated, only for a second. Your hands trembled as you slid into the passenger seat, fingers gripping the edge of your clothes. The adrenaline was wearing off now, the weight of what had just happened settling in.

Sol slammed the door shut behind him, “Make out with me.” he somewhat ordered.

Your head snapped toward him, breath still uneven. “What?”

Sol had already pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere into the backseat. For the first time since the gunshot rang out, you looked at him—really looked at him. Like you don’t mean his well built body that you ever so tempted to kiss.

His jaw was tight, his brows furrowed in focus. But beneath that… there was something else. Something cold.

No fear.

No guilt.

Something far more dangerous. Satisfaction.

And that terrified you.

“Make out with me,” he repeated, reaching for you, hands already settling against your thighs. His grip was firm—assured.

Your pulse stuttered, confusion mixing with the lingering adrenaline in your veins. “Sol, this isn’t—”

“They’re coming,” he murmured, voice steady but low. “And if they see two kids sucking face instead of suspects covered in gunpowder, they won’t think twice about letting us go.”

The realization struck you like ice water.

Your stomach twisted, but you nodded.

Before you could overthink it, his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was deep, consuming. His body pressed against yours, hands sliding up your waist, heat radiating between you in the confined space. His breath was warm, lips urgent against yours, but even as he kissed you—whispering how much he loved you between every stolen gasp—something felt… off.

Like you weren’t being kissed. Like you were being swallowed.

Like this was never about love—only survival.

You let it happen anyway.

You didn’t resist when he shifted, pulling you closer, his hoodie long forgotten as your fingers tangled in his hair. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the way his touch demanded you be his—but you felt like you were losing yourself.

Then—a knock on the window.

Your entire body went rigid.

Sol moved before you could react, his arms pulling his hoodie over you, shielding you from view before his head turned, eyes flicking toward the window. The cop stood there, face already turning red as he coughed into his fist, looking anywhere but at the two of you. Sol took his time rolling the window down, his expression unreadable. “Yes?”

The officer cleared his throat, still avoiding eye contact. “Uh—gunshots were reported in the area. Just need you guys to clear out, all right?”

Sol barely blinked. “Yeah. Sure.”

The officer nodded stiffly, clearly eager to leave, but just as he turned away, his radio crackled to life. “Status update. What’s going on down there?”

“Nothing,” the cop responded quickly, walking back into the woods. “Just some young adults getting carried away. The area’s clear.” The second the officer disappeared, Sol exhaled, his body finally relaxing against the seat.

You barely moved. You could still hear your pulse in your ears.

Sol glanced at you from the driver’s seat, something smug flickering behind his eyes. He reached over, running a hand down your thigh—almost reassuring, almost possessive.

“See?” he murmured. “Told you I got you.”

You forced yourself to swallow, gripping his hoodie tighter around your body.

You weren’t sure if that was meant to make you feel better.

Your hands trembled as you looked down at them, barely recognizing the fingers, the skin, and the way they clenched into fists like they belonged to someone else. The phantom weight of the gun still pressed against your palm, and the recoil still echoed in your bones.

“Take me home,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sol’s hands tightened on the wheel, his knuckles flexing before he turned to you. “Pumpkin…” His voice was low, coaxing, but you felt the shift—the tension rolling off him, the way he wasn’t going to let you just leave this moment behind.

You turned your face away, but he didn’t let you go.

His hands found you, firm and insistent. He pulled you into his lap with an effortless motion, trapping you there, his grip pressing against your face, forcing you to look at him. His skin was fever-warm, his fingers splayed against your jaw as he tilted your head up.

And then—he saw himself.

Tears streaked your cheeks, glistening against your skin. Your lips parted, breath hitching, but Sol’s grip didn’t loosen.

Your chest burned. Your body shook.

And then it snapped.

“WE KILLED THEM.” Your voice cracked, raw, and unfiltered. “We fucking killed Abel and Cain, Sol!”

He didn’t flinch.

You shoved at his chest, but he held you still. “And you—” Your breath hitched as a new wave of realization struck you like a gunshot to the ribs. “You tricked me once again, unaware.”

Sol’s eyes flickered.

Your fingers curled around his wrists, digging in.

“At the start, you switched my drink,” you spat, voice trembling with fury. “You—fucking—switched my hangover drink for BLUE CLEANER.” Your voice cracked again, but you didn’t care. “You fucking LIED to me. And now—after everything—all you want to do is make out with me?”

Sol exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. “Yes.”

“ECHT LUGER BULLETS, SOL.” Your breath hitched as the weight of your own words crushed down on you.

Sol tilted his head, studying you, his expression unreadable. But then—his eyes softened, and he smiled, just barely. “Look,” he murmured, voice almost affectionate, too calm. “You believed it because you wanted to believe it.”

His fingers brushed over your cheek, catching the tears before they could fall further. “Deep down, pumpkin, you wanted to kill your bitch-ass leader.” His voice dipped, smooth, persuasive. 

“You wanted Abel and Cain dead.”

You snapped. “I DIDN’T WANT ANYONE TO DIE!” You pushed against his chest, your heart hammering against your ribs, breath coming too fast, too sharp. “I just—I just wanted to be free. I just wanted to stop feeling like I was constantly being judged—”

Sol clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Everywhere you go,” he murmured, “there are gonna be judgmental people.”

You glared at him, but the fire in your chest—rage, grief, something deeper, something unspoken—twisted into something unrecognizable. It burned, spreading through your ribs like a sickness, clawing at your throat.

And then—your breath hitched.

Because he was smiling.

Not in amusement. Not in triumph. But in something far worse.

His red-orange eyes gleamed, the heart-shaped pupils wide, blown out with something dangerous, something devoted. It wasn’t quite love, wasn’t quite insanity, but something in between.

Something unshakable.

His fingers brushed against your throat, slow, deliberate. A soft touch—contrasting the brutal weight of his presence. Then, a curl.His knuckles dragged over your pulse, feeling it race beneath your skin. Then, his fingers twisted into your rosemary necklace, tugging.

Not enough to hurt.

Not enough to choke.

Just enough to pull you forward, to leave you breathless, to let his warmth settle against your lips. His breath, hot and steady, ghosted over your skin.

“Our love,” he whispered, voice silk and steel, “is God, after all.”

Your whole body went still. The words wrapped around you like chains, thick, heavy—drowning you. The air between you suffocated. The weight of his devotion pressed down, crushing, inescapable. 

There was no running. No fighting.

Not anymore.

Your hands—your hands.

The same hands you once swore to keep clean, the same hands that once trembled in prayer, the same hands that clutched at salvation—

Tainted. Drenched. Bloody.

Sol moved before you could think before you could stop him. His lips crashed against yours, demanding, consuming—claiming.

There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in his movements. He kissed you with purpose, with finality, like sealing a deal that had long been written in blood.

His hands gripped you, firm, one curling into your hair, the other splaying against the small of your back, pressing you against him. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip, coaxing a gasp, and he took it, and swallowed it like he needed it to breathe. Like you were his oxygen, his altar, his sacrament.

You didn’t move.

You let him.

Because at the end of the day—

This was your fault.

You had dragged yourself into this hell, into his hands, into his arms. The weight of it all pressed against your skin like a brand, burning, permanent. There was no undoing it. No redemption. No salvation.

You and Sol were tied together by God. 

A twisted, cruel god—one that had abandoned you the moment you took that first step into damnation. 

Once, you had been an angel.

A believer.

The rosary beads dug into your palm, their familiar ridges offering no comfort now—not when his heat surrounded you, not when his hands knew your body better than prayer ever had. You had whispered Ave Marias in the dark, trembling fingers clutching at faith like a lifeline. 

But faith was a fragile thing, and the devil—Sol was real.

His breath was hot against your throat, his lips tracing the frantic pulse beneath your skin as if savoring the way your heart raced for him.

Only for him.

The car was too small, the world outside too distant. There was only this: the weight of his cock deep inside you, the sinful roll of his hips dragging a broken sound from your lips.

"Look at you," he murmured, "All those pretty prayers, and yet here you are—riding the devil himself."

You should have recoiled. 

Should have crossed yourself and begged for forgiveness.

Instead, you arched into his touch, his name a plea on your tongue.

His fingers tightened on your hips, guiding you, using you, his groan vibrating against your mouth as you took him deeper. The rosary tangled between your joined hands, the sacred and the profane colliding—just like the two of you.

"Fuck," he hissed, teeth grazing your jaw, his breath hot, ragged. His hands dug into your hips, possessive, unrelenting. "Still so tight. Still fighting it."

But you weren’t fighting.

Not anymore.

Every slow, deliberate drag of him inside you unraveled another thread of your resolve, another carefully constructed lie you’d told yourself.

That you were strong. That you were good.

That you could walk away from this. From him.

Sol’s laugh was soft, triumphant, curling against your skin as your thighs trembled around him. His grip tightened—possessive, knowing. "There it is," he purred, swallowing the moan you couldn’t bite back, lips crashing against yours in something more than hunger. More than needed.

It was devotion.

And God help you—so were you.

Because what was the point of fighting anymore?

You tried. At least, you told yourself you did. A half-hearted rebellion as you arched against him as if the space between you would bring back something you had already lost.

But Sol was faster. Stronger. His hands caught you—iron and unyielding. "Don't run from me, pumpkin..." he growled, dragging you back into him.

You gasped the stretch burning, the pleasure a sharp edge that bordered on pain. Your nails dug into his shoulders, desperate, as if you could claw your way free. As if you hadn’t already made your choice.

But your body betrayed you.

Betrayed you in how it clenched around him, pulled him deeper, and welcomed the very thing that had ruined you. His laugh was low, smug. Victorious. "That’s it. No one takes me like you do. Such a pretty angel...”

The words twisted inside you like a knife.

You weren’t an angel. Not anymore.

Your rosemary wasn’t stopping him. God wasn’t stopping him.

God wasn’t saving you.

Because your body—was already left in the hands of the devil.

[mirrorcatcreditcard]

Take I haven't seen in the fandom yet:

Luka doesn't want to be freed.

"Now, MirrorCatCreditcard," you may say, "that's nonsense. Any human would want freedom from that system."

If you're thinking I'm gonna convince you that Luka doesn't know he wants freedom yet, you're wrong. I'm here to talk about indoctrination/conditioning, grooming/emotional manipulation, my own experience with those topics, and how all of the above connects with Luka as a character. If a deep dive like this is too much for you, please tap out for your own sake.

Luka's life was planned before he even existed. There has never ever been an alternative option. There is no life for Luka as anything but what Herperu chose. Everything in his life has been planned to have him be the perfect pet human idol. That is what he must be.

Fandom, I don't think most of you actually understand this and have dissected what this means (shout-out to the Luka stans who are getting there/have guessed similar things). These words we know have alternatives and are not set in stone are Luka's "gravity makes rain fall to the earth" and "water makes things wet." They are facts so deeply ingrained within him that even if shown the contrary he remarks that the person showing them is just disillusioned.

Take his commentary on Mizi and Hyun-A in the art book. He looks down on Mizi for not being able to control any of her emotions. How does he talk about Hyun-A? He has her at 70% affection yet shows a patronizing attitude—she's the one in denial at reality.

Now, how did we get here? How is a human so "delusional" and set in the control?

He's been conditioned.

Some of you don't know what I mean by this from experience and/or research, and count yourself fortunate that you don't. I pray you never experience such things firsthand. Don't worry about ignorance. Familiar or not, I will explain.

When you are surrounded by only one truth and reality, that is the way you interpret life. If a parent tells a child "the moon goes to sleep during the day," until the child learns otherwise, that's what they believe. Now take that child-like belief and add some toxic environments to the mix. With time, any other kid would learn that the earth rotates from their peers or adults around them. But if the creatures around them all say and believe the same thing "the moon goes to sleep during the day," then that is what the child continues to believe. Years of that same thing being the only truth make that false knowledge into a fact in the person's head, and everything that supports that fact is taken as truth or on the right path to truth.

"This is kinda silly though," you guys are no doubt murmuring, "All of this is a hypothetical. Give us something that makes sense or that someone could actually see happen in our society."

I'll give you my own experience then. My parents taught me that God is real. My parents taught me that I will be damned I do not follow the commandments of the scriptures. I didn't need to worry though. As long as I was obedient to the God who loved me and wanted what was best, I would be saved despite being born an awful sinful human. I was homeschooled, only interacted with people of similar beliefs, and taught that people too different from me in ideology or with radical beliefs against my own were trying to harm me and my family. I believed the people who raised me because why would people who love me lie to me? My task was simple. I needed to obey God and love everyone, especially them. Love meant giving up my entire being and living only as servant and sacrifice. After all, being selfless to the utmost was the greatest form of love.

Let's go back to Luka. His guardian, Herperu, when questioned about any surprises while training Luka, stated not only that he was the one who endured the "tough moments" but also that "(Luka) owes his success to me, and naturally, he should be grateful." This sentiment is echoed by Luka in his interview (shown on Patreon). My god, it's giving parents with disabled kids who brag on social media about how much trouble their kid is and how much they do for them. Sickening. This shows exactly what environment Luka has lived in though.

When you are manipulated into having something as your reality, everything else is fiction and delusion.

Let's review what exactly is Luka's reality.

Heperu is the one suffering if Luka has any difficulties being obedient.

Gratitude is what Herperu is owed because he goes through so much trouble to make Luka a star.

Love/care is shown by owning another's autonomy.

Emotions and bodily reactions exist, sure, but someone should be able to control them; and if they can't, someone should control those reactions for them.

Segyein are superior and the good ones for dealing with humans. Humans must be disciplined and shaped to how an segyein wants it to act to be considered deserving of this goodness.

(Luka)'s perfection is defined by his guardian.

Luka's life is directly connected to being the perfect performer. His guardian praises his abilities with the statement that no other pet human will ever be as perfect as him yet leaves an underlying threat saying that it will be no good if a pet is not trained properly. This has probably been mentally (if not physically) beaten into Luka's mind: his greatness doesn't stop him from being able to be disposed of. The human instinct to want to live has been explained to him as Heperu's wish for him to live and that has been further distorted as a duty to live for the stage he has been placed on.

Luka believes fully that there is a debt in play here. In his interview, he mentions repaying love. He thinks the relationship between fan and idol is completely normal, encouraged, and healthy. Performance is the most important thing. Being where he is is a privilege.

There's a chain here:

Heperu indoctrinated Luka into believing what he says is all true.

The guardian manipulated him easily to do what he wanted with his body and mind.

The years have been spent constantly conditioning Luka to be the god who encapsulated fantasies for the audience.

He is continually being groomed to exist for the entertainment and enjoyment of segyein.

Circle back to my first point of this post. Luka does not want to be freed. He doesn't know what freedom actually is. He sees freedom as either foolish denials of reality (and doesn't consider that actual freedom) or as controlling the song and stage when he performs (something he learned from Hyuna). He cannot want something he cannot understand. He cannot want freedom in the sense the fandom keeps speaking about.

It's funny. From the moment Luka was revealed to be hated by the fandom, I wanted to know why. Instead of digging and finding horrific deeds, I instead found a character who portrayed my own traumas and experiences. I instantly attached and delved deeply into learning about this thirty year old singer. Why does he express himself in a certain way? Where do we first see mention of him? Who does he have emotions towards? How was he trained? What makes Luka himself? I have past essays/replies to other's theories if you're interested, but in this one I got personal and didn't sugarcoat the facts. If the fandom can't handle deep thought, we shouldn't be discussing this incredibly profound and depth-filled web series.

As always, thank you for your time, and I hope my thoughts allowed you to open your mind to new things. Mostly, I hope you enjoyed them 🫶

[raidark]

when you think about it, it's really something that Game of Thrones took the woman that was fighting to end the current structures of power and injustices of the world and saving all the oppresed and decided to transform her into a villain compared to Satan (like, she is outright called Her Satanic Majesty in the Season 8's script) who without any reason ends up burning half a million of innocent people instead of outright targetting the one person responsible for all her misery, and then is murdered by poor crying man who swore he loved her but knows what is best

Putting aside all the HUGE problems with all of the writing, I just find it fascinating. How the end of Game of Thrones is the restoration of the status quo. The council talking about repairing and opening brothels. How the Starks, yes, despite all their suffering during the series, still remain in power at the end of everything, despite being as bad or worse than the Targaryen, not even acknowledging their sins and how much their legacy and position was built through blood war genocide and conquest, how it was the First Men who, in the TV series continuity, caused the creation of the White Walkers

Like. Of course Daenerys had to be villanized. She was too dangerous. Her ideas couldn't be tolerated. What the world needed was... to keep the status quo that benefits and oppresses the same people again and again. The best the latter can get is a little time of liberation before the rest of the world, leaded and convinced by the same powerful classes, determine you got too much and you don't get to exist or to live anymore. Isn't that what we have been watching for the last years? How everything we thought was gained has been taken and is still being taken from us, so casually? Our right to decide, to feel, to live and exist? How the supposed "mercy" is just a lie until they get tired of pretending and show they had not changed at all?

[impactrueno]

🪲Beetlejuice as Mephistopheles😈

so you guys might've seen that my masquerade comic has BJ wearing this funny little get up after people were expecting me to draw him wearing the Phantom's Red Death costume.

just who is Mephistopheles?

our devilishly charismatic fiend friend Mephisto is the reason we use the term "Faustian bargain" to refer to a deal with the devil. in the legend, Faust was an alchemist who ended up selling his soul to Mephistopheles in order to gain knowledge, power and pleasure. he is, quite literally, a trickster demon full of wit and a taste for irony looking to get something out of you. sound familiar?

of course, deals with the devil didn't originate with Faust, and neither did the trope of the devil being a charming and witty character. Faust just popularized it and greatly influenced later characters following this trope. Hades from Hercules is a pretty solid example, since he takes after Satan more than he does the actual Hades from greek mythology (which is on purpose, since the movie plays with christian elements for comedic effect, like the muses singing gospel and Hercules being like a combination of Jesus Christ Superstar and Superman.)

every now and then i see people complain that Lydia referring to Beetlejuice as a "trickster demon" in BJBJ messes with the lore, because "he's supposed to be a ghost," but he has always been more demon than ghost if you ask me. "trickster demon" is a perfect descriptor for him: he has a specific summoning ritual, powers beyond what normal ghosts can do, and is always always trying to tempt people into chaos and tricking them into making a deal. i'll give you knowledge, but your soul is mine. i'll save your loved ones, but you'll have to marry me.

despite this Beetlejuice and Mephistopheles are both funny characters, hardly menacing. doing fun little magic tricks and mocking wordplay, even though they can (and will) ruin your life. yet at the same time, they're not quite as evil as they might appear at first. it's always funny noting how Beetlejuice in the movies technically stuck to his word the entire time. surprisingly high level of integrity for someone like him, but that's part of why he's so great imo.

the scene in the original movie where Beetlejuice shows up as a circus attraction to get rid of the yuppies that came to Winter River to gentrify the town into a tourist trap is just the kind of thing Mephistopheles would do. same with how he gets rid of Rory in BJBJ, playing the role of the therapist to someone who used psychobabble to manipulate Lydia. ironic twists mocking human sins, that's what Beetlejuice is all about when he's punishing somebody, and it can all be traced back to Mephistopheles.

Mephistopheles is a proto-Beetlejuice, basically. or Beetlejuice is a modern Mephistopheles, however you want to look at it.

ok but why am i talking about this? well first of all, adhd. also this is one of my favorite character archetypes. i've always wanted to put my oc Rocky in a story where he's a Mephisto-type of figure. i used to think that the closest i got to that was when i crossovered him with Beetlejuice (you had to be there) but writing this post i...just remembered something. (feel free to skip the next paragraph, it has nothing to do with Beetlejuice lol)

i have this unfinished short story i started to write a while back, in mid 2018. i was miserable, going through a really bad depressive episode, and i was looking for something that could inspire me to create again and get back on my feet. just to practice and for shits and giggles i started writing a simple freeform story where a character named [redacted], who was a stand-in for myself, is suffering from writers block despite not being a writer, and basically wants to be good at writing. while muttering something about how he'd even "make a deal with the devil to become a good writer," he accidentally ends up summoning "the devil" (it's just Rocky) who's all silly and charismatic and offering him a deal. what i wrote ends there, i never finished it. but very soon after that, i rediscovered The Simpsons and started writing Those Springfield Kids. fast forward to a few years later, my SpringKids versions of the characters end up becoming part of an official couch gag animated by The Simpsons team. so. i guess...the deal worked? spooky lol (my Faustian downsides are 1. i can never finish anything i start and 2. i'm stuck here in Venezuela.)

anyway! i originally wrote this as a thread on twitter so i could introduce people to Mephistopheles since i was going to make a reference in the masquerade comic with BJ's costume. i just added a little bit more stuff (and the personal anecdote above) in this post. i would've posted this much earlier but on the day i was going to do it, my blog got nuked. now that i got it back, i can post this!

bonus: the shin megami tensei version of mephistopheles, plus david who is a reference to camille saint-saëns Danse Macabre, which i've ALSO referenced in my beetlejuice stuff a couple of times

ty for reading

next time i yap like this it'll be about the gravediggers from hamlet and how they're another core beetlejuice archetype. ESPECIALLY musical beetlejuice.

[desireangel]

Infernal Desires | Part One

Aemond Targaryen x fem!Reader

Synopsis: When your family is caught up in treasonous scandal, the Prince Regent makes an offer that is impossible to refuse. To avoid what certainly would have been death by his sword, your family promises you to a man who is followed by whispers of violence and sin.

Warnings: mdni 18+! Strictly. Dark-ish ??? Aemond! Bad language, reader is implied to be from a certain family but not really, rushed & unedited. Sexual tension, allusions to sex, mentions of death and killing, Aemond gets angry handsy, hair pulling, mention of the noose bc Aemond would never tell just anyone how he feels. This is mainly a word vomit - I am once again incapable of limiting my writing to one part.

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: aaand I’m back with a rewrite of an old fic I started last year! hopefully this is somewhat decent to follow along with - I wrote this while severely sleep deprived, stressed about procrastinating my uni work and knackered from work. Let me know if we are even interested in a part 2 or if I’ve missed any warnings!

It is a debt to be paid and an alliance to be made, that is all it is. 

Easy enough for them to say. After all, it was you who suffered from the mistakes of your family and not them. They may as well have left you to the dangers of King’s Landing with nothing more than a shattered dignity and the tears that trailed down your cheeks. 

Shit. Crying wasn’t going to do anything and while you never intend to present yourself as weak to anyone, there was nothing you could do to stop the angry tears that welled in your eyes. You wondered if your parents truly pained to see their daughter cry or if the tremble in your mother’s lip was nothing more than a pretence. 

Your father stared at the ground by your feet. “It was not meant to come to this.”

“But it did. Are you really going to barter me to–”

“We are not bartering you. Stop saying that,” He snapped. “All you will have to do is take the title as his wife and give him children. It cannot be that bad.”

The glare you sent his way was full of malice and rage. How could he say that? You were better than that, smarter than that and the thought of being reduced to who knows what that man had in store for you as his wife - they may as well have cut your tongue out and made you a slave. Knowing that your family, whom you loved endlessly, were so sure of selling you so easily to a cruel man like Aemond Targaryen caused a dull ache in your chest. 

It seemed hard to breathe through the betrayal, your chest heavy with deceit and heartbreak. Had you known what your father had been planning, you could have run away and found a way to survive without the comfort of your family lands. 

“What Prince Aemond has offered has saved us,” Jericho stood leaning lazily against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He stared at you, his little sister who would have died before leaving him to such a fate. “I do not expect you to understand the complex relationships between our Houses but consider this, dear sister. Would you rather him have the Vale burned to ashes? Have us hung from the walls of the Red Keep? I made a mistake. I know this, and I am sorry but this is the only choice we have.”

There was a tense silence. Jericho had ruined everything with little chance of repair and it was you who had to pay the price. You knew how the Crown punished Rhaenyra’s sympathisers and Jericho had damned the future of your family. What was happening is wrong - war is never worth the price it takes. You wholeheartedly agreed with that but there was something inherently stupid about putting the people you cared about at risk just to send a raven with a conditional offer of a bent knee. 

You blinked as you tried to make sense of it all. “Explain it to me. I do not understand.”

“Aemond Targaryen is Prince Regent but I was once his only friend,” Jericho said. You knew he used the word friend strategically. “He extended an olive branch. Repent our House’s treachery through our last daughter and a pin for the Vale on King Aegon’s map. You could not understand how generous that is. Refusing would have been a sentence of death.”

Friend? Generous?  You would have laughed if you could. You briefly wondered how Jericho had managed to barter with the Prince Regent before they had taken his head. Alas, it would be of no use to ask a question you would get no answer to. The men of these walls underestimated the capabilities of a woman’s mind and a woman’s strength. 

“All he gains is something to hold over your head, brother. Paying off your mistakes with my life? You have heard the stories - he has become a cruel man. Warming his bed when he sees fit and making his heirs will not fix what you did. Many have been executed for far less.”

Your father cleared his throat. “It is our only option. We have nothing more to offer in place and a ruined reputation. The family name holds the last of our power and without what little power we have left, your brother and I would lose the Vale. It is a miracle we have not already.”

“The Prince wants to dangle you over our heads? Fine. If that is what it takes for him to spare our lives.” Jericho’s voice was so rough. It was the first time you had seen him as anything other than gentle to you and you felt a heaviness at the sight of him so distressed. 

There was not much left for you outside of the empty empire that your father’s father had built for your family. At least you still had each other and your titles, and despite the situation that they’ve forced you into, at the end of the day, you all loved each other to death. It would have been a death sentence but you could have run away instead, could have found a life for yourself somehow. But how could you live with yourself knowing that you’d damned those you love because of your pride and fear of life as a princess?

So reluctantly and tearfully, you nod your head and silently agree.

Aemond wondered whether he was making the right decision by giving Jericho a second chance. If it were anyone else, he would have had them hung without a second thought. But you and your brother were different. 

It was a moment of weakness, an inexcusable lapse in his judgment to have spared Jericho’s treason because he remembered you and to have further justified his actions by claiming the Vale through your betrothal. While it was his first and foremost motivation and Aemond was bound by duty to take advantage of the opportunity, it was not the only reason he had suggested the idea at the Small Council.

There was hardly a person in Aemond’s life whom he could call a friend. There was not a soul in this world that Aemond could truly trust, not even Jericho who had been by his side for the first parts of his childhood. 

Nor you, who had at once shown him kindness in his youth despite the mockery that was often made of him. You had only accompanied your brother and father to King’s Landing on three occasions, and what started as your soft conversation and willing smiles for him had left his memory entirely until he heard word of Jericho’s treacherous message. 

Aemond, despite your attempts at friendship, had never returned your kindness. In truth, he didn’t know how to. And quickly, your smiles had turned to frowns and your attempts at friendly talk had become sarcastic remarks and quiet scoffs.

It was also a moment of selfishness and a decision made with nothing more than foolish curiosity. You had always been there, in the back of the picture and unnoticed by everyone apart from him. There was not a person in this world who had peaked his curious desire more than you and the two of you had spent the brief occasions together bickering and pestering one another. Regardless of your initial efforts, Aemond was never your friend. While he had never actually done you wrong before now, you were never really fooled by his deceiving nonchalance and forced manners. 

The indifference that you had for each other had no cause to fade. Even less so with the recent murderous, vile stories of Aemond the Kinslayer who killed his nephew and (while most wouldn’t dare utter the words beyond certain walls) who may have crippled his own brother with Vaghar’s fire. You had almost fallen to your knees upon hearing of your betrothal to such a man.

Aemond was now twenty and three but when it came to whatever distorted plot he was planning, he felt juvenile. Your brother and your father were the perfect pawns. You were the perfect leverage - perhaps a pawn yourself. As much as he convinced himself that having you in his possession would mean he would have invaluable power over your House to do exactly as he wanted within his twisted politics while he has the power to do so, the idea of having you in the palm of his hand, in his control and eventually beneath his body was exciting. 

He was never one for meaningless entertainment. But what was the harm in indulging himself this once?

It was a formality. Being presented at King’s Landing for the first time to your future husband, his family and to those whom he currently ruled over as the woman to be his wife. 

You had changed since the last time Aemond had seen you. It had only been two years but he would never admit to his surprise at just how different you had become from the cowering young girl he remembered you to be when you were just ten and four. 

He had rushed through the formalities of greeting you and your family, welcoming you into what would come to be your home. The lunch was painfully awkward as little was said between anyone. The Dowager Queen spoke formally yet kindly with your mother and shared a few words with you but you could barely engage with her conversation under the burning gaze of the Prince Regent who sat across from you.

It was over quickly, before anyone could start bickering about the traitorous reasons behind your presence. Aemond shortly convinced his mother that no escort would be needed, so long as Ser Criston Cole was there when you both were left to acquaint yourselves in private. You gulped as you were lead shamelessly into the Prince’s chambers. 

Aemond only set a glance upon Ser Criston and the raven haired man took his place outside the closed doors.

You were sure that the Prince’s chambers were as large as an entire wing of your own home yet you felt claustrophobic under his gaze. His eye was hellfire as he silently stared at you, leaning back in his chair and resting his fingers under his chin. There was little you could do but stare back at him, anxiously tapping your foot on the marbled floor.

In your eyes, Aemond had always been torturously beautiful. But here, as his gaze fell upon you and you shared the silence of his personal space, he was ethereal. It caused your breath to catch as you waited for him to address you first.

Shakily, you broke the silence. “Why am I here, my Prince?”

“You are to be my wife,” He drawled, fingers tapping on the desk that he lazily dragged his hand along. What a stupid question. “That is why you are here.”

“I believe you know that is not what I ask, my Prince.” You scowled at him. It wasn’t smart to talk to him in such a way, you knew that. He is Prince Regent, after all. A memory of your brother’s warning to be careful flashed briefly in your mind. 

His expression deceivingly calm, Aemond considered putting you in your place. He may be behaving in a way he does not recognise of himself but he would not tolerate your disrespect. 

Instead, he somewhat answered your question. “We will be married so that your brother’s treason shall be forgiven and your House will be sworn to the King. You will stay here, in my chambers. Do whatever the seven hells you please, it does not matter.”

In any other instance, Aemond would have detested the sight of you gaping at him, stumbling over your words stupidly as your wide eyes confidently held his own. You had changed. Or maybe he had just been blind to the perfect curves of your body or the way you looked at him like he ruled the realms, so submissive yet so full of fire. So tempting. 

He’d condemn himself to the noose before ever admitting to his thoughts. 

“What?” you almost gasped. There was no chance that you could stay in his chambers like this. You were sure the whispers of the Keep were already running amok with Aemond’s insistence on isolating the two of you behind the doors to his private chambers.

Aemond took pleasure in the way you seethed. “I will not make it so easy for you to return to scheming with your treasonous family.”

You could hit him. If he weren’t a Prince, you would have. “You are keeping me prisoner? For something I have had no such hand in?”

“No,” he stood from the table and in two strides, he was in front of you. So close that you could smell the woody oils he bathed in mixing with the smell of his musk and the leather of his clothes. You shuddered. “Maybe I am. Call it what you like. You can do as you please, eat as you please, wear whatever you please, you can explore these halls as you wish. I do not care. But you will listen to me and it will all be as per my will.”

Before you could respond, Aemond continued. “For all they know, I’ve made it clear to everyone that you will stay in the chambers that I have chosen for you, on the other side of that wall.”

Aemond’s eye was a violet-blue inferno as it held yours. He was closer now and you let your eyes drag across every part of his devastating face, swallowing at his beauty and wondering what lay under the leather of his eye patch. 

Struggling not to lose your breath, not to lean in to touch him and feel him, you held your head high and turned your back to him. “Fuck you.”

A gasp fell from your lips as Aemond’s hand found the back of your head in an instant, slender fingers weaving into your hair gently before closing into a tight fist and pulling back slowly so that you were forced to look up at the roof, the back of your head resting against his chest. His other hand wrapped around your waist, holding you back firmly against him. The tightness of his grip on your hair ached and left you dizzy, an unfamiliar longing for his hands to find more of you with the same fervour had you holding back a pathetic whine. 

Suddenly, you were burning from head to toe, a fire setting on your skin as he held you roughly against him, so close that you felt the feather light tickle of his breath grazing your hair when he spoke. He was scorching you through the leather of his tunic, your dress doing little to shield you from the heat of his body.

More than his anger, Aemond’s amusement made the air heavy. The way he unashamedly let his stare fall upon your lips, tucked between your teeth as you struggled to hold your glare, had your breath snatched from your lungs. 

Aemond dropped his head enough so that his lips lingered just under your ear, close enough that you could hear him draw in a breath, dragging his nose across the dip where your jaw met your neck. Your face burned at how shamelessly he had inhaled your soft scent.

“Is that how you talk to your Prince?” Aemond’s voice was low, dripping with a dominance that commanded respect. Placing his free hand on your left shoulder, he slowly turned you to face him, making sure to keep you tightly pressed against him.

Aemond was disastrously beautiful. The curve of his nose, the strength in his jaw, the way his scar painted the top of his cheek, the soft fall of his pin straight hair and the soft shine of his lips which you so badly yearned to feel. You cursed yourself for thinking such a thing as his low voice broke you out of your distraction. “This is my home. Right now, all of Westeros is mine. You are here because I said so, because I own everything. Everything. Including you. You would do well to remember your place while you are here, pretty thing.”

The fire in your blood was rage. You had never felt such desire that had your body craving another. It was anger driving you mad, it had to be. Despite your better judgment, you whispered once again, “Fuck. You.”

His jaw ticked and with a strong yank, you were flush against him. The pounding of your heart was violent and you were sure he could feel it against his chest but you were stuck under his burning gaze. Aemond was angry. And you couldn’t help but think that it suited him. It made him all the more desirable. 

Aemond was strong and hard against your body, tense as he held you so intimately yet so roughly. 

By the gods, you couldn’t even think. What was happening? 

“My Pr-”

“Quiet,” Aemond commanded. His deep voice, raspy with lust and with rage sent shockwaves down your spine. “What a mouth on you, my Lady. Fuck me, is that so?”

You muttered incoherently under your breath, the desire and the fear making your eyes flutter shut as you trembled against the Prince who held you so roughly.

“Hm,” Aemond chuckled when you let out a short whimper. He squeezed you tightly, his voice low and dark. “I could have you begging on your knees, crying for my cock all day and all night and you would never deserve it. You best careful, ñuha dāria, because I can ruin you.”

Another gasp fell from your lips and Aemond took pleasure in the way you squirmed against him, thighs pressing together as you felt the flush of his words through your body. He hummed, you were so reactive. Somehow, you fit perfectly against him, so that he could feel every little tremor he caused in your body, every goosebump that he placed on your skin. His gaze never left you, his resolve solid as iron. 

Your mouth watered at the thought of the things that Aemond could do to you. Thoughts you had never imagined yourself capable of harbouring, especially not for a man like Aemond Targaryen. It overwhelmed you - he overwhelmed you. 

But all you had to do was glance at the map that was splayed over his table and the weaponry he had discarded at the foot of it before you were trying to shove him away from you. Aemond stepped away from you upon noticing the panic in your movements. You barely noticed the flash of worry that passed through his features before he so skilfully replaced his mask. 

The rise and fall of your chest was heavy and you had the sudden urge to punch the sultry smirk right off of Aemond’s face. That was not okay. Right now, you didn’t even want to think about the way your body reacted to him, they way you would have let him have his way with you right there and then despite all the consequences that would rain down upon you. 

“I will not stay in here,” You closed your eyes to avoid his stare, chest heaving as you caught your breath and reminded yourself of the formalities of Aemond’s title. And of the possible repercussions for denying him so stubbornly. “My Prince, it is not appropriate.”

You hadn’t heard him make his way across the room until you heard the door open. Aemond hesitated, his resolve was not as strong as he had thought given the way his heart was beating as if he had run a mile. The strain at his pelvis was almost painful and his hands urged to be tangled in your hair again, squeezing your hips, feeling the warmth of your skin underneath your clothing. Perhaps you weren’t wrong and Aemond returned to his hardened self at the thought of being unable to control his desires. 

“Hm,” he drawled, stoic as ever and standing tall at the doorway and gazing down at you over his shoulder with a red hot spark in his eye. Aemond’s mind raced with a million words, many in the alluring language he knew you could not understand and they all tasted dangerous on his tongue. “You are not wrong. It is not appropriate until we are wed, ñuha dāria.”